Stephen Lawhead - In the Hall of the Dragon King

A silver light seemed to emanate from the King’s countenance-a radiance which quickened the still features. It grew until Quentin could not bear to look upon it. He threw an arm over his eyes, and when he looked again the light was gone and he saw the quiver of an eyelid and heard the long sigh of air drawn in through the nostrils.

Quentin dropped to his knees. Tears trickled down his cheeks to splatter in the dust of the vault. He bowed his head for a brief moment in silent thanksgiving. He heard a low moan, and rose to his feet and bent over the King. Another sigh and King Eskevar opened his eyes.

In all that followed Quentin could never be certain what happened or in what order it happened, who spoke first or the exact words-everything seemed to happen at once.

He remembered telling King Eskevar of the danger and of the battle taking place on the field. He remembered Eskevar rising off the slab unsteadily and falling in a crash to the floor. He remembered a feeling of inexpressible joy when the King placed a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tightly and said, “Well done, brave knight.”

They were then out of the crypt and moving toward Balder, Eskevar growing stronger with every stride. The sun shone high overhead, a fierce hard ball, filling Quentin with hope and determination as he strode somewhat painfully across the green expanse.

The two mounted Balder, Quentin sitting in back of the King, filling in the details of his story as they rode off together.

“There must be some who are loyal to me,” the King cried, his deep voice booming through the forest. “We shall find them!”

Quentin could not help thinking that unless they found ten thousand who had not bowed knee to Jaspin, their search was but in vain.

“First to Askelon,” said the King. “The common people will fight for their King in need. We will raise an army of farmers and merchants if we must!”

They dodged through the forest and struck the road to Askelon. Eskevar rode easily in the saddle; Quentin bounced along behind, holding on as best he could.

It seemed only moments before they were clattering through the streets of Askelon below the castle. The King struck for the center of town and raised himself in the saddle, sword held high in the common square.

“Countrymen! Your King has returned!” His voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle rock itself.

“Follow me!” he called. “Our kingdom is in peril! Bring sword and shield; bring rake and pike, spade and pitchfork. To arms! For Mensandor!”

When the people heard this they marveled and fell on their knees. The women cried and the men looked upon him in astonishment. A great cry went up, “The King has returned! The Dragon King lives!”

Men ran through the streets, bidding all to join the call to arms. A smith came running up leading a white horse, already saddled and prancing in eager anticipation. Eskevar leaped onto the horse and waved his rude army on.

They had scarcely left the city and taken up the road leading down to the plain before they met a large number of men dressed in dark green tunics and carrying pikes and longbows, with quivers full of new arrows slung about their shoulders.

Eskevar, with Quentin right behind him, stopped in the road as the men approached. Upon seeing the King, the leader of these men kneeled, crying out in a loud voice, “Your faithful servant, Sire. My men are at your command.”

The man and his manner seemed familiar to Quentin. Where had he seen them before? Then he remembered one cold night in Pelgrin when the forest had come alive with bush-men. When the man rose again to his feet Quentin recognized the tough, weathered face of Voss, but now the number of his brood had swelled to several hundred.

“We heard there was fighting yonder,” said Voss, approaching his beloved King. “We bethought ourselves to go and strike a blow for King and kingdom. We did not expect to be led into battle by the Dragon King himself.”

“Your loyalty shall be rewarded, for today you shall see your King take sword against his enemies. Follow me!” The King wheeled his charger into the road and led his people into battle.

With every step their numbers grew. Twice Quentin looked around and was amazed at what he saw: a surging sea of rough wooden pikes and pitchforks bristled in the sun; rakes, hoes and other implements turned for the present into weapons for Mensandor’s Dragon King.

A song soared up from bold and happy hearts and winged its way into the bright heavens:

JASPIN met Nimrood’s eyes with a look impossible to interpret: a mingling of relief and disappointment, of anguish and fleeting hope. “I… I don’t… understand… I…” Jaspin stammered.

Nimrood’s eyes sparked lightning and his voice cracked thunder. “The prize is gone! My prize has vanished!”

He cast a hateful glance out across the plain where King Selric’s army waited. “Black is the day of your doom! Your bodies shall be food for the carrion birds and your bones scattered to the ends of the earth! You will not escape Nimrood’s wrath now!”

Then seizing his marble rod he held it aloft and wailed a long incantation into the air. The black stallion beneath him shook its mane and pawed the earth, whinnying its impatience. Nimrood paid no heed; he raised himself in the saddle and repeated the incantation. “Ratra Nictu deasori Maranna Rexis!”

A cool breeze stirred the silk of Jaspin’s pavilion. The red and gold banners on their stanchions fluttered and the pennons waved, as a small dark cloud appeared in the sky. Nimrood continued his incantation, eyes closed, hissing out the fearful words.

The wind rose and the banners swung and the pennons on the lances of the knights snapped smartly. The roiling cloud mushroomed, spreading into a churning, seething storm. The ropes of Jaspin’s silk pavilion sang in the whistling wind.

The Legion of the Dead came riding on the wings of the storm.

Six of them there were-riding two abreast on snorting chargers. They rode from the south, galloping out of the forest. A murmur went up from the assembled armies, and as they drew nearer, those who stood in line with their approach fell back. Jaspin watched them come closer and closer. Six knights in sable armor-the color of darkest night-long black plumes floating from the crests of their helms. They looked neither right nor left, but galloped at a measured pace to halt directly before the pavilion. Their visors concealed any recognizable feature; no glint of eye sparked from the dark slits.

The earth plunged into an eerie twilight as the clouds boiled up and blotted out the sun. All grew deathly still. No one spoke, no one shouted; ten thousand men stood as one. Silent. The only sounds were the howl of the rising wind, the snap of the whipping flags, and the impatient blowing of the horses.

At a gesture from Nimrood the foremost of the knights of Nimrood’s fell Legion urged his mount forward to stand directly in front of Jaspin. The chink of the horse’s iron-shod hooves rang in Jaspin’s ears like the clang of a funeral knell. The pale usurper winced and shrank away from the black knight’s address.

“The day is ours!” shouted the necromancer boldly, so all gathered on the plain could hear. Then, turning to Jaspin he said, “Look upon the face of death, and despair!”