Stephen Lawhead - In the Hall of the Dragon King

Suddenly, two of the dark Legion appeared side by side in his path. Theido dodged to the side to avoid them, but too late. A blade flicked out and caught him a raking blow on the arm. A deep gash opened up and his sword spun to the ground as Theido felt strength leave his hand.

He spurred his mount and jerked the reins back, causing the horse to rear; the well-schooled animal lashed out with its forelegs. But the sable knights ducked aside. A blade flashed; Theido threw himself upon the horse’s neck and heard the swish of the sword as it chopped the empty air where his head had been only an instant before.

Theido desperately searched the ground for a weapon, throwing his buckler over his head to protect him. A blow struck the small shield, nearly wrenching it from his grasp. Another hit home, rending the metal in two. Another blow and the buckler would be useless protection. Theido reeled in the saddle.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a curious sight. The sable knight to his left raised his sword above his head to deliver the killing stroke. But as the black hand began the downward arc, the arm suddenly went askew, careening off like a branch struck from a tree. An axe had severed it completely. Bloodlessly.

He heard a whoop and saw Trenn’s blustery face beaming back at him. The next thing he knew the axe had been thrust into his hand.

The black rider on his right, heedless of his comrade’s plight, came on with whistling mace. Once, twice the mace battered into Theido’s poor shield. The third time it struck; the mace bit through the metal and snagged the buckler away. Theido let it fly. In the moment of confusion while the fouled mace hung down with the weight of the crumpled buckler, Theido swung the axe up, and with a mighty heave flung it into the foul knight’s breastplate.

The war axe bit deep, cleaving the armor and neatly burying its head deep in the knight’s chest. No cry of pain came forth, no sign of weakening. Theido could not believe his eyes-an ordinary man would have dropped like a stone.

But the blow did have effect, for Theido was able to spring away as the black creature tugged at the axe sucking out of its chest.

Now Prince Jaspin’s army began to crush Selric’s dwindling numbers as they staunchly stood their ground. Again the courageous king rallied his men, but strength flagged and still the enemy came on.

“I fear it is the end,” said Selric when Ronsard and Theido, abandoning their horses, came to stand beside the valiant warlord.

“We have fought a good fight,” said Ronsard. “I am not shamed to die this way.”

“Nor I,” replied Theido. He gripped the hands of his friends as the foe opened a breach in the wall of shields. “To the death!” he shouted.

At that moment an uncanny sound reached the battered comrades’ ears: the sound of hearty voices lifted in song. Then someone cried out, “It is the Dragon King!”

The words struck their hearts like living sparks. Could it be true?

“I see him,” someone called. “The Dragon King comes with his army!”

All at once a shout went up. “The Dragon King lives! He has returned!” Then they heard the song streaming forth:

The attackers faltered and cast worried looks from one to another. Before they could think or move there arose a whooshing sound, as of a mighty wind. Instantly the sky burst open. The gloom which hung like death over the field of combat fled as a brilliant ball of white light roared into the heavens.

Then he was there: King Eskevar, sitting astride a great white charger, armor glittering in the blinding light, sword held high above his head.

The sight was too much for Jaspin’s warriors. They cried out in terror and threw down their weapons. Some fell to the ground as if they had been struck down, others backed away stumbling over those behind them.

Jaspin’s commanders sought vainly to rally their cowering soldiers. Another streak tore through the air and another fireball exploded in the sky, transforming the scene to deepest crimson. This decided the wavering forces; the line broke and Jaspin’s army retreated. Thousands fled into the forest, shrieking as they ran.

In moments the plain was in turmoil. The nobles who had traded their loyalty to Jaspin for heavy favors held to their grim task, but the men-at-arms, who had nothing to gain by staying, bolted and ran.

Into this panic the Dragon King descended with his peasant army at his back. In the violent red glare of the fireball these simple peasants with their rakes and hoes were suddenly transformed into armed giants, every one a knight in the eyes of the stricken attackers.

A cry of terror rose from Jaspin’s forces as the Dragon King and his mysterious men-at-arms waded into battle.

Nimrood, watching the contest from a distance, shrieked, “Stop, you dogs! They are only peasants! The victory is ours!” He spurred his horse onto the field in an effort to halt the rout. “Turn! Victory is ours, I say! Turn back and fight!”

The wizard’s screams went unheeded. Pinched between stubborn defiance of Selric’s soldiers and the Dragon King’s fierce vengeance, Jaspin’s army abandoned the field and fled to the woods and the river beyond. Only the nobles and their knights, and Nimrood and his Legion, remained to settle the issue so surely won bare moments before.

The knights and nobles came together and formed a wedge to thunder down upon Selric, hoping to scatter his men before turning their full attention upon Eskevar and his peasants.

The wedge assembled and hurtled down the battlefield to crush the staunch defenders. A great whirring sound went up and suddenly the air prickled with arrows. Voss and his foresters had taken up a position parallel to the flying wedge, where they loosed a stunning volley of arrows from their longbows.

The arrows, thick as hail, rattled off the knight’s armor for the most part, though some by force or luck found a chink or a soft spot and did their work. The poor horses caught some of the missiles aimed for their riders, floundered, and dragged others down with them.

The wedge broke apart and melted away.

Nimrood saw this last attempt to turn the tide of battle falter and knew then that all was lost. He turned his horse and galloped away. He had not run far when a rider, darting out of the nearby wood, intercepted him.

“Halt! wicked one!” cried the cloaked rider.

“Ah, Durwin-failed wizard, failed priest. I should have recognized your childish tricks,” Nimrood hissed as the other’s horse flew up to bar his escape. “Out of my way or I will shrivel you like a piece of rotten fruit! You, I should have disposed of long ago. I should have destroyed you all when I had you in my keep.”

“Save your breath, Nimrood. There is nothing more you can do.”

“No? Watch me!” The necromancer pointed his finger and drew a circle around himself in the air. Instantly fire blazed up to form a wall around him. Durwin toppled to the ground as his frightened mount, eyes showing white with terror, bucked and bounded away.

“Ha, ha, ha!” cackled the sorcerer. “There is much this magician can do. Savor the death your meddling has won!”

Nimrood raised his black stone rod and uttered a quick incantation. From outside the shimmering curtain of flames Durwin saw the sorcerer’s rod begin to glow red as new-forged iron. Then cruel Nimrood lowered the rod and leveled it upon the hermit. “Say farewell to this world, hermit! You saved your friends, now let your friends save you-if any are left alive!” he spat bitterly.