Stephen Lawhead - In the Hall of the Dragon King

Sparks like lightning bolts hissed from the rod, striking Durwin, who was instantly dashed to the ground. He fought back to his knees as the sorcerer laughed with glee. “That was just a foretaste. Now, for the…” His voice faltered as he lowered the rod a second time to deliver the fatal stroke. From out of nowhere an arrow sang through the air and pierced the foul lord’s arm. The rod tumbled from his hand.

Before Nimrood could turn, another arrow found its mark in his shoulder and he fell from his horse. In two heartbeats Toli was standing over Durwin, notching yet another arrow onto his bowstring.

He raised the bow and bent its long length.

“No! No!” the sorcerer screamed. “Don’t kill me! Ahh!”

But the Jher ignored the necromancer’s pleas. The arrow flashed through the wall of flames and sank into the wizard’s black heart.

The old sorcerer crumpled inward and became a black heap upon the field. He quivered and lay still.

“At last he is gone,” said Durwin, dragging himself to his feet. His mantle smoked where the firebolt had seared into his flesh. Toli offered his arm to the hermit, and together they turned to rejoin their comrades as the clash of battle, now diminishing rapidly, came quickly to an end.

They had not walked ten paces when they heard a great sizzling sound. They turned to where Nimrood lay and saw his huddled black form burst into crackling flame; thick black soot rolled into the air. Then, impossibly, in the sputtering flames, they made out the form of a great black bird rising in the smoke.

A moment later they watched as huge black wings slowly lifted away and flew into the wood. Drifting back to them came the rasping call of a raven.

AT THE demise of Nimrood an uncanny transformation took place. The Legion of the Dead, bearing down upon King Selric and his men with flashing swords and whistling maces, suddenly faltered in their swift course. Their black gauntleted hands went slack at the reins; they swung weakly in the saddle and plummeted to earth in a tempest of dust and horses’ flying hooves. The six black stallions galloped away across the plain, free at last. The terrible Legion lay still upon the earth.

King Selric was the first to approach the six armored bodies as they lay. He crept close, his reddened blade held at the ready. Kneeling down over the first of the fallen knights, he glanced at the wondering faces of his men, now gathered around him, and slowly raised the helmet’s visor.

The empty sockets of a skeleton’s skull stared back at him. Death’s Legion was no more.

For a long time the battlefield lay wrapped in silence; a deep and reverent hush had fallen upon the ground hallowed with the blood of brave men. Then, one by one, they raised their heads to a jingling sound and all beheld a sight that made their hearts soar with a happiness long denied: the Dragon King upon his great charger galloping into their midst, and Alinea his Queen running to meet him.

Eskevar threw off his helmet, Alinea threw aside her shield and blade, and then he caught her up in his strong arms and lifted her off her feet and onto his horse in a long embrace.

The plain reverberated in tremendous, tumultuous, joyous acclaim. Tears of happiness streamed down besmudged faces. The Dragon King and his beautiful Queen were at last reunited. The realm of Mensandor was secure.

To Quentin, who had followed in the King’s wake, the scene seemed to take on the quality of one of his dreams. There was the King and Queen riding into the cheering throng of their most loyal subjects. She, sitting before him on his saddle, appeared more radiant and beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. And though her auburn tresses tumbled awry and her features were grimy with soot and tears, he thought she looked the more lovely for it all. And the King, armor shining in the golden light of a glorious afternoon sun suddenly burning through the gloom, held his great sword high overhead and proclaimed the victory in a clear, triumphant voice.

Then Quentin was in the arms of his friends. Toli was pulling him from his horse and crushing him in a fierce hug. Theido, one arm newly bandaged, was nevertheless pounding him on the back with the other, while Durwin gripped his face with both big hands and fairly danced for joy. Ronsard, Trenn, and King Selric shook his hands and laughed until tears ran from their eyes and their sides ached.

Quentin, too overcome to speak-his voice seemed to have dried up-just beamed at them all, peering through bleary eyes that sparkled with happy tears. Never had he felt so wonderful, so complete.

The King raised his voice to speak; the glad companions turned to hear him. His voice echoed over the plain saying, “Today will be a day of mourning for our fallen comrades. Tonight their funeral pyres will light their brave souls’ homeward way. The armies of Heoth have this day claimed many fine soldiers-we will honor them as is befitting men of high valor.”

“But tomorrow,” the Dragon King continued. All eyes were upon him in rapt wonder; many could still not believe that he had indeed returned. “Tomorrow will be a day of celebration throughout the realm of Mensandor! The victory has been won!”

At this the Plain of Askelon leaped to a shout, and songs of victory poured forth from all assembled there. Far into the night the songs continued, muted only during the lighting of the funeral pyres of the fallen countrymen.

When at last the pyres had dwindled to glowing embers, Quentin and the others started back to Askelon. Quentin watched as over the darkened field the funeral fires twinkled and winked out one by one as if they were stars extinguishing themselves forever.

The next day was a day Quentin treasured forever. He awakened to fine bright sunlight streaming in through an open window on a breeze perfumed by the fresh scent of wildflowers. He rubbed his eyes and remembered he had spent the night in Askelon Castle.

Jumping up he found that his clothes had been removed and in their place were the rich garments of a young prince: a tunic of white samite with silver buttons and royal blue trousers, and a richly embroidered cloak woven with threads of gold so that it sparkled in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hands. There was a golden brooch in the shape of a stag’s head and a golden chain to fasten the cloak. He had never seen clothes this wonderful. And shoes!-fine leather boots that fit him perfectly.

A servant brought rose-scented water and waited on him while he washed. Quentin’s hands trembled as he dressed himself and dashed out of his apartment fastening his cloak with the golden brooch as he ran, quite forgetting the aching stiffness in his leg. Theido and Durwin, both looking more noble than he had ever seen them, were just emerging from their chambers, directly across from his own.

“Ho there, young sir!” cried Theido with a grin. “Who is this bold knight I see before me? Do you know him, Durwin?”

“Unless my eyes deceive me,” said Durwin, “this must be the King’s champion off on some new adventure!”

“It is wonderful! All this-” Words failed him.

“Yes, yes. Wonderful indeed,” laughed Durwin. “But you have seen nothing at all until you have seen the hall of the Dragon King in high celebration!”

“Let us go there now!” cried Quentin. “I do want to see it!”

“Not so fast,” said Theido. “Breakfast first-though I would hold back somewhat, for there are sure to be delicacies abounding throughout the day. We will join the others first.”

“Then can we go?” asked Quentin anxiously.

“In due time,” laughed Durwin. “You are impetuosity itself. I should have known when I saw you riding off into the wood after good Theido here that you would bring back the King. I should have seen it!”