In the Hall of the Dragon King, Page 3

  Quentin rolled cautiously up onto his feet. The movement at once caught the eye of the man busy over the bubbling pot. “So it is! Our young friend lives. I told you, Theido.” He winked at the other man, who twisted round to regard the youngster with a quizzical eye. “I told you my soup would bring him round. Enchanted—bah!”

  Embarrassed to have fallen asleep at his post and now to be the center of such attention, good-natured though it was, Quentin stepped timidly to the fire and addressed himself to both men simultaneously. “I am Quentin, at your service, sirs.”

  “And we at yours,” came the standard reply.

  He fumbled at his belt for the silver coin. “I bring this to you with greetings from Biorkis, senior priest of the high temple.” The greeting sounded very stiff and formal, which suited Quentin, unsure as he was about what kind of reception he should expect. Yet he knew as he placed the silver coin into Durwin’s hand that he had nothing to fear from this man.

  Durwin’s face radiated a kindly light. Bright blue eyes winked out of a hide creased and lined like soft leather and browned by the sun. Great bushy brown eyebrows, which seemed to have a life of their own, highlighted the hermit’s speech and were matched brush for bristle by a sprawling forest of moustache and beard. Beneath his cloak he wore the simple robes of a priest, but gray rather than brown.

  “So it is! The old weasel sends you with this? Does he indeed?” The hermit turned the coin over in his hand thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t suppose it can be helped, can it?” Then he turned to Quentin and said, “There is a wider path than many know, though I’m sure you don’t have an inkling what I mean.” Quentin stared back blankly. “No, of course you don’t. Still, he sent you here,” the hermit mused to himself.

  “Did he tell you anything else?” the holy man asked.

  “Only this: that he seeks a brighter light.”

  At this both men exploded with laughter. The other, who had remained silent, was obviously following the exchange closely. “He said that, did he?” Durwin laughed. “By the gods’ beards, there’s hope for him yet.”

  Quentin stood mystified at this outburst. He felt awkward and a little used, relaying jokes of which he knew less than nothing to strangers who laughed at his expense. His frown must have shown them that he did not approve of the levity, for Durwin stopped at once and offered the silver coin back to Quentin. “This coin is the symbol of an expelled priest. See?” He dug into his clothing and brought out a silver coin on a chain around his neck. “I have one too.”

  Quentin took the two coins and examined them; they were the same in every detail except that Durwin’s was older and more worn.

  “They are temple coins minted for special occasions and given to priests when they die or leave as payment for their service to god. Some payment, eh?”

  “You used to be a priest?” Quentin wondered aloud.

  “Yes, of course. Biorkis and I are very good friends; we entered the temple together and became priests together.”

  “Enough of old times,” said the stranger impatiently. “Durwin, introduce me to your guest in a proper fashion.”

  Quentin turned and eyed the dark man, ignored for the most part until now. He was above average in height, Quentin guessed, but since the man was on the stool, with his limbs folded across themselves, Quentin could not tell for sure. His clothes were of a dark, indistinct color and consisted of a long cloak worn loosely over a close-fitting tunic and trousers of the same dark material as the rest. He wore a wide black belt at his waist, to which was attached a rather large leather pouch.

  But the man’s features commanded the better of Quentin’s attention. The face was keen in the firelight, bright-eyed and alert. A high forehead rose to meet a head of dark, thick hair swept back and falling almost to his shoulders. The man’s sharp nose thrust itself out over a firm mouth that opened upon a set of straight, white teeth. On the whole, the appearance bespoke a man of action and movement, of quick reflexes and perhaps quicker wits.

  “Quentin,” the ex-priest was saying, “this man you are staring at is my good friend Theido, a much welcome and often missed guest at this humble hearth.”

  The man dipped his head low in acknowledgment of the courtesy. Quentin bowed stiffly from the waist out of respect. “I am glad to meet you, young sir,” said Theido. “An expelled priest, I have found, makes a good friend.” At this both men laughed again. And though he did not know why, Quentin laughed too.

  The three dined on a thick, tasty soup and black bread, washed down with a heady nut-brown ale that Durwin had brewed to perfection. After the day’s exercise, Quentin held his own in appetite with the two men and remarked on several occasions that he had never tasted food so good.

  After they had eaten, they talked. The wandering conversations roamed the length and breadth of the world. It seemed to Quentin that no subject, from bees to bodkins and books, was left untouched. Never had Quentin been party to such fellowship; the temple’s strict regulations kept contact between priests very formal and extremely refined. Although he mostly just listened, Quentin found this new realization of friends around the board with good food and conversation fairly intoxicating. He reveled in it and soaked it up. He wished in his heart that the night would stretch on forever.

  At last Durwin stood and shook his tired head. “Good friends! We must go to bed. We will talk some more tomorrow.”

  “I must leave tomorrow,” said Quentin, having entirely forgotten his mission. He peered apprehensively into the faces of the two men, who regarded him carefully.

  “So soon?” replied Durwin. “I thought you would stay a little. I would like to show you what I have been doing since I left the temple.”

  “And how will you be going?” Theido asked.

  “My horse!” Quentin shrieked. He had also forgotten about his animal in the friendly interchange around the hermit’s table. He dashed to the door and heaved it open, peering outside into the frigid black night. There was nothing to be seen of the horse. With a look of horror, he turned to the men. “I have lost him!”

  “Can you describe him?” asked Theido.

  “He was a chestnut, the most beautiful horse I have ever seen. Now I have lost him.”

  “Follow me,” Durwin commanded lightly. “I think we will find he has not wandered far.” The hermit turned and disappeared behind a standing partition lined with scrolls. Quentin ducked behind the partition and discovered that it concealed another room, the entrance of which was draped over with an immense bearskin. The room was dark and quiet, but warm and smelling strongly of hay and horses. Durwin carried a stubby candle and with it lit a pitch torch leaning in its holder on the wall. The sooty flame guttered and smoked furiously, then took hold and threw a steady light into the room.

  This annex to the hermit’s lodge was a small cave. Durwin’s house had been built right up against the cave’s entrance, which explained the smooth stone floor of the hermit’s cottage. In the pale light of the torch, Quentin could see his steed alongside two other slightly smaller animals, nose down in a heap of sweet fennel that had been thrown down for them. Relieved and somewhat embarrassed, Quentin thanked his host for his thoughtfulness.

  “We guessed you were no true horseman,” remarked Theido good-naturedly, “when we saw him standing in the yard untethered. A lesser animal would have wandered off for good. Your horse is well trained, and I surmise you are not his master.”

  Quentin shook his head sadly. “He belongs to another—or did . . .”

  “Enough! We will sleep now and talk of these things in the morning —which, unless I miss my guess, is soon upon us.”

  4

  It had been decided, quite without Quentin’s opinion but not altogether against his approval, that Theido would accompany him on the remainder of his journey. This had been discussed over a cheerful breakfast of hot porridge and milk, with bread dipped in honey. Quentin ate with unusual alacrity, his high spirits charged by a renewed sense of adventure.

&n
bsp; The two men had shown considerable surprise that Quentin had made it this far through the forest without incident. Theido had said, “Hereabouts, Pelgrin shelters outlaws of every description. There are some who might set a high value on your horse.”

  Durwin added, “And not so much on his rider.”

  “They wouldn’t dare touch me,” Quentin announced carelessly, full of himself and his own high spirits. “I carry a letter for the queen.”

  At this news, the first bare hint of Quentin’s clandestine errand, both men nearly jumped from their seats. Quentin’s jaw snapped shut in alarm when he realized he had ruined his secret. “The queen?” said Theido, recovering himself instantly. “What business might you have with the queen, boy?”

  Now Quentin became guarded and secretive. “That is my affair and none of yours,” he said a little angrily, though the anger was for his own carelessness and not his questioner.

  “This letter would not be from the king, would it?” Theido pursued.

  “I’ll tell you no more about it, sir,” Quentin retorted.

  Here Durwin interposed. “My boy, while it may not occur to you at once, my friend and I have known for some time that you were about an errand of some importance. Your horse, for example, is the mount of a champion and not the nag of an acolyte. I’ll wager that your expulsion from the temple was due not to the willful breach of your sacred vows, but rather out of necessity to the task you have undertaken.” Durwin paused to regard Quentin carefully. Quentin colored somewhat under the hermit’s scrutiny and the sudden knowledge that he was so transparent. “I see that I have struck close to the mark.”

  “Lad, you can trust us. We mean you no harm. I think you will find no two better men who would hold your secret as though their own lives were forfeit.” Theido spoke quietly and with deep assurance. Quentin believed the tall stranger but sat in sullen silence, not knowing whether to speak further or hold.

  “You possess a strength and bravery enough for two of your size,” Durwin continued. “But there are events afoot against which bravery and strength alone are no match. I think Biorkis realized this and sent you to me, hoping I would guess the seriousness of your mission and help you if I could. Perhaps the god himself prompted you to spill your secret in our hearing just now, to save you from harm.”

  “Is it so dangerous, then, for a subject to confer with his queen?” Quentin asked sullenly.

  Both men nodded in silence. Theido replied, “Seeing the queen is but a trifle, providing you were able to obtain entrance to the castle alive. There are those who would keep her ignorant of outside affairs, the better to plant their own evil seeds.”

  “Without our help you might never reach the queen. Prince Jaspin would get you if an outlaw band did not.”

  “Prince Jaspin?” Quentin wondered why he had never heard the name.

  “Prince Jaspin,” Durwin explained, “is King Eskevar’s youngest brother. He desires the throne of Askelon; he incites treason and treachery with increasing boldness. Honest men are afraid for their land and lives if they dare stand against him. Many nobles have lost everything to Jaspin for refusing to join in his intrigues.”

  Quentin turned all this shocking information over in his mind but found himself at a loss to know what to do. He at last decided to trust the former priest and his unusual friend and share with them the rest of his secret.

  “I am going to see the queen,” he stated slowly, “to give her a message of importance. Two days ago a wounded knight came to the temple, demanding our aid. He had been set upon by outlaws and was dying. I volunteered to take the message, which was written in secret and sealed. It is his horse I ride, and this is his dagger.” Quentin drew back his cloak to reveal the knife’s gold handle.

  “The knight—do you know his name?” Theido asked quickly.

  “It was Ronsard.”

  “Ronsard! You can be certain?”

  “Yes, I saw everything. He said his name and asked for someone to take the message to the queen. I volunteered.”

  “Then you are even braver than we thought,” said Durwin.

  “The message—it comes from the king, then,” said Theido. “Ronsard is one of his personal bodyguards, a knight unequaled in strength and valor.” He looked at Quentin sadly. “He is dead, you say?”

  “Yes—that is”—Quentin hesitated—“I think so. I dared not wait to see the end, but he was very near death when I left.” Quentin fell silent, remembering vividly the events that had brought him hither. He felt afraid and very alone. “I can trust you? You will not deceive me? I promised not to tell . . .”

  Durwin rose from his seat and came around the table and placed his hand upon Quentin’s shoulder. “My son, you have done the queen a great service by sharing your secret with us. Quite possibly you have rendered your king an even greater service. Ronsard, I think, would be no less pleased with this outcome if he had thought of it himself.”

  “The hermit speaks the truth,” said Theido. “But now we must make plans to deliver your message. The outlaws will be the least of our worries.”

  Theido and Quentin left the hermit’s cottage about midday as a light snow of fitful flakes drifted down to lose themselves in the whiteness already deep upon the ground. Durwin remained behind to tend to his usual affairs, saying, “I shall be waiting with hot soup and a cold drink when you return; I would only slow you down otherwise.” As they led their horses back along the narrow track to the road, they heard his voice loud in the winter stillness, calling, “The god go with you, and keep you, and speed your safe return.”

  “Who is the god Durwin serves?” Quentin asked after they had ridden several minutes in silence, each lost to his own thoughts.

  Theido seemed to consider this question and answered at length. “I do not know that Durwin has ever spoken his name—it may be that he does not have one.”

  A nameless god? The thought occupied Quentin for a long time.

  They rode through the forest, a dense, old tangle of ancient oaks that wove huge branches overhead in a stark, intertwining canopy of bare limbs. Here and there a stand of finger-thin pines shot upwards through the spreading branches of the oaks to find the light above.

  The horses moved easily through the snow, which had not drifted to any depth upon the forest floor. Theido rode ahead on his quick, brown palfrey, and Quentin, astride the mighty Balder, followed not far behind at his right shoulder. Quentin listened to the forest sounds: snow sliding off the branches of trees with a soft plop, the creak of a bough shifting in the cold, a lone birdcall sharp and distinct in the distance. Even the quiet was full of sounds when one listened.

  “Do you think we will meet with any outlaws?” Quentin asked after a while, remembering what had been said earlier.

  “We should hope that we meet nothing but the trees and the snow. But there are some outlaws here who are more honest than you or I, men driven to the refuge of the forest by Prince Jaspin and his thieving rascals.” This was spoken with a quiet defiance that Quentin could easily apprehend. However, there was something else in the dark man’s tone that he could not guess. “If we chance upon anyone in this wood, pray that he serves no lord but the Dragon King,” Theido continued. “I am not without reputation among such men.”

  “Perhaps the snow will keep them inside today,” Quentin observed. Yet even as he spoke, the clouds overhead showed signs of scattering. The last few flakes drifted down slowly.

  “Yes, perhaps. Although a traveler is a welcome sight these days. Many who once traveled on business have taken to hiring armed escorts or banding together in the hope that numbers alone will daunt the robbers. Most avoid the forest altogether, and those lucky enough to pass unharmed are nonetheless marked well. You, my young friend, were very lucky to have escaped notice thus far. Were you not afraid?”

  “I did not know these robbers had become such a serious problem.”

  “News does not travel to the mountaintop, eh? The gods and their servants care not what takes pl
ace in the world of men?” He laughed strangely. “Mensandor is besieged by trouble; once-honest men turn upon one another; innocent blood is shed by day. These are grave times.”

  “I had not heard . . . ,” replied Quentin, as if to defend himself. Although from what he did not know.

  “I suppose not. Maybe it is better that way—innocence is a gift. Who knows, you might never have volunteered for such an errand if you had known what lay ahead.”

  At last, with only an hour of daylight left, the forest began to dwindle, becoming sparser and more open. Then, quite unexpectedly, the two riders were free of it. And there, across a broad valley cut through by a deep, narrow stream, rose the soaring battlements of Askelon.

  The king’s stronghold sat upon the crown of a hill glittering in the fading light. Its tall towers commanded a view clear to the horizon and could in turn be seen for miles in every direction. With the crimson evening light behind it, the mighty fortress loomed dark and menacing, itself a fantastic dragon curled upon its stone couch. Quentin shivered in his saddle. Long had he dreamed of this sight; now he was seeing it.

  “They say this castle is the oldest thing upon the land made by men,” said Theido. “Of all the ancient wonders, only Askelon survives. King Celbercor, when he came to this country, laid the cornerstone himself. It was not finished until a thousand years later. It will house fifty thousand fighting men, and horses for half that number; there is not another fortress made by man that is its equal. It has weathered siege upon siege and war upon war. Those walls stood when our fathers’ fathers were babes, and they will stand when we are dust in our graves.”

  “Has it never been conquered?”