In the Hall of the Dragon King (2 page)

Quentin, moving around the perimeter for a better look, gasped at the sight. The man's face was ashen white, and his lips, pressed together in a thin line, were blue. He appeared completely frozen. But even as Quentin looked on fearfully, the man's eyelids flickered. Biorkis, noticing the remnant of life, ordered one of the junior priests away. “Bring wine, brother. Hurry! And a vial of unction.” And to the rest he directed, “Here, now! Help me loosen his wraps. We may pull him back from Heoth yet.”

The priests fell upon the motionless figure, carefully unwrapping the layers of clothing. Their astonishment showed visibly in their faces when they had finished, and in the face of the priest who had just then returned with the wine and unguent.

There on the floor before them lay a knight in rude battle dress. His head was encased in a leather helm with crisscrossed bands of iron. His torso carried a breastplate of the same make and material, but studded with short spikes, and his forearms and shins were sheathed in studded guards.

Biorkis, still holding the man's head, tugged at the strap fastening the helmet. It rolled free, clanking upon the stone floor, and a murmur went up from those surrounding. Quentin looked away. The knight's head was a mass of blood. An open wound gaped just over his temple, where the skin and bone had been crushed by a sharp blow.

The kind priest knelt with the knight's head on his knees and pushed the man's matted hair from his forehead. He gently loosed the bindings of the breastplate, and two priests set it aside. A groan emerged from the man's throat, shallow at first, then gaining in strength.

“The vial,” Biorkis ordered. Snatching it up and dipping two fingers into the salve, the priest smoothed the healing ointment upon the man's face. Its aromatic vapors produced an immediate result, for the soldier's eyes flickered again and then snapped open as those of a man struggling out of a dream.

“So, he is to be with us a little longer,” said Izash. “Give him some wine. He may tell us of his errand.” The old priest stepped closer and leaned low on his staff to hear better what might transpire.

Biorkis administered the wine as the knight, without strength enough to tilt his head, allowed the liquor to be poured down his throat. In Biorkis's hands the wine seemed to have a magical effect. Color seeped slowly back into the man's face, and his breathing now deepened where before there had been no discernible breath at all.

“Welcome, good soldier.” Izash addressed the knight respectfully. “If you feel like talking, perhaps you could tell us how you have come here and why.”

The fair-headed knight rolled his eyes and attempted to twist his head in the direction of the speaker. The effort brought a wave of pain that washed full across his features. He sank back into Biorkis's lap.

By now other priests had gathered close about, drawn by the summons. They spoke in low voices with one another, speculating upon the strange visitor who lay before them. The knight opened his eyes again, and they shone bright and hard as if strength or will was returning. He opened his mouth to speak; his jaw worked the air, but no sound came forth.

“More wine,” Biorkis called. As the cup was handed to him, the plump priest tugged out a pouch from the folds of his robe. He dipped into the small leather bag and sprinkled a pinch of the contents into the drink. He then lowered the cup to the knight's lips once more. The prostrate man drank more readily and, finishing, paused before attempting to speak again.

“Now, sir, enlighten an old busybody if you will. That is, if you have no reason to conceal your errand.” Izash inclined his old head; his white beard fell almost to the floor. A slight smile creased his lined face as if to coax the words forth with kindness.

“I am Ronsard,” the knight said, his voice cracking. Another sip of wine followed that exertion. His eyes, steel gray in the silver light, looked around at the tight circle of faces bent over him. “Where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You are among friends,” Biorkis told him. “This is the holy Temple of Ariel, and we are his priests. You may speak freely. No harm can reach you here.”

As if reassured by the soothing words, the knight licked his lips and said with as much strength as he could muster, “I am come from the king.”

The words were simple, but they struck the ears of the listeners like thunder. The king! He comes from the king! The murmur rose to echo from the high-vaulted arches of the temple.

Only Izash, still leaning on his rod, seemed unimpressed.

“Our king? Or someone else's?” the elderly priest asked.

“King Eskevar,” the fallen knight answered with spirit.

The name sent another ripple through the gathered priests. The king had been absent so long, his name unheard among his own countrymen, that hearing it now brought hope to all gathered there.

“And what of the king?” the old priest continued. His probing had a method to it; he was occupying the knight, making him forget his wounds and the pain that twisted his rugged features.

“I cannot say more. The rest is for the queen alone.” The fighting man gulped air and licked his lips again. “I was waylaid last night—ambushed by outlaws who now sleep with the snow.”

The knight looked up at the faces of the priests bending over him. Fresh blood oozed from his wound, opened again by his exercise.

“Worry not,” said Biorkis soothingly. “You will remain with us until you are able to resume your errand.” He motioned to several of the younger priests to help him lift the soldier onto a pallet that had been brought. “No one will bother you for the details of your mission. Your secret is safe within these walls. Rest now. I do not like the look of that wound.”

“No!” the knight shouted hoarsely, his face contorted in agony. Then in a strange, rasping whisper, “I'm dying. You must deliver my message to the queen. It must not wait.”

Biorkis stooped with the knight's head gently in his hands as the man was carefully transferred to the pallet. The knight clutched the wooden sides of the bed and raised himself up on his elbows. Blood ran freely down the side of his head and neck, staining his green tunic a dull, rusty gray.

“You must help me!” he demanded. “One of you must go in my stead to the queen.”With that he fell back in a swoon upon his bed. The color had run from his face. He appeared dead to those who looked on in fear and wonder.

The priests glanced from one to another helplessly. Biorkis stood, his hands dripping with the knight's fresh blood. He searched the faces of his brothers and gauged the worry there. Then he stepped close to Izash, who motioned him aside.

“Here is an unwanted problem,” the old priest observed. “I see no help we can offer, save all that is in our power to heal his wounds and send him speedily on his way.”

“The delay—what of that?”

“It cannot be helped, I'm afraid.”

“Though we do all in our power to heal him, still he may die,” Biorkis objected. “He is as good as dead already.” Something in the knight's voice, his look, spoke to Biorkis. The man had certainly overcome some crushing odds, and even now he refused his deathbed on the strength of the message alone. Whatever the tidings, this news of the king's was of the highest importance. More important than life itself.

At that moment the knight regained consciousness. He was now too weakened to raise himself up, however. A low moan escaped his clenched teeth. “He is with us still,” said Izash. “How persistent the courier is.”

Biorkis and the old priest placed their heads close to the knight's. “Good Ronsard,” Biorkis whispered. “Do not tax yourself further for your life's sake. We possess some skill in healing and have often delivered a soul from Manes's hands. Rest now. Let us tend your wounds and strengthen you to your purpose.”

“No!” the knight objected with surprising force. “There's no time. One of you must ride to the queen.” His eyes implored the priest.

“Sir, you do not know what you ask,” Izash answered. He waved an arm to include the whole of the assembled priests. “We are under sacred vows and cannot leave the temple, except on pilgrimage or matters of the highest sacred import. The fate of nations, kings, and powers concerns us not at all. We serve only the god Ariel; we are his subjects alone.”

Biorkis looked sadly down upon the dying man. “He speaks the cold heart of the oath we have taken. My own heart says, ‘Go,' but I cannot. For to leave the temple on this errand would mean breaking our sacred vows. Any priest who did that would forfeit his whole life's work and his soul's eternal happiness. There are none here who would risk that, nor would I ask it of them.”

The priests nodded solemnly in agreement. Some shrugged and turned away lest they be drafted to the task; others held out their hands in helpless supplication.

“Will not one of you match your life with mine? Will no one risk the displeasure of the god to save the king?” The knight's challenge sounded loud in the ears of those around him, although he'd spoken in barely a whisper.

“I will go,” said a small, uncertain voice.

Biorkis, Izash, and the other priests turned toward the voice. There in the shadow of the arch stood the slight figure belonging to the voice. The figure stepped slowly forward to stand by the side of the dying knight.

“You, Quentin?” Biorkis asked in amazement; the others whispered behind their hands. “You would go?”

2

T
he mighty horse carried his insignificant rider with tireless ease. Trained in the hard school of combat, Balder was used to bearing the weight of grown men in full armor upon his broad back. Quentin, clinging like a cold leaf to the magnificent animal's neck, was scarcely a burden at all.

The day was young and still overcast as on the day previous, but the low cloud covering showed signs of breaking up before long. The wind had freshened, sending whirling white clouds across the tops of the drifts with every fitful gust. Each blast sent a shiver along Quentin's ribs. He wondered whether he would ever be warm again. But he did not greatly mind the discomfort, for at last the change long foretold was in motion. Where it would lead, what it would mean, he did not know. For the present he was caught up in the adventure of it, yet he kept his eyes sharp to any omen that might present itself.

Nothing presented itself to his gaze except a vast expanse of white, unbroken except by irregular dark lumps mushrooming out of the snow. These were the peasant huts, and sometimes he saw a face peer at him from around the corner of a doorpost, or a timid wave acknowledge his presence as a bent form hobbled through the snow under a burden of firewood.

In his seven years' cloister within the temple, the land, it seemed to Quentin, had changed little. Yet it had changed. There was something unmistakable in the eyes of the peasants he met, something that struck him fresh each time he saw it. Was it fear?

The thought gave him an uneasy feeling. Was something loose in the land that caused these simple people to be afraid?

The great chestnut warhorse plodded steadily on, his hooves silenced by the cushion of snow. Billows of steam spouted from the animal's nostrils as its hot breath touched the icy air. Quentin turned his thoughts back on the brief procession of events that had placed him in Ronsard's saddle, on Ronsard's horse.

There had been a long, intemperate discussion following his spontaneous offer to assist the knight in accomplishing his mission. Everyone concerned—Biorkis, Izash, the other priests, and even the knight himself—had been against it. And still, when all the facts were laid end to end, there was no better plan. Quentin would go at once, allowing only a day's rest and feeding for the horse. The animal had been found patiently standing in the outer courtyard of the temple, where his master had left him before climbing and then collapsing upon the outer steps. It was the horse's whinny to his fallen rider that had alerted the temple guards, who then discovered the wounded, half-frozen knight.

Reluctantly, Biorkis had given his approval to the enterprise, for although his young age was against him, Quentin was the only logical choice. He was merely an acolyte, not a priest, as yet not having taken his vows or completed his initiation—a process that normally encompassed twenty years or more. Quentin had really only begun his instruction. At fifteen he still had years of study ahead of him; others his own age were already novitiates. The road to becoming a priest was a long one; most began it while still small children. Quentin, although dedicated to his calling at age eight, had come to it late.

Now that career was behind him. Never again would he be allowed to return to the temple, except as a dutiful worshipper begging some boon from the god. Ariel was a jealous god; once you had turned away, he knew you no more. Only by distinguishing himself in some act of great heroism could Quentin hope to regain the god's favor. That he vowed he would do—just as soon as he could.

The journey from Narramoor, the holy city, to Askelon, the king's stronghold, was a matter of two days by horse. The temple, according to most ancient customs of the realm of Mensandor, was built in the high foothills overlooking the land it sheltered with its prayers. In the spring and early summer, pilgrims came from all over the country to ask prayers for good crops and healthy livestock. Each town and village also had a small temple or prayer house that was presided over by one or more priests, depending upon need, but most worshippers preferred to make the pilgrimage to the high temple at least once a year, more often if it could be arranged.

The road, winding down from the steep hills beneath the jagged old mountains of the Fiskill, was not overwide, but it was well maintained—at least it had been up to the time of the king's departure. Quentin remembered nothing of the king's leave-taking, being but a babe in arms at the time. But in the years since, he had heard retold the vivid accounts of the splendor of that parting.