In the Hall of the Dragon King dk-1 Read online

  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 which normally encompassed twenty years or more. Quentin had completed only seven years of 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 the 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 prayerhouse which was presided over by one or more priests depending upon the 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.

  The King, dressed in full battle regalia emblazoned with the royal insignia-a terrible, twisting red dragon-had led his loyal warriors out through the giant gates of his castle. Amidst a thousand fluttering banners and the call of a thousand trumpets from the high battlements, the King’s army marched through streets lined with cheering crowds and out onto the plains of Askelon. It was said the procession lasted half a day, so many men followed in his train.

  The entourage had traveled to Hinsen-by-the-sea, or Hinsen-by as it was usually known, had boarded sturdy warships awaiting them in Hinsen harbor, and had sailed forth. The ships were provided by King Selric of the small island country of Drin, whose people were known to produce the world’s greatest sailors.

  Other kings from other lands joined them, swelling their forces beyond anything ever before seen or imagined. They were going to meet the barbaric Urd, a race of creatures, one scarcely dared to call them human, so savage, so brutal their very existence imperiled all other men. The Urd, united under their king Gorr, had risen in defiance of all civilized order vowing to extinguish or make slaves of other nations. They would rule the world.

  The twelve kings of the civilized nations had met and declared war upon Gorr, sailing to meet and join battle with him in his own lands before the evil lord had time to mass his army against them in theirs.

  The fighting had begun in early spring and by summer it looked as though the campaign would conclude before winter set in, so successful were the united kings’ first encounters. The wily Gorr, seeing his warriors melt before the terrible onslaught, retreated to his massive walled fortress, Golgor. There the stubborn renegade dug in, establishing himself with a strength and fervor no one could have foretold. From Golgor the raving giant taunted the valiant forces of the kings; his raiding panics, though often beaten back with heavy losses, continually wore down their defenses. Winter found the enemies deadlocked.

  The war, so easily won in the spring, dragged on and on. Years passed and the war continued. Thousands of men died in that hideous country never to see friends or loved ones again. Several of the kings pulled out in the seventh year, returning home with the tattered remains of their once-proud armies. But Eskevar, Selric, Brandon, Calwitha, and Troen fought on.

  For all Quentin knew they fought on still.

  Quentin raised his eyes to the horizon. He could see, it seemed, forever; the land fell away on every side unobscured except for the occasional looming shape of a gigantic boulder or jutting escarpment which rose abruptly at intervals throughout the hills. But the slim rider was leaving the hills behind, and the dark line of the forest drew ever nearer as if by magic.

  Askelon, his destination, stood on the far side of the forest. Beyond that to the west lay the flatlands and the farming towns, and cities of the plains, Bellavee being chief among these.

  To the far north was Woodsend, a substantial village of farmers and craftsmen firmly planted on the banks of the Wilst River, a long, lazy branch sprung from the Arvin whose headwaters originated, as did all the rivers which flowed throughout the realm, in the high Fiskill Mountains above Narramoor. At his back rose the imposing mountains themselves, and beyond them the regions of Suthland to the south and Obrey to the north.

  These were the Wilderlands, remote and virtually uncharted areas inhabited only by wild animals and even wilder men, the Dher, or Jher as they were often called.

  The Jher were the lingering descendants of the most primitive dwellers of the land. They still clung like moss on weathered rock to their obscure ways, changing not at all since anyone could remember.

  They were said to possess many strange powers-gifts which more disposed them toward the wild creatures with whom they shared their rough lands than rendered them acceptable companions for civilized human beings. The Jher kept to themselves for the most part, and were alike left alone by one and all. Quentin, like most younger people, had never seen one. They existed for him as characters out of children’s stories, told to frighten and induce obedience in youngsters showing reluctance to behave themselves.

  Quentin stirred from his meditation on these and other things to notice that it was approaching midday. He began looking for a sheltered place to stop where he might eat a morsel and rest the horse, who appeared not the least bit taxed for his exertion. The weak winter sun which had been struggling to burn through the hazy overcast all morning suddenly flared high overhead, like a hot poker wearing through sackcloth. Instantly the landscape was transformed from its ghostly pall into dazzling brilliance.

  With the sun, although seemingly small and distant, came heat. At least Quentin imagined that he felt warmed, felt the heat spreading over his back and shoulders and seeping through his thick, fur-lined cap. Ahead he spotted a small stand of birch trees encircled by a tangle of forlorn shrubbery and several small evergreens. The site offered a slight shelter from the biting wind which, now that the sun was out, whipped more sharply.

  Quentin found the sun good company as he reined the horse aside and tied him to a nearby branch. Clambering down from his steed, the boy fumbled in the shallow rucksack which Biorkis had had made up for him and filled with provisions for the trip. He fished out a small loaf of seed cake and, throwing his cloak beneath him, sat down to eat his meal.

  The sun played upon his face, warming the frozen tips of his nose and ears. Quentin removed his hat and turned his face to the thawing warmth. His mind skipped back once more to the bustle and confusion of his leaving; he rehearsed again, as one hundred times before, his instructions. Go to the hermit of Pelgrin Forest. Do not stop, except to eat and to rest the horse. Do not speak to anyone. Do not deliver the letter to anyone but the Queen.

  That last order would be the most difficult. But Ronsard, in his final act before losing consciousness, had given his dagger to be used to gain audience. The knight’s golden dagger would be recognized and would speak for the gravity of the occasion.

  Quentin was not as distracted by his impending reception at court as he might have been. He was far more curious, and frightened-but curiosity held the better of his fears, to be sure-
over the mysterious communication which was now sewn inside his plain, green jerkin. He absentmindedly patted the place where it lay next to his ribs. What could it contain? What could be so important?

  And yet, as intrigued as he was by the enigma he carried, a part of his mind was worrying over another problem like a hound with a gristle bone-an item he did not want to consider in any form at all: his future. He avoided the thought like a pain, yet it gnawed at the edges of his consciousness never far from remembrance. Quentin delicately pushed the question aside every time it intruded into his thoughts… “What are you going to do after you have delivered the letter?”

  The lad had no answer for that question, or the hundred others of a similar theme which assailed him at every turn. He felt himself beginning to dread the completion of his mission more with every mile. He wished, and it was not a new wish, that he had never stepped forward-he had regretted it as soon as he had done it.

  But it was as if he had no will of his own. He felt compelled by something outside himself to respond to the dying knight’s plea. Perhaps the god Ariel had thrust him forward. Perhaps he had merely been caught up in the awful urgency of the moment. Besides, the omens had foretold… Ah, but when did omens ever run true?

  Eyes closed, face to the sun, Quentin munched his seed cake, pondering his fate. He suddenly felt a cool touch on his face, as if the sun had blinked. And high above him, he heard the call of a bird. Quentin cracked open one eye, and recoiled from the brightness of the light. Squinting fiercely and shading his face with an outstretched arm, Quentin at last determined the source of the call. At the same instant his heart seized like a clenched fist inside his chest.

  There, flying low overhead was the worst omen imaginable: a raven circled just above him casting flittering shadows upon him with its wings.

  THREE

  THE BLUE, cloud-spattered sky had dissolved into a violet dome flecked with orange and russet wisps, and the shadows had deepened to indigo on the white snow before Quentin found his rest for the evening: the rough log hut of Durwin, the holy hermit of Pelgrin Forest.

  The hermit was known among the lowly as one who gave aid to travelers and cared for the peasants and forest folk who often had need of his healing arts. He had once been a priest, but had left to follow a different god, so the local hearsay told. Beyond that nothing much was known about the hermit, except that when his help was required he was never far away. Some also said he possessed many strange powers and listed among his talents the ability to call up dragons from their caves, though no one had ever seen him do it.

  It seemed strange to Quentin that Biorkis should know or recommend such a person to help him-even if the aid was only a bed for the night. For Biorkis had given him a silver coin to give the hermit, saying, “Greet this brother in the name of the god, and give him this token.” He had placed the coin in his hand. “That will tell him much. And say that Biorkis sends his greetings,” he paused, “and that he seeks a brighter light.” The priest had turned hurriedly away adding mostly to himself, “That will tell him more.”

  So, Quentin found himself in the fading twilight of a brilliant winter day. The hut was set off the road a short distance, but completely hidden from view, surrounded as it was by towering oaks, evergreens, and thick hedges of brambly furze. It took Quentin some time to locate the hut, even with the precise directions he had been given.

  At last he found it, a low, squattish building which appeared to be mostly roof and chimney. Two small windows looked out on the world and a curious round-topped door closed the entrance. The homely abode was nestled in a hillock at the far end of a natural clearing which gave way to a spacious view of the sky overhead. The ground rose to meet the house on a gentle incline so that one had to climb slightly to reach the front door.

  Quentin rode quietly up to the entrance of the hut. Sitting on the horse he could have leaped from his saddle onto the roof with ease. But he chose instead to slide off the animal’s broad back and rap with the flat of his hand on the heavy oaken door. He waited uncertainly; his hand had hardly produced any sound at all, and except for the smoke curling slowly from the stone chimney be would have suspected the place abandoned. But someone had been there-the clearing was well trampled with the footprints of men and animals in the snow.

  Quentin slipped the knight’s dagger from its place in his belt beneath his cloak. Holding it by the blade, he banged again on the door, this time with a more satisfactory result. He waited.

  The sky was darkening quickly now; the sun was well down. He could feel the cold strengthening its hold on the land. No sound came from inside.

  Plucking up his courage, Quentin tried the crude latch and found that with some force it moved. He placed his weight behind the door and shoved. The rough-hewn door swung upon its hinges and opened readily. Quentin stumbled quickly in with more ceremony than he had planned, bumping over the threshold as he entered.

  The room was a good deal larger than he would have guessed from the outside, and it was sunken well below ground level. Stone steps led into the room which was warm and cozy, lit by the flickering fire left burning in the wide, generous fireplace. About the room stood an odd assemblage of hand-made furniture: chairs, tables large and small, stools, a large lumpy bed, and something which surprised Quentin and strangely delighted him: books. Scrolls were heaped upon the tables and stuffed onto latticework shelves. More scrolls than he had ever seen-even in the library of the temple.

  All this Quentin took in as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom of the dark room. He also saw the place was empty of its chief inhabitant. Durwin, apparently, was absent; perhaps on some mercy errand in the forest nearby. Quentin decided to slip in and await the hermit’s return, dragging a stool up to the fire burning low upon the hearth.

  Quentin did not know whether he was awakened by the sound or the smell. Voices seemed to drone into his consciousness from far away. No words could be understood, only the monotonous buzz of two voices talking quietly, but with some enthusiasm. Close by the smell of food, warm and heavily laced with garlic, drifted into his awareness. He opened his eyes.

  He was covered by his own cloak and laying a little away from the hearth. Two large figures sat near the fire. One knelt at the edge of the fire stirring a large black pot with a long-handled wooden spoon. The other sat on a stool with his back to him, revealing nothing of his features or stature. Both men were dressed in dark, flowing cloaks. As they talked, their long shadows danced on the far wall of the hut like the animated puppets in a shadow play.

  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 a mustache 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 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 the god. Some payment, eh?”

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