Stephen Lawhead - The Dragon King Collection: In the Hall of the Dragon King, The Warlords of Nin, and The Sword and the Flame

In the Hall of the Dragon King 1982, 1996, 2002, 2007 by Stephen Lawhead
The Warlords of Nin 2007, 2002, 1996, 1982 by Stephen Lawhead
The Sword and the Flame 1982, 1996, 2002, 2007 by Stephen Lawhead

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Publishers Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

978-0-71803-178-7 (e-book collection)
In the Hall of the Dragon King 978-4-59554-958-7 (repack)
The Warlords of Nin 978-1-59554-960-0 (repack)
The Sword and the Flame 978-1-59554-959-4 (repack)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

CIP data is available

Contents

For Ross,
my golden one
with all my love.

The snow lay deep and undisturbed beneath the silver light of a dawning sky. Overhead, a raven surveyed a silent landscape as its black wings feathered the cold, thin air. The birds rasping call was the only sound to be heard for miles, breaking the frozen solitude in irregular staccato. All around, the land lay asleep in the depths of winter.

Every bear, every fox, hare, and squirrel was warm in its rustic nest. Cattle and horses stood contented in their stalls, heads drooping in slumber or quietly munching the first of the days provender. In the country, smoke drifted from peasant huts into the windless sky from rough-hewn chimneys, sent aloft from hearth fires tended through the night. The village, clustered close about the mighty walls of Askelon Castle, slept in pristine splendor, a princess safe in the arms of her protector.

All through the land nothing moved, nothing stirred, save the raven wheeling slowly overhead.

Quentin lay shivering in his cell, a huddled ball topped by a thin woolen blanket that he clasped tightly around his ears in a resolute effort to keep out the night chill. He had been awake, and cold, long before the sullen sky showed its drab gray through the lone slit of a window high up in his cell. Now the gloom had receded sufficiently to make out the dim outlines of the simple objects that furnished his bare apartment.

Next to the straw pallet where he slept stood a sturdy oaken stool, made by the hand of a local peasant. A table of the same craft stood against the wall opposite his bed, containing his few personal articles: a clay bowl for his supper, a candle in a wooden holder, a small bell for his prayers, and a parchment scroll on which were written all the rules and observances of his acolytes office, which, after almost three years, Quentin was still struggling to memorize.

From somewhere in the inner recesses of the temple, the chime of a bell sounded. Quentin groaned, then jumped up in bed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. Today was the day, he remembered. The day of great change. He wondered what it would be, for as closely as he had followed the portents he could not guess it.

All the omens had pointed to a change: the ring around the moon for three nights before the snow, the storm itself coming on his name day, a spider hed seen busily constructing a web across his door (although that had been some time ago, he hadnt forgotten).

There was no doubta change was forecast.

Its exact nature remained a mystery, but such was often the pleasure of the gods to leave part of the prophecy hidden. He had at last deduced the date of the change by a dream in which he had climbed a high mountain and then had leaped from its very pinnacle and sailed out into space, not falling but flying. Flying dreams were always lucky. His lucky day was always a holy day, and this day, the feast of Kamaliadmittedly a minor holy daywas the first holy day to have fallen since his dream.

Today, without question, was the eventful day; the tokens were indisputable. Quentin reviewed them in his mind as he hurriedly threw his coarse, heavy acolytes robe over his head of close-cropped brown hair. He stuffed his feet into baggy stockings and laced the thongs of his sandals around them tightly. Then, grabbing his prayer bell, he dashed out of the cubicle and into the dark, chilly corridor beyond.

Quentin was halfway down the high-arched passageway when another bell sounded. A deep, resonant peal rang out in three short intervals. A brief pause. And then three again. Quentin puzzled over the meaning of this bell; he had not heard it before that he could remember.

Suddenly it came to him. Alarm!

He stopped, confused. As he turned to run toward the sound of the bell, he collided blindly with the round, fully padded form of Biorkis, one of the elder priests.

Oof, lad! cried the priest good-naturedly. No need for panic.

That was the alarm bell just now! cried Quentin, inching around the puffing priest. We must hurry!

No need. The servants of Ariel do not run. Besides, he added with a wink, that was a summons bell. Not the alarm. Quentin suddenly felt very foolish. He felt his face coloring. His eyes sought the stone flagging at his feet. The jovial priest placed a heavy arm on Quentins young shoulders. Come, we will see what drags us from our warm slumbers so early on this chilly morning.

The two moved off down the corridor together and shortly came to the vast entrance hall of the temple. A cold, stinging wind was rushing through the huge open doors at the entrance. A priest in a scarlet cassock, one of the order of temple guards, was already pulling the giant wooden doors closed. Three other priests stood round a large, shapeless bundle lying at their feet on the floor. Whatever it was, the dark bundle, uncertain in the dim morning light, had been recently dragged in from the outdoorsa trail of snow attested to the fact, as did the snow-encrusted bundle itself.

Closer, Quentin saw the bundle was that of a human form wrapped heavily against the cold. The priests were now bending over the inert shape, which to all appearances seemed dead. Biorkis placed a warning hand on Quentins arm and stepped slowly forward.

What is this, good brothers? A wayward pilgrim early to the shrine?

This is no pilgrim by the look of him, said the guard, rubbing his hands to restore the warmth. More likely a beggar for our feast day torts.

Then he shall have them, replied Biorkis.

He is past nourishment, observed Izash, the eldest priest of the temple, whose symbol of office was a long braided beard. Or he very soon will be, I fear. He tapped his sacred white rod and stirred the air in front of him, indicating that the man should be turned over, the better to see his face.

Two junior priests knelt over the lifeless form and gingerly tugged at the wider part of the bundle, which formed the mans shoulders. The priests, overly careful not to defile themselves lest they should find themselves touching a dead body, ineffectually jerked at the corners of the rough fur skins the man wore for warmth. Biorkis watched the timid struggle with impatience, finally exploding, Get out of the way! Im not afraid of Azrael; my hands have touched worse! He stooped over the body and rolled it into his arms.