Blood and Dreams: Lost Years II Read Online Free PDF

machine.
    “It’s nonsense,” Galahad said. “We know what’s going on here.” He nodded as if that proved it.
    “That’s sooth.” Bors muttered. He was a brooding butcher. But Galahad made you feel he’d been driven to murder against his will and wanted, if possible, pity from his victim. A sighing slayer.
    “Come back,” he said sincerely. “and all’s well again.”
    “So it was you and your lads on the road,” I realized. “You’ve just been waiting for your best moment or more men.” Galahad’s style was fearless at ten to one odds.
    The dragon clanked and thudded closer; it sounded like a drawbridge going up. Was I supposed to imagine the Grail was inside? Was I supposed to care?
    Actually, it was coming faster than I had thought: suddenly the bronze claws, jerky but quick, hooked at Sir Bors, who was standing nearest. He cursed and chopped his sword at the metal and leather sides, closing with the giant toy. Blossoms splashed as he hacked unintelligently at the inanimate eyes. Clang ! Clang ! Then he was knocked down and flipped into the brilliant flowers in a sparkle of steel.
    Armed men and knights sprouted everywhere. Galahad was yelling, “Attack! Destroy that thing!” Then, aside to me, “We’ll share the treasure if you throw in with us.”
    I gaped at him. “You too? Who next? The pope? Beowulf of the Danes?” I gawked at the inane battle: the machine clanked and flailed with awkward swiftness, missing everyone except when they were packed so thick that not scoring would have taken great skill. “Going to share the Grail with Arthur, too?” The flowers were getting the worst of it. I backed carefully away from this peculiar melee.
    “What do you say?” Galahad wanted to confirm, keeping pace with my retreat.
    I smiled brightly.
    “I’m with everyone,” I told him. God, what a crew!
    “Good,” he said. Bors was up again, and back in the nonsensical fray. Part of the beast was torn; iron-studded leather flapped about a broken wooden bone. Someone had actually thought this festival puppet would drive fighting men off. Amazing. I could hear voices fuming inside. One clawed leg had jammed, the gears were grinding. I realized it truly was the keeper, comic as it seemed. Perhaps there was something to keep, after all …
    Galahad’s men had swarmed all around the dragon’s rump and were levering if over, rocking in unison. Bors still pounded at the senseless head. He had the stiff claw-strokes pretty well-timed now.
    And then we were flooded with dwarves, lots of dwarves, dwarves wearing jet armor that brought a shudder of recognition: ebony steel with silver, grotesque facemasks. When I was seventeen, Clinschor’s deadly minions wore the same suits in larger sizes. They seemed to be charging to the dragon’s rescue.
    And there was Gobble, limping in their midst, probably happy to be taller than someone. He still wore the silly gray gown, but brandished a sword. His makeup had been badly rubbed off.
    This was entertainment no acting troupe could match.
    The dragon crashed on its side just as waves of poisonous mites broke into the full-sized knights. Black steel gleamed like beetle carapaces as the midgets sank head-deep in the gushed flowers and then sprang out slicing vicious ax and sword thrusts, hewing legs like trees. Gobble was nearly dancing with delight. All he needed was a maypole.
    The keeper fell apart, and wild-bearded druid priests tumbled out. Druids? Why not? Only Christians insisted the Grail was Christ’s alemug. There they were, in any case, druids, yelling, ducking, and scattering. Maybe a dozen. I could see the wheels and ropes that worked the dragon. Then a few dwarves got close enough to distract me. They fought well, but I’d been bopped on the skull enough. A knight in shining diapers, I probably looked easy. Well, I battered and batted them towards safer game.
    Galahad was happy. He must have figured these were a perfect size for him, because he was