Dragon Castle Read Online Free PDF Page B

me who was always bringing home little bunnies or fawns from the woods. I was the one who returned them to the places where he found them after my mother explained that their parents would be worried about them. Having two puppies to pet—even ones big enough to rip his throat out with one bite—was much more fun than playing at being a knight errant. Before I could say a word, Paulek had hopped off his horse. By the time I climbed down both giant wolves were on their backs, their tongues hanging out as he rubbed their stomachs.
    â€œWhat shall we name them, Rashko?” he said.
    â€œUcta,” I said without hesitation, not knowing why but knowing it was right as I caught the eye of the one with the white marks on his chest and front paws. “Honor.”
    Ano, I heard back, a low growling voice in my mind.
    â€œAnd you,” I said, looking at the one who was sable dark as night, as deep an ebony as the thought of blackness itself, “you are Odvaha. Courage.”
    Ano, kamarat . Yes, friend, it answered.
    All plans for adventure vanished from Paulek’s mind. He couldn’t wait to get back to share our new friends with my parents.
    â€œWill they come with us?” he asked me.
    Ano.
    Ano.
    â€œYes, they will.”
    Tails wagging like the big dogs we would tell everyone they were, they followed us home.
    We soon learned that not only would my parents accept them without question as two lost doggies looking for a pair of boys to be their masters, but that Ucta and Odvaha would be our most faithful friends. They were always ready to go anywhere with us and, if necessary, to risk their lives for ours. All that in exchange for a gift of bread and bacon—or something a bit more than that. Cesta being Cesta.
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    THE CLOUD OF dust has reached the bottom of our hill. I see banners and figures emerging from it. The insignias on the two flags are not ones I’ve seen before. The first one pictures a black cloud beneath which a red-mailed fist holds a twisting yellow serpent in its grasp. The second banner features the grim image of a black sword thrust through a bleeding heart. My guess is that their owner is not a proponent of gentle debate. That guess is strengthened by the fact that those flags are flying from the glistening steel tips of two long lances. Also the two broad-shouldered men holding those lances have the cold faces of killers. Plus there are at least thirty other armed and just as hard-bitten mounted troopers behind them.
    How lovely.
    They all seem a bit disappointed that our drawbridge has been ratcheted up since their messenger’s departure. Georgi and I made sure of that. It’s a good thing we did. I see no friendly intent in the scarred and helmeted faces below—as well as sufficient weaponry to wage a small war or two. There are crossbows and bundles of quarrels, bows and quivers of arrows, long swords, lances, balls and chains, pikes, and enough knives to supply a bevy of butcher shops.
    The lanky herald who visited us a few hours ago impatiently kicks his heels into the side of his mount and makes his way to the front of the mob that is glaring up at Georgi and me on the battlements.
    â€œHello, the castle,” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Lower the drawbridge. We are friends. We come in peace.”
    Now, why do I doubt that?

PAVOL’S LEGEND
Styria
    THE BOY LOOKED up at the broad face of the bearded and burly man who had saved him from having his brains dashed out by the rocks of the hillside. The boy was used to kindness, having seen it all his life in the faces and actions of his parents. He saw a similar kindness, marked by sorrow, in the rough features of his savior. And there was something else here that the boy had never seen before.
    Grimness, the boy thought. Kind though those eyes might be, somehow the boy knew that the one who held him as easily as the boy could hold a feather would make a formidable