Dragonslayer: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

indignant, older voice from the crowd.
    "Didn't say ye were," said Hodge, continuing to crank. "Wouldn't accuse yer without good reason. Just said ye was real lucky." He leaned over and spat neatly into the moat. The drawbridge bumped down the last foot, and Hodge waved them in. "Stayin' long?"
    The youth was the first to dismount, and to lead a horse across the echoing drawbridge. "Not long," he called up to Hodge as he passed beneath, "at least, I hope not. I hope . . ."
    "In that case," said Hodge, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, "I'll leave 'er down till yer go. Just shut and bar the gate behind yerselves. Follow me!" He descended the rickety staircase beside the wall and headed across the courtyard, making snurfling sounds that to the travelers' ears sounded like suppressed laughter. They glanced uneasily at each other.
    Like the rest of the castle, the courtyard was unkempt and mol-dering. Rank weeds flourished, overgrowing chunks of masonry fallen from the upper battlements. A little path wound through the shambles, and in single file the pilgrims followed Hodge to the oak door of the great hall. "Leave yer horses," Hodge called back over his shoulder, gesturing vaguely, "let 'em browse."
    Those with horses loosened their girths and reins and then followed the others into the dim hall, coughing and flapping their arms for warmth. Inside, however, it was even cooler than outside, for there were no windows through which the rays of the rising sun might have penetrated; and although birch logs lay in the great hearth, they were unlit. The pilgrims clustered at one end of a massive oaken table, peering in wonderment around the hall. The huge granite blocks that formed the walls supported—and were supported by—immense oak beams, blackened by age and by the smoke of countless fires. Thick with dust and cobwebs, escutcheons, banners, broadswords, and battleaxes adorned all the walls. Hodge had mounted the steps of an entranceway at one side of the hall, and he had pulled off his helmet to reveal an unkempt mat of gray hair. He now cleared his throat and rapped the butt of his spear on the flagstones for attention. "Welcome to Cragganmore, home of Ulrich, and home before him of Belisarius, and before him of Pleximus." Hodge patted the mass of masonry at his side. "Legend says that this fireplace was in an ancient fastness from days of the Celts, and that its mortar was ground from the bones of three faithless wives of Maeve, wives who had betrayed him with young warriors, and that it was with great regret that he had them slain, for they were beautiful to behold and their voices were like fresh streams." Here Hodge paused for effect and looked somberly at each face in turn. "On winter nights, when the fires are stoked here, their voices may be heard again, freed by the heat, singing the songs that drive young men wild. I have heard them. Aye. That I have." Hodge chortled and his glance darted around the room, settling at last on Valerian, who flushed. A strand of drool escaped the corner of Hodge's mouth and dribbled down his beard; he brushed it away with the back of his hand before continuing. "Now, on your left may be seen the great coat of arms . . ."
    A white speck fluttered in the dark hallway behind him and, before those watching had time even to gasp, it had burst out into the room and settled on the railing beside Hodge's shoulder—a bird. "Drivel," said Gringe. "Make soup."
    "Soup?" Hodge's eyes bulged in outrage. "Here be Hodge, in the midst of greeting guests, just at the start of the tour, and you say . . ."
    "No Gringe, 111 rich!"
    "Oh. Well, in that case. If Ulrich wants me to." He looked over the small shuddering crowd of pilgrims. "And I do see that they be cold. Very good. Soup it is. How many . . ." He counted quickly. "Twelve."
    "Thirteen," Valerian said. "Malkin's with the horses."
    "Excuse me." A tentative hand rose amidst the group. "It's not . . . not lentil soup by any chance, is it?"
    "No," said