Song of the Gargoyle Read Online Free PDF

muscles became more and more unbearable and at last turned into a kind of rage that made him twist and turn and flail about inside his narrow prison, kicking the confining walls or pounding them with his fists.
    Toward sundown he slept again and dreamt once more, but this time not of helpless horror but of brave deeds and enemies vanquished. In this dream he was once more on the high ledge in the tower room and Black Helmet and his men were again breaking down the door. But this time when Komus stepped out from behind the bed curtains he, too, was wearing the armor of a knight and wielding a huge shining sword. And Tymmon, leaping down from the ledge with fierce delight, was also in armor. And together they attacked the intruders, beating them back through the doorway and down the stairs.
    To awake cold and stiff, alone and frightened, after so glorious a dream was torture and treachery and torment, and Tymmon’s anger grew stronger than ever. He raged at Black Helmet and his men, who had driven him out of his home into the cold and dangerous world, and even at King Austern, who must have allowed such evil men to come as guests to Austerneve.
    But deep down, and bitterer for being shameful and unnatural, Tymmon’s anger turned toward Komus himself. Toward Komus, who had been weak and helpless before the invaders of his home, and who had tried, pitiably, to use wit and humor as weapons against five armed knights.
    “You could have had real weapons,” he found himself whispering. “You could have defended yourself in honorable combat if only you had not... He paused and then, pounding his fist against the damp earth in frustration, he asked again, as he had asked so many times without answer or explanation, “Why? Why? Why?”
    So Tymmon, tormented by cold and thirst and hunger, tortured himself further by harsh and bitter thoughts until at last a procession of castle laborers returning to their homes in the village foretold the end of the day. The sun sank behind the far hills, and darkness crept across the valley. In Qweasle the old men left the square, and even the fountain courtyard was deserted. And stiff and sore, Tymmon climbed up the network of roots, worked his way up the sloping tree trunk, and scrambled onto the pathway below the postern gate.
    It was good to stand erect again and to move freely, even though he moved through near darkness and into the unknown. For a while he strode bravely, telling himself that he was off and away on a grand adventure, a quest for some great and glorious destiny. But on the last length of the pathway his step slowed, and when he reached the edge of the dark village, it became little more than a crawl.
    He would have to make his way through Qweasle silently and with extreme caution. Although the villagers usually retired early, there was still the possibility of a chance meeting with some ale drinker returning to his cottage after a visit to the barroom of the inn. Or some lovesick young man might yet be afoot after calling at the home of his beloved. And there was always the danger of a wakeful watchdog that might arouse the village with his barking.
    Moving silently through the deepest shadows, he passed the blacksmith’s shop and the inn safely, but he was just entering the central square when there was a sound of pattering feet and the squeak of a bucket handle. Hastily, Tymmon drew back into the shadows and watched as someone approached the fountain. Out in the center of the courtyard the darkness was less complete and it was soon possible to make out the figure of a small villager. A boy of no more than nine or ten years, who was whistling bravely but not too confidently through his teeth and glancing anxiously in all directions as he drew up water to fill his pail.
    Tymmon grinned. Then without stopping to think of possible consequences, he pulled the hood of his cape down over his face, and uttering a hair-raising moan he glided out into the square. The results were