The Nethergrim Read Online Free PDF Page A

merchant. “Best wizard of his time—of any time, some would say.”
    “Well, it’s a bit late in the year for a fair, anniversary or no,” said the woman. “It’ll be a thin one, you mark me, and we’ll be out a fair handful for the trip.”
    Grubby Hands made a fat, self-satisfied smile. “And that, my sweet, is why I’m the one to set our course.” He turned to Edmund. “This village—what’s it called—”
    “Moorvale,” said Edmund.
    “Right, Moorvale. This little spot’s as near as any other to the Girth. I’ll wager more than half of these folk lost a father or a brother on that mountain, battling their way up to the Nethergrim all those years back. They’re drinking to them as much as to Tristan, and tomorrow they’ll bring every coin they’ve managed to scrape—and, oh yes, they’ll spend it, they’ll trade bulls for goats for a chance to mark the day. You heed me—heroes or no, we’ll not see a better haul all year.”
    “Oh, quit your blather, I’m not a customer.” The woman turned away. “We’ve come all the way up here to trade at an anniversary fair in honor of two old heroes, but one of them’s been dead for years and now the other’s not going to bother turning up. What a fool’s errand—why I listen to you, I’ll never know.”
    “She may be right, Father.” The younger merchant scratched his jowls. “What’s the point of it without Tristan and Vithric? They’re the grand heroes—the only ones who even came back.”
    “Three came back.” Edmund spoke before thinking.
Never gainsay a guest
—one of his father’s many rules.
Let them say the sky is green so long as they pay.
    Grubby Hands squinted at him. “What was that?”
    “Three came back, begging your pardon.” Edmund took up the last mug at the table. “Sixty men went up the mountain, but only three came down again. Tristan and Vithric, and John Marshal.”
    “Hadn’t heard that.” Grubby Hands said the words in a manner that meant that since he had not heard it, it must not be so. “So where is this John Marshal now, then?”
    “He lives in the village—well, on a farm just outside.” Edmund poured a little steep to make some extra foam and hide the fact that he was half a mug short. “He’s marshal of Lord Aelfric’s stables, raises and trains his warhorses.”
    “Hmm. Well.” Grubby Hands shrugged at his son. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”
    “He must be quite a hero to you folk.” The woman did not seem quite so pompous as her companions. “Bet he tells some grand stories!”
    Edmund shook his head. “No. He doesn’t.”
    “My friends! A round for this house on me!” Henry Twintree stood and slapped a large silver coin to the table. “And when you drink, drink to the memory of Vithric, the great and the wise, who saved us all from the Nethergrim in years gone by!”
    The answering shout belled in Edmund’s ears. He cast a frantic look around for Geoffrey, hoping against hope for some help, but instead caught sight of his father glaring his way from across the room. Harman Bale turned from his cheery conversation with the elders of the village and made a significant jerk of his head in the direction of the cellar.
    “Drink, my friends and neighbors, to Vithric, to Lord Tristan and to our own John Marshal.” Henry Twintree’s eyes shone dewy and soft—he seemed to be making his speech to a corner of the ceiling. “But most of all, drink to those who gave all, for you stand upon the ground their courage gave you!”
    His neighbors gave throat to their agreement. Mugs were thrust up in firelight on all sides, dozens and dozens, to acclaim and to signal.
    “Go on!” Edmund’s mother nudged his back. “That’s half a mark!” She picked up the coin and thrust it in her apron. Edmund hurried down the cellar stairs to find his brother’s pitcher lying empty on the floor. He kicked it against the wall with a curse and set his own under the tap.
    A noisy, stamping dance