Dragonslayer: A Novel (4 page)

"It has begun," Ulrich whispered. "It is starting now."

"But. . ."

"Listen!" The sorcerer placed the boy's hand on the amulet. "Use this!"

Then, with his hand cradling the amulet, Galen did indeed begin to hear, although at first the sounds were so slight that he mistook them for the coursing of his own blood. But then they came again, unmistakable, although still muffled by the forest and by distance: the tinkle of a bridle; the fall of horses' hooves on a humus path; the weary fragment of a sentence, "Visitors," Galen said.

Ulrich nodded. "Pilgrims, traveling through the night. Bearing a request."

Galen strode toward the door. "I'll get my sword! I'll waken Hodge! They won't take you, Ulrich, not without a fight!"

"No, no, my son. There is no threat yet. These will be peaceful and harmless men, ordinary men caught in the coils of circumstance as are we all, beset by difficulties from which they believe I might free them. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . ." There was a scuffling of sandals on the stone stairway, and a thudding on the door of the tower chamber. "What is it, Hodge?"

The door opened and an old retainer entered. He was bent, and grizzled, and his skin was the color of smoked-tanned leather. "Torches, sir. Comin' up through the forest. I seen 'em because I couldn't sleep. I were havin' a dream, a terrible dream about yourself, sir, beggin' your pardon. So I got up and I was all atremble, and I says to myself, 'Hodge, yer old fool,' I says, 'it were only a
dream!'
'Well, then,' I says to myself, 'if it were only a dream and there were nothin' of the truth about it, then why should it bother a body so?' I were that shaky, sir, and that much bathed in the cold sweat of the night, the dream were that awful, sir, indeed it were . . ." Hodge's pale eyes glazed over and he stood for several seconds lost in recollection, arms dangling.

"And so?" Ulrich said, frowning at Galen, who had begun to twist his toe impatiently against the flagstones.

"And so I roused myself," Hodge said. "I says to myself, 'Get up, yer old fool! Get up an' get about somethin' useful to occupy yer brain and yer poor bones!' That's what I said, and that's what I did, fer I got up and I begun to draw the wood and light the fires for mornin'. And then," Hodge crouched, one hand shielding his eyes, "then I seen 'em, sir. Comin' up through the forest. I seen 'em over the wall. Comin' this way!"

"I know, Hodge."

"Ten, maybe twelve, sir!"

"Yes, Hodge."

"Unless I mistake myself, sir, they were . . ." He paused, listening, and at the same instant the sound reached the three of them at once, a querulous raising of voices. ". . . they were chanting, sir."

They all turned to the window, then. Across the river, they saw a twisting line of torches winding through the mists and along the path toward the castle, their fires, like fallen bits of the great orange dawn, lighting the horizon beyond the hills. Indeed the pilgrims were chanting; first, a clear and youthful voice like quick water on rocks, and then the responding chorus, more muddled and weary, milling and eddying behind. It was a fearful, small, and human sound, a sound to keep back the surrounding night.

Gringe muttered on the window beside the three watchers.

Slowly, with what Galen thought was a trace of a smile, the smile of the warrior who welcomed an approaching battle although he knew it would be his last, Ulrich waved his hand. The raven launched itself soundlessly from the ledge, and drifted out into the cool dawn, vanishing and reappearing against the white and dark of the landscape, gliding down toward the frightened travelers.

CHAPTER TWO

Journeys

Gringe glided low
above the heads of the startled pilgrims, so low that their torch smoke smudged his feathers. There were thirteen. A few were singing, but most slept on their trudging horses. "What? What?" he heard them asking, waking, as he raced over the trees, "What bird? What white bird?"

"Foul!" he answered, sweeping back, "Follow!" And he was gratified by nervous laughter.

"Why," someone said, "it's only a raven! A white raven! A freak!"

Within a few yards the tunnel of trees broadened, opened, and the crumbling battlements of Cragganmore loomed ahead, silhouetted by the first of the dawn. Candlelight spilled from one of the upper windows, and the Urlanders, arriving at the edge of the moat, could plainly see the silhouettes of a watching man and a boy. They went no farther than the moat, for a querulous challenge halted them: "Who are ye?" It was old Hodge, bristling in rusted armor, brandishing a spear which—though they could not see this—was bent and woefully dull. He was peering through a crenellation directly above the drawbridge. "What seek ye at Cragganmore?"

There was a flurry among the pilgrims. Those who had remained asleep suddenly awoke and began mumbling and asking foolish questions. A great deal of milling ensued, during which a single name was spoken more often than any other—"Valerian? Valerian?"—at first questioningly, and then assertively: "Valerian! Valerian will speak for us!" A slim youth was brought forward through the little crowd. He stood on the grassy edge of the moat, swatting at the clouds of mosquitoes the steamy horses had aroused, and peering up at the indistinct, dome-topped figure of old Hodge among the battlements.

"We are Urlanders," he said, "from the town of Swanscombe, three weeks' journey beyond the mountains. We seek Ulrich, Ma-gister Ipissimus, if this be Cragganmore, for we have a petition for him alone." The clear young voice sang like a flute in the dawn, and in the window far above Ulrich heard clearly.

"Humph!" he said. "I guess at it!"

"Ye be men of peace, then?" Hodge asked from below.

"Oh yes . . . yes of course . . . wouldn't be here otherwise ..." A chorus of similar comments ran through the crowd. "Yes," answered the young voice again, suppressing a cough, "we are men of peace."

"Yer never know," said Hodge, his helmet beginning to bob slowly as he worked an unseen turnstile, and the bridge, creaking, began to descend. "Yer just never know. Countryside teeming with rowdies. Charlatans! Imposters! Aye, and vagabonds and vandals too! But ye look peaceful enough, and too foolish to have harm in ye, comin' up through a night forest where there might be a dozen to cut yer throats for the clothes on yer backs. There be some force protectin' ye, is the way I see it!"

"Well, we're not Christians, if that's what you mean," said an 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 Hodge, "it's marmot."

"Oh good. It's just that I'm allergic to lentil. Anything but lentil."

Grumbling, Hodge set out toward the kitchen, leaving Gringe to watch over the shuffling little group. "Ulrich will be along," he called over his shoulder. "Getting dressed."

Indeed that was what Ulrich was doing, with Galen's help, in the tower room. So stiff was he from the conjuring and visions of the night that he could scarcely move, but he insisted on standing erect while Galen brought his cape and drew it over his shoulders. He peremptorily waved away his canes. "Do you want them to think me decrepit? Useless?"

"But you can hardly walk," Galen protested. "Look at you!"

"Boy," said Ulrich sternly, "do you believe I
need
to walk?"

"No, sir. But I thought. . ."

"Listen, now! You will precede me and greet our guests and make them welcome. And you will do that in such manner that they will know that they have come to the house of a sorcerer. Do you understand?" He held the boy's shoulder firmly. "You will use the power that is yours by nature, Galen, as well as that which you have acquired."

"But . . ."

"But nothing!" Ulrich raised a monitory finger. "Very soon,
very
soon, you will be alone, and you will win respect by your own merit or not at all. In an emergency, in a
real
emergency, when you are acting for others besides yourself, then special help may be given. But, for the moment. . ."

Galen nodded dubiously.

"And remember, my son," the old man continued soberly, "that no matter what happens before this day is done, it is for you to carry on, despite how pitifully small your knowledge is. When I am gone it is
you
who will succeed me.
You
are my heir, neither Hodge nor anyone else.
You,
Galen, only!"

"If you say so, sir," Galen replied. He was disturbed. Rarely had he heard his teacher speak so intensely. "But I'm not ready to . . ."

"When the need is there, you will be ready. Now, no more talk of the sea, or traveling to the silken lands of the East, so long as there is a Great Thing needing to be done."

"Yes, Ulrich."

"Yes." Ulrich rested his hand on the boy's shoulder for a long moment. Then he smiled. "And now, now let us not keep our guests waiting. You first, and I shall follow."

Head bowed respectfully, Galen backed away from Ulrich until he was through the door; then he hurried down the stairs. Visitors of any sort were rare at Cragganmore, and only twice since he had been apprenticed to Ulrich had travelers as young as himself arrived. Usually those who came were supplicants—aging councillors gnawing their beards, or fretting parents—or else renegades skulking along the edge of the woods and easily frightened off by a fireball conjured around their shins. So now he was particularly anxious to meet Valerian, whom he liked already, although he could not say why, and to hear more of Urland, for he had already heard strange tales. So eager was he that he almost burst indecorously into the hall. At the last moment he stopped running down the corridor, composed himself, and gestured to Gringe, who was still perched on the railing just inside the hall and who had been watching his approach with a baleful eye. He smiled ingratiatingly at the raven. "Announce me!" he whispered. But the bird turned a disdainful back and uttered a single raucous and unintelligible cry, like the grinding of oak branches in a wind, which startled the pilgrims and caused them to huddle together.