Song of the Gargoyle (18 page)

“No,” she said firmly several times. “You must go elsewhere. I cannot allow barking dogs and screaming children in my hostelry.” But suddenly, in the midst of a third or fourth refusal, she stopped, staring down into Dalia’s upturned face. For several long seconds, while Tymmon held his breath, she said nothing at all, and when she finally continued it was to say, “There is, however, a small room off the scullery that I might let you have.”

The room was indeed small, but it was clean and furnished with two well-padded cots, and to Petrus and Dalia, at least, it must have seemed a miracle of comfort. But on that afternoon there was little time to enjoy its luxuries. It would soon be sunset and there remained in Tymmon’s purse only two small coppers. It would be necessary to find out at once whether the citizens of Bidborn appreciated the music of flute and rebec.

Tymmon grinned at Troff as he slipped the collar over his head and whispered, “As well as what their reaction will be to a singing gargoyle—or dog, as the case might be.” Troff grinned back and said that he had no doubts—that he was certain to be a great success. And remembering the warm smiles and clapping hands in Nighmont as well as Montreff, Tymmon was inclined to agree.

“Troff and I must be off to earn our living,” Tymmon said to Petrus and Dalia, who were busy playing a game that involved climbing on and off the two cots as rapidly as possible. “It would be best if you stayed here, I think.”

But after some moments of thought, he changed his mind and bade the children make ready to accompany him. But it was not only the suspicious frown that was already forming on Petrus’s face that caused him to change his mind. There was another reason why it might be best to appear in Bidborn as part of a family of three.

It had suddenly occurred to Tymmon that the town of Bidborn, lying as it did just outside the boundary of Unterrike, was only a few days journey from Austerneve. Although he had heard nothing in Montreff or Nighmont of the reward offered by Black Helmet, it seemed that Bidborn, so much closer to Austerneve, might well be another matter. But those who might have heard of Black Helmet’s reward would have been told only to watch for a young man of thirteen summers, a wary and nervous fugitive traveling lightly and alone. Not for a young minstrel, openly performing before all and sundry and accompanied by—yes, by his younger sister and brother. Sitting both children down on the edge of a cot, he carefully explained their new family background.

“What is our father’s name, then?” he asked when he had finished the lesson. “And where are we from?”

Petrus grinned triumphantly. “I know all of it,” he said. “You be our brother, and we be from Nordencor, and our father’s name be Lindor. Oh, yes, and your name be Hylas. And you will give me two coppers if I don’t forget.”

There had been no mention of coppers. “Well... Tymmon was saying, when Petrus jumped down and lifted his sister from the cot.

“Don’t forget, Dalia,” he said, as he led her to the door. “We each get two coppers if we remember Boy be our brother and his name be Hylas. Don’t forget that, Dalia.”

“Hold there!” Tymmon began. “I certainly will not pay Dalia for not speaking since she never says... But the two children had already disappeared into the scullery yard. Sighing, Tymmon picked up his rebec and flute and followed.

They remained in the small room off Mistress Artima’s scullery for five full days. Five days during which Tymmon and Troff performed twice daily with great success and Tymmon’s purse once again grew fat with coins. But successful though their stay in Bidborn was in many ways, it was for Tymmon a busy and exhausting time.

Exhausting because—well, because of Petrus and Dalia. They had not been long in Bidborn before he realized that when he had so quickly and thoughtlessly decided to include Petrus and Dalia in his travels he had had no idea what he was doing. Having no younger brothers or sisters, he had no way of knowing the amount of time and energy that must be spent where young children are concerned. Time spent in feeding and dressing, in the buying of food and other necessities, in cleaning and grooming, not to mention in teaching and scolding. And in the case of Petrus, arguing. Arguing about everything in general but in particular about money and how it should be spent—and food and how much of it should be purchased and eaten.

The care of the two orphans certainly had turned out to be a much greater burden than he could ever have imagined, and sometimes Tymmon thought that if he had it to do over again he might not have chosen as he had. But then again, at times... At times such as when Petrus took on himself the role of town crier and insisted on running through the streets and squares of Bidborn shouting out the news of where and when “Hylas of Nordencor and Troff, his amazing singing dog,” would next be performing. An effort which, Tymmon had to admit, had very favorable results.

And at other times when he noticed that Dalia’s face was already less pale and more softly rounded. Of course, she still refused to speak. Not even a word of the paternoster, which Petrus had learned quickly with only a little tutoring and bribing on Tymmon’s part. But although she remained voiceless, Dalia’s face was more and more often warmed by smiles, and when she ran to meet Tymmon with her eyes shining, he could not really wish that he had decided differently on that day outside of Nighmont.

Time rushed past, and it was not until late at night at the end of the fifth day in Bidborn that Tymmon realized that he had not thought for hours, perhaps not even for days, of his quest and of the need to hasten on toward Austerneve. He climbed out of his cot and began to dig through his pack, looking for the Spanish dagger. But when he came first upon his father’s cap and bells he clutched it to his heart instead and again repeated his oath—his fierce and solemn promise to free his father or avenge his death or, if need be, to die in the attempt.

And so it was that early on the sixth day, before the sun was high in the sky, Tymmon, his faithful gargoyle, and his newly acquired brother and sister left Bidborn and set out in the direction of Austerneve.

T
HE HIGHROAD BEYOND BIDBORN
rose quickly toward the wooded hillside. Tymmon and his small company had been under way for little more than an hour when they found themselves among the tall trees of the Unterrike Woods. Narrower now, deeply rutted and thick with dust, the trail twisted and turned as it climbed upward. And on both sides the trees crowded down closely, amid underbrush almost as dense as that of the Sombrous Forest.

Stopping briefly to rest and eat when the summer sun was high overhead, they soon pressed on again, although Petrus had long been complaining of being tired. And Dalia, padding barefoot in the dust, her new shoes swinging in her hand, dropped down to sit in the grass beside the road whenever Tymmon allowed even a moment’s pause.

It was late afternoon and the road had taken a downward turn when Dalia, who had been clinging to Tymmon’s thumb, suddenly pulled on it sharply, cocked her head, and pointed to her ear. Tymmon stopped to listen.

He had just recognized the sound, the faint and far ringing of bells, when Petrus said, “Church bells. From that way. A far way off. Can we go there, Boy?”

At first Tymmon moved on, not willing to let anything change his determination to stay on the trail until the Unterrike Woods lay behind them. But when Petrus, running ahead, discovered a narrow and weed-grown pathway leading off in the direction of the faintly pealing bells, he began to reconsider.

The bells were, no doubt, ringing for vespers, which meant it would soon be sunset. And although the days were long now with twilight lasting well past compline, it was beginning to seem likely that darkness would find them still in the deep woods—a thought that made Tymmon more than a little uneasy. Fearful memories of his days and nights in the Sombrous came back to him. Lonely, hungry days, and nights haunted by fearful dreams of murderous brigands, evil harpies, and ravenous wolves.

Perhaps, he told himself, the ringing bells meant that they were near a woodsmen’s village or even a monastery where they might find a safe shelter for the night. Turning aside, Tymmon led his little band of followers down the weed-grown track that wound its way into a wide wooded valley.

The bells had long since ceased to ring when the trail at last leveled off and broke free of the woods at the edge of a wide meadow. And at the far end of the open land, rising up from the flat valley floor, was a manor house. So tall and narrow it resembled an enormous tower, it was built of pale gray stone and fortified with crenellated battlements at the four corners. Tymmon stopped to stare in wonder and surprise.

The sun was low now and a thick ground fog lay across the valley floor. The lower walls of the towering manor were wrapped in mist, so that it appeared to be floating on a cloudy island. But higher up, still touched by sunlight, its pale gray turrets stood out in sharp contrast against the dark green of the wooded hills.

“Look.” Petrus was on tiptoe with excitement. “A castle. It be a real castle, bean’t it, Boy?”

Tymmon couldn’t help smiling. To a child who had spent all his days in a country village and had never seen a real castle such as Austerneve or Unterrike, this turreted manor house would indeed seem to be castlelike. “Well, not exactly,” he told Petrus. “But it is a noble and beautiful manor. I remember my father saying that such homes, far from cities or towns, often welcome travelers because they bring news of the outside world, and”—he grinned at the gargoyle who, head cocked, was listening with interest—“sometimes entertainment. Perhaps they will let us sing for our supper, Troff.”

A few more yards down the rutted and overgrown roadway and they were themselves enveloped in the swirling gray fog. Rolling banks of heavy mist, like phantom sea waves, poured over them, blurring their vision and making distances difficult to judge. As they walked steadily forward, the towering gray walls seemed to loom near, recede, and then approach again. But at last Tymmon looked down to see the worn planks of a drawbridge under his feet, and as he did so he was suddenly aware of a damp and rotten stench that arose from the stagnant water of the moat.

He had no more than set foot upon the bridge when Petrus, who had been running ahead, stopped suddenly and came back, his eyes wide.

“What is it?” Tymmon asked.

Petrus stared at Tymmon and then turned to stare back toward the house, and as he did so his sister tugged at Tymmon’s hand and made a strange trembling sound. Not a word, but more like the cry of a frightened newborn animal.

“What is it, Petrus?” Tymmon said again, more urgently.

Petrus sidled nearer and grasped Tymmon’s other hand. “I doan know,” he said. For a moment he stared up into Tymmon’s face and then turned to look back over his shoulder. A shudder lifted his thin shoulders. “I doan know,” he said again, and then plaintively, “Where be the people, Boy?”

“The people?” Now that it had been brought to his attention it did seem odd that they had as yet seen no one. No riders coming in from the fields and forest, and no watchmen on the walls. But there were, of course, possible explanations. “Why, I suppose they are all at vespers, or eating their evening meal,” Tymmon said. “Come along. We will see the people soon enough.”

But no one hailed them from the gate tower as they made their way across the drawbridge, the sound of their-footsteps on the planks echoing hollowly in the deep silence. The inner doors of the house, heavy wooden panels, strengthened by bars of intricately wrought iron, were closed and bolted. A basket of wilted flowers sat on the threshold, and just above it a bell rope hung down within easy reach. As Tymmon’s hand touched the rope, a strange sound from Troff made him pull it back quickly, as if it had burned his fingers.

It had not been exactly a growl. It had been, in fact, more like a whimper—a sound that one would not expect to hear coming from so fierce a creature as a gargoyle. Troff was backing away, his bat-wing ears held close against his head and his tail down between his legs. Petrus and Dalia looked from Troff to Tymmon, and their large eyes were full of fear.

Tymmon tugged at the gargoyle’s collar. “Come now, Troff,” he said briskly. “What ails you?” But Troff only continued to pull away. Reaching up quickly before he could be dragged out of reach, Tymmon seized the bell rope and pulled hard. And from somewhere far away a bell pealed faintly.

Tymmon dropped the cord and the sound faded away into silence. But it was a different silence now. A stillness that moved and trembled, full of sounds not heard but only echoed from somewhere deep within. The sounds of a restless stirring. Of seeking eyes and listening ears. Of the reaching out of many hands, and the vain and voiceless movement of pale lips endlessly repeating cries for help and mercy that had not been heard.

Seizing the children’s hands and whispering to Troff to come away, Tymmon turned and ran. Ran frantically up the hill until, out of the mist, a figure appeared directly before them, blocking the path to the road above.

It was a woman, an old, bent woman, wrapped in a hooded gray cloak, carrying in her arms a great bundle of starburst wildflowers. Tymmon was still staggering backwards in surprise and fright when she spoke.

“May God bless you, pilgrims,” she said. And then stretching out a trembling hand toward Dalia, “And bless you, little one, for your tears.”

Dalia was indeed crying. Crying without a sound, but with a flood of tears that overflowed her huge eyes and ran down her face in gleaming pathways.

Still badly shaken, Tymmon reached out to where Troff was standing beside him. With his hand on the wide, warm back he asked, “Troff?” and the gargoyle said the woman was not harmful. Nothing else. Just that she meant no harm.

It was Petrus who spoke to her first. “Where be they, mistress? Where be the people?”

As she turned to answer, her hood fell back and Tymmon saw the she was not ancient as he had thought. Not old, at least with years, but only empty and lifeless as a burnt-out hearth.

“They are there,” she said, looking up toward the high walls of the manor. “They are all there. Each of them where they will ever be. The young lord at the entryway with his sword beside him, my lovely lady where she fell on the grand staircase, and the old lord Dannold before the hearth in the great hall. They are all there, in the places where the baron’s men found them. In the halls and passageways, in the kitchen and scullery. And in the nursery.” Her voice faltered, and reaching up she pulled her hood down over her face and stood silently with her hand across her mouth. When she at last dropped her hand and lifted her eyes, she looked first at Tymmon.