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Authors: J.D. Oswald
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the
courtyard. A second door, directly opposite it, led straight behind the bar. Errol stood outside listening intently, trying to make out the conversation between the barmaid and the rider over the general noise of the tavern.
‘Oh, we get all sorts through here – merchants, nobles, soldiers on leave. Why I even had that Duke Dondal in here a few weeks ago. Mean old man waved his ring in front of me and expected to be fed for nothing.’ The barmaid’s words carried strongly. No doubt she had developed a good voice to cope with the more rowdy clientele. The rider, on the other hand, spoke softly, so that Errol had to strain to make out anything at all.
‘Young man … through here … king’s seal …’ It was enough. It was to be expected, he supposed. Even if Duke Dondal hadn’t known exactly who he was, Errol’s hurried departure from Gremmil would have aroused his suspicions. No doubt Poul had recounted the whole tale, and Dondal would have surely put two and two together.
Errol went straight to the stables. He had no luggage other than his purse, no belongings other than his horse. The stable lad was nowhere to be seen, so he saddled up himself.
Out on the open road he felt a little safer. The rider may have been one of Dondal’s soldiers, but he looked like a man who needed ale and rest. Errol doubted he would move beyond the tavern much before morning. Still, if there was one looking for him, there would surely be others. And soon the word would be out, his description in every tavern, with every noble between here and the capital.
Errol pressed on, riding slowly through the night. The
road was good and easy to make out in the dark, but every so often there were potholes waiting to catch out the unwary. It was bad enough being tipped off his horse, but if the poor creature injured itself he would be lost. Once he could no longer see the lights of the tavern and village behind him, he dismounted and led the horse instead.
It was a warm night, and the moonless sky was clear, the stars bright overhead. He knew he ought to stop somewhere, hobble the horse and try to get a few hours’ sleep, but the thought of the rider kept him going. Only when the road dipped into another gully, lined on either side with scrubby trees, did Errol feel safe enough. He found a spot away from the road, tethered the horse to a tree and settled down against the trunk to sleep.
Dozing fitfully, he slipped in and out of dreams in which Isobel and Poul looked at him in dreadful disappointment. If he had told them the truth, they said, then they would have taken him in, protected him. Then he saw Melyn riding at the head of an army of warrior priests. Only they weren’t warrior priests but dragons, and behind them the ground burned, black smoke boiling up into the sky. He tried to turn back to Lord and Lady Gremmil, but they weren’t there any more. And this wasn’t Castle Gremmil either. He knew where this was. It was Gog’s palace.
Almost as if he flew, he sped along the corridors, looking for the long winding stone staircase that would take him up to the top of the highest tower. Errol knew he was dreaming, which added another layer of unreality to the dream. At any moment he might wake, might lose this opportunity, and knowing that made it all the harder to stay asleep.
He moved from the corridors to the tower room in a blink of an eye. Somehow that seemed more natural than anything he had experienced so far. The room was much as he remembered it from his previous visit, only this time he was seeing it from the air rather than the perspective of a young lad. His attention was firmly on the golden cage, still hanging from the rafters like some absurd aviary, and he soared up to it, past it, turning to see inside.
Martha lay huddled on a narrow mattress, asleep. She had rigged up a structure within the cage from bits of stick and blankets to give her some privacy, and to Errol it looked like she had stumbled into the
courtyard. A second door, directly opposite it, led straight behind the bar. Errol stood outside listening intently, trying to make out the conversation between the barmaid and the rider over the general noise of the tavern.
‘Oh, we get all sorts through here – merchants, nobles, soldiers on leave. Why I even had that Duke Dondal in here a few weeks ago. Mean old man waved his ring in front of me and expected to be fed for nothing.’ The barmaid’s words carried strongly. No doubt she had developed a good voice to cope with the more rowdy clientele. The rider, on the other hand, spoke softly, so that Errol had to strain to make out anything at all.
‘Young man … through here … king’s seal …’ It was enough. It was to be expected, he supposed. Even if Duke Dondal hadn’t known exactly who he was, Errol’s hurried departure from Gremmil would have aroused his suspicions. No doubt Poul had recounted the whole tale, and Dondal would have surely put two and two together.
Errol went straight to the stables. He had no luggage other than his purse, no belongings other than his horse. The stable lad was nowhere to be seen, so he saddled up himself.
Out on the open road he felt a little safer. The rider may have been one of Dondal’s soldiers, but he looked like a man who needed ale and rest. Errol doubted he would move beyond the tavern much before morning. Still, if there was one looking for him, there would surely be others. And soon the word would be out, his description in every tavern, with every noble between here and the capital.
Errol pressed on, riding slowly through the night. The
road was good and easy to make out in the dark, but every so often there were potholes waiting to catch out the unwary. It was bad enough being tipped off his horse, but if the poor creature injured itself he would be lost. Once he could no longer see the lights of the tavern and village behind him, he dismounted and led the horse instead.
It was a warm night, and the moonless sky was clear, the stars bright overhead. He knew he ought to stop somewhere, hobble the horse and try to get a few hours’ sleep, but the thought of the rider kept him going. Only when the road dipped into another gully, lined on either side with scrubby trees, did Errol feel safe enough. He found a spot away from the road, tethered the horse to a tree and settled down against the trunk to sleep.
Dozing fitfully, he slipped in and out of dreams in which Isobel and Poul looked at him in dreadful disappointment. If he had told them the truth, they said, then they would have taken him in, protected him. Then he saw Melyn riding at the head of an army of warrior priests. Only they weren’t warrior priests but dragons, and behind them the ground burned, black smoke boiling up into the sky. He tried to turn back to Lord and Lady Gremmil, but they weren’t there any more. And this wasn’t Castle Gremmil either. He knew where this was. It was Gog’s palace.
Almost as if he flew, he sped along the corridors, looking for the long winding stone staircase that would take him up to the top of the highest tower. Errol knew he was dreaming, which added another layer of unreality to the dream. At any moment he might wake, might lose this opportunity, and knowing that made it all the harder to stay asleep.
He moved from the corridors to the tower room in a blink of an eye. Somehow that seemed more natural than anything he had experienced so far. The room was much as he remembered it from his previous visit, only this time he was seeing it from the air rather than the perspective of a young lad. His attention was firmly on the golden cage, still hanging from the rafters like some absurd aviary, and he soared up to it, past it, turning to see inside.
Martha lay huddled on a narrow mattress, asleep. She had rigged up a structure within the cage from bits of stick and blankets to give her some privacy, and to Errol it looked like she had stumbled into the
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