Song of the Gargoyle Read Free Page B

burdened by his heavy bundle, Tymmon staggered down the alley between workshops and stables, turned the corner at the northern tower, and went on running. Only his familiarity with this passageway, where he had played since earliest childhood, and where every cobblestone was known to him, made it possible for him to keep from falling or dashing headlong into walls or doorposts.
    Nearing the church, he remembered a crevice behind a flying buttress and darted into it. He crouched low, listening. Had the intruders heard the crash of the falling door? Minutes passed as he huddled in the hiding place, straining his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps over the thunder of his own heart.
    “Go,” an inner voice seemed to be telling him. “Go-forward. There is no time to waste. Go now.”
    But his legs refused to obey him, and precious moments passed. Peering out from his hiding place, he suddenly realized that what had seemed only a dark tunnel a few minutes before was now taking on form and substance. Doorways appeared out of the shadows; a bench took shape, and above it a high window. Dawn was approaching. Tymmon glanced upward toward the sky—and suddenly dropped to his knees, cowering in terror.
    Lit by the dim light of early day, a face was peering down at him from directly above his head. A terrible face with bulging eyes, a grinning mouth from which protruded a lolling tongue, and ears like small twisted wings. Tymmon had sprung up and begun to run before he suddenly knew what it was that he had seen.
    It was only a gargoyle. Only one of the stone monsters that served as drainpipes, tunneling water out and away from the church’s walls. He had seen the grotesque grinning faces a thousand times—but not in this strange half-light and on so terrible a night.
    His pace slowed, but now that he had been jarred loose from his hiding place he continued on, crossing the church’s dooryard and then, by a narrow passageway, on to the edge of the inner courtyard. There he paused again, overtaken once more by panic.
    Until now he had been in narrow alleys between the walls of stables and storehouses, but now it was necessary to cross an open space, a small courtyard bordered by wings of the palace, elegant buildings used to house King Austern’s guests. And it was now the hour that early-rising servants might well be up and about, fetching water from the well, or sweeping the steps and entryways. Crossing the courtyard would be dangerous, but every moment that he paused would make it even more so. Biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, Tymmon went out into the square.
    He forced himself to walk, for a running figure would be more apt to arouse interest and suspicion. Bowing his back under the burden of his bundle, he tried to look like a peasant delivering fresh produce—although today was not market day and country folk were not normally allowed in this particular courtyard on any day of the week. But he went on slowly, although at every step the imagined sound of a voice that would command him to stop became louder and clearer in his mind’s ear. So loud and clear that when he finally reached the other side, he stopped for a moment in confusion, uncertain what to do next.
    On his right now was the fosse, the narrow inner moat that surrounded the castle keep, and to his left, a warehouse and granary. And just beyond the granary was the passageway that led steeply down a cobblestoned ramp to the postern gate. Tymmon ran again now, but softly, trying to make no sound. Everything depended on whether the watchmen were awake or asleep, and if he could pass them and open the small but heavy gate without being seen.
    A few yards from the guardhouse he slowed again to a walk and then went forward on tiptoe, clenching his teeth against the fearful ragged sound of his own breathing. He drew even with the guardhouse wall and crept on, afraid even to turn his head to look over his shoulder to where the guards would be