The Call - Michael Grant [15]
Atop this grim and stony hill sat a castle that looked almost to be carved out of the very stone of the hill. The walls were a dark gray, upswept to crazy heights and then crenellated.
Crenellations: the little jigsaw-looking things at the top of castle walls.
Grimluk hadn’t seen that many castles. In fact he’d seen just one, the baron’s castle, which, to tell the truth, was about as impressive as an Office Depot.
This castle, on the other hand, had a seriously dangerous look and feel. And even from far off Grimluk could tell that it was on a high state of alert. Spear tips glinted from the crenellations, sunset painting the bronze points red. There were even archers armed with state-of-the-art bows.
The castle was expecting trouble.
Towering above the walls was the keep. The keep was the last resort, a castle-within-a-castle. If enemies breached the outer walls, they then had to start all over again to take the keep.
From the top of the keep fluttered a black and sky-blue banner. There was some sort of symbol on the banner, but Grimluk couldn’t quite make it out.
Far below, crouching by the foot of the hill, was a village, a few dozen thatch-roofed buildings.
“Let’s go to the village,” Grimluk said. “Maybe we can sell some milk and get a room for the night.”
“We don’t have reservations,” Gelidberry pointed out.
But Grimluk didn’t care because reservations hadn’t yet been invented, let alone Priceline and Expedia and hotels.com. In fact, if there had been any such thing, it would have been called inns.com or even stables.com.
They reached the edge of the village just as night fell. They parked the cows and carried the nameless baby into the first inn they found.
It was crowded with drunken men and a few drunken women. But it was quiet for a room full of drunks. People were more sullen than rowdy. When Grimluk and Gelidberry came in, every eye turned toward them, appraising the tired family.
“How many in your party?” the innkeeper asked.
“Two adults, one child,” Grimluk answered.
“We don’t have a kids’ menu,” the innkeeper warned.
They elbowed their way to the end of one of the long tables. Grimluk ordered a tankard of mead and three bowls of gruel. It was a Tuesday: gruel night. Grimluk felt a little disappointed. If he’d come on Monday, it would have been fish and chips.
Across the table sat a burly, older man of perhaps sixteen years. He had a full beard studded with bits of food. Little pig eyes stared out from beneath a scarred, tanned brow. The man had an ax slung over one shoulder. Grimluk fingered his own hatchet and winced to realize that the ax was maybe three times bigger.
“Hi,” Grimluk said. “How’s the gruel here?”
The man made a deep, grumbly sound that might have been a sort of restaurant review. Then he said, “You’re a stranger, as am I. Do you come to join up?”
“Join up?”
“The Army of Light,” the man said. “They’re hiring. If you have the right stuff.”
“We have two cows,” Grimluk said. “And this spoon.” He showed the spoon.
The man laughed, a sound that seemed totally out of place in a room where people were mostly whispering and glancing nervously over their shoulders.
“We have no need of spoons! Spoons will not defeat the Pale Queen!”
The whispering came to a very sudden stop. The man winced, clearly embarrassed, as if he’d farted or used an offensive word. (Soap was one such offensive word.)
“Sorry. I meant to say, ‘the Dread Foe.’”
The people in the room went back to their slurred whispers.
“This Army of Light,” Gelidberry said, “do they pay well?”
“Hey, I’m not looking for a job,” Grimluk protested.
“You have a family to feed,” Gelidberry snapped. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not doing very well at that.” She pointed at her ribs. “I can count these clear through my clothing.”
“All right, all right,” Grimluk said. He pointedly turned back to the man, ignoring Gelidberry