In the Hall of the Dragon King Read Online Free Page A

spacious view of the sky overhead. The ground rose to meet the house on a gentle incline so that one had to climb slightly to reach the front door.
    Quentin rode quietly up to the entrance of the hut. Sitting on the horse, he could have leaped from his saddle onto the roof with ease. But he chose instead to slide off the animal’s broad back and rap with the flat of his hand on the heavy oaken door. He waited uncertainly; his hand had hardly produced any sound at all, and except for the smoke curling slowly from the stone chimney, he would have suspected the place abandoned. But someone had been there—the clearing was well trampled with the footprints of men and animals in the snow.
    Quentin slapped the knight’s dagger from its place in his belt beneath his cloak. Holding it by the blade, he banged again on the door, this time with a more satisfactory result. He waited.
    The sky was darkening quickly now; the sun was well down. He could feel the cold strengthening its hold on the land. No sound came from inside.
    Plucking up his courage, Quentin tried the crude latch and found that with some force it moved. He placed his weight behind the door and shoved. The rough-hewn door swung upon its hinges and opened readily. Quentin stumbled quickly in with more ceremony than he had planned, bumping over the threshold as he entered.
    The room was a good deal larger than he would have guessed from the outside, and it was sunken well below ground level. Stone steps led into the room, which was warm and cozy, lit by the flickering fire left burning in the wide, generous fireplace. About the room stood an odd assemblage of handmade furniture: chairs, tables large and small, stools, and a large lumpy bed. Also something that surprised Quentin and strangely delighted him: books. Scrolls were heaped upon the tables and stuffed into the latticework shelves. More scrolls than he had ever seen—even in the library of the temple.
    All this Quentin took in as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom of the dark room. He also saw the place was empty of its chief inhabitant. Durwin, apparently, was absent, perhaps on some mercy errand in the forest nearby. Quentin decided to slip in and await the hermit’s return, dragging a stool up to the fire burning low upon the hearth.
    Quentin did not know whether he was awakened by the sound or the smell. Voices seemed to drone into his consciousness from far away. No words could be understood, only the monotonous buzz of two voices talking quietly but with some enthusiasm. Close by the smell of food, warm and heavily laced with garlic, drifted into his awareness. He opened his eyes.
    He was covered by his own cloak and lying a little away from the hearth. Two large figures sat near the fire. One knelt at the edge of the fire, stirring a large black pot with a long-handled wooden spoon. The other sat on a stool with his back to him, revealing nothing of his features or stature. Both men were dressed in dark, flowing cloaks. As they talked, their long shadows danced on the far wall of the hut like the animated puppets in a shadow play.
    Quentin rolled cautiously up onto his feet. The movement at once caught the eye of the man busy over the bubbling pot. “So it is! Our young friend lives. I told you, Theido. ” He winked at the other man, who twisted round to regard the youngster with a quizzical eye. “I told you my soup would bring him round. Enchanted—bah!”
    Embarrassed to have fallen asleep at his post and now to be the center of such attention, good-natured though it was, Quentin stepped timidly to the fire and addressed himself to both men simultaneously. “I am Quentin, at your service, sirs.”
    â€œAnd we at yours,” came the standard reply.
    He fumbled at his belt for the silver coin. “I bring this to you with greetings from Biorkis, senior priest of the high temple.” The greeting sounded very stiff and formal, which suited Quentin,