Maze of Moonlight Gael Baudino (poetry books to read .txt) 📖

an outward sign. “By all means, Messire Jamie. But . . . if you please, I'll have the ordering of the battle cry for tomorrow.”

“And that is?”

Mirya was weeping. He knew she was weeping. “It will be: Elthia.”

***

Berard ordered not just one mine, but many; and at the same time, he planned a multiple scaling of the village walls. But, very deliberately, he refrained from making any final decision regarding the main thrust of the attack. It might be the mines, ti might be the siege towers and ladders. Anything could happen; and since Christopher seemed all too adept at second guessing him, this time, he would let the baron wonder what he was up to, for he in fact would not know himself until the last instant.

The Fellowship, though, in the course of these last four days of constant, maddening work—work plagued by mishaps, heat, absurdly coincidental accidents, and constant outbreaks of temper—had splintered badly. Only with the most profound eloquence and lavish promises had Berard managed to persuade his captains to give him this last chance . . . and then they could go and raid the countryside, burn villages, rape women, gamble—or, for that matter, keep chickens if it pleased them—with his blessing. Just one more chance. Just a few days more. That was all.

His luck, so far, had held. Eustache de Cormeign, to be sure, had thrown up his hands and departed with his kataphraktoi, but the Fellowship—dissatisfied, bickering, increasingly rebellious—had stayed with him. The mines had crept towards the village walls, the siege towers had risen from their wooden platforms, the men had sharpened their swords.

On the morning of the fifth day, all was ready, and the sun was just beginning to fight its way through the welter of smoke sent up by the forest fires when Berard rose from his bed. He called for water with which to wash, ate breakfast with his captains, and debated some last points of battle order. Outside, the men were forming up. Every available man was going into battle. Berard had even called in the sentries and the scouts.

After breakfast, he shook hands all around, slapped a few backs, exchanged a few jokes and pleasantries that no one really meant. The captains went off to arm themselves, and Berard called for his servants. He was going to wear his best plate today, for though he was not worried in the slightest about any combat the villagers might offer him, he nonetheless wanted to look as formidable as possible when he met the baron of Aurverelle.

Afterwards . . . well, afterwards, he might settle into Saint Brigid and raid the Free Towns, or he might decide to return to Shrinerock. Baron Berard: yes, indeed, it had a good sound.

But as he donned his quilted underwear, there was a stirring at the flap of his tent. A slender figure was suddenly standing in the doorway: blond, gray-eyed, wrapped in a ragged cloak.

Jehan.

The servants stood, the cuirass still in their hands. Berard motioned for them to set it aside, hid a frown. This was not good at all. This could, in fact, prove to be quite unpleasant. What did Jehan want? And of all the times for him to show up!

But Jehan smiled. “Hello, Berard. I hope I'm not too late.”

Too late? “Ah . . . it's good to see you again, Jehan.” Berard tried to put into his voice a certain casual jollity, but he made sure that, yes, his dagger was still in his belt. “What do you mean . . . too late?”

Jehan smiled. “I wanted to arrive before the village fell.”

This was promising! But Berard was still glad of the dagger in his belt. “You want to help?”

“As I can.” Jehan shrugged within his cloak. “I did some thinking after I escaped. You were always right, Berard. I got myself caught up in so many thoughts about chivalry and knightly behavior . . . it just got in the way. It made me useless for anything. I think that . . . now . . . I'll be better off.”

There was something about Jehan, something that Berard did not quite trust. Could disillusionment turn someone so completely around? Never having been disillusioned in his life, Berard was not sure. He supposed it was . . . possible.

But if nothing else, Jehan's return would allay some of the resentment among the men of the original Fellowship. It would be just like the old days . . . and there would be time enough to get rid of him after Saint Brigid fell, when Berard could be sure once again of loot, lust, and, therefore, loyalty. Until then, why, friends were friends, Jehan! Good fellows all! Welcome and well met!

A good plan. A little too deviously Italian, perhaps, but then, sometimes one had to compromise. With an inward shrug, therefore, Berard opened his arms and stepped forward to embrace the prodigal. “Then welcome back, Jehan! So sorry about your father's castle—”

But Jehan loosed the fastening of his cloak, and with a rustle and a thump, the ragged garment dropped to the floor to reveal a glittering surcoat, embroidered and bejeweled, blazoned with the gryphon and silver star of the house of delMari.

Jehan's sword came out of its sheath with a shrill hiss. “God and Saint Adrian!” he cried, and Berard had only a moment in which to stare, dumbfounded, before the lad struck.

Jehan was quick and sure, and fire as hot as that which was devouring Malvern was suddenly spreading up Berard's side like sheet lightning. He felt a gush of wetness, and sounds abruptly turned distant and echoing. The world spun and darkened.

He staggered back, helpless to prevent another slashing blow. Groping, dizzy, he tried to reach for his dagger, found that he had nothing with which to reach for it: his right arm was hanging by only a few shreds, and blood was pouring out of a stump that terminated a hand's breadth from his shoulder.

His servants,