Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (read with me TXT) 📕

talents, mush-head,” came the reply. “And I don't give a damn about the Church. Who the hell are you?”

“Berard of Onella.” Berard could not see anything wrong with admitting it. He was, after all, rather proud of his rise.

“You're from Adria? You're doing this to your own country?”

Berard did not feel obligated to inform Christopher that money was his country; but now the archer was arriving with a clatter of boots and tackle, and without saying a word, Berard pointed at Christopher and drew his finger across his throat. The bowman nodded, put his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and began to crank it up.

“You've got two days to take your men and get them out of Adria,” Christopher was shouting,

The crossbow's string creaked into position. A snick as the trigger caught.

“Otherwise, I'll see you hanged like a common thief.”

Berard was offended. Common thief? Ridiculous. Uncommon thief if anything, but robber first and foremost.

“And how,” he inquired, trying to put irony into his shout, “do you intend to manage that?”

“I have . . . friends,” replied Christopher, and Berard sensed a deep threat in his words and tone that reminded him of the mysterious transformation of the castle. If Christopher had friends who could turn wood and glass and metal to fused stone, then what if . . . ?

But the crossbow was ready. The archer positions himself in an arrow loupe, braced himself, took aim . . .

“Friends?” Berard taunted. “You have only a monkey and a woman, as far as I can tell. You'll have to do better than that, Christopher.”

But the woman, who had until now been slumped, motionless, on her horse, suddenly leaned towards Christopher as though speaking to him. Christopher nodded and, just as the archer released his bolt, calmly sidled his horse two feet to the right. The bolt whizzed between Christopher and the woman and buried itself in the ground.

Berard stared. But for the baron's sudden change of position, he would have been dead. How had he known . . . ?

Friends.

Berard's mouth went dry. The archer looked up. “Sorry, messire.”

“You'll have to do better than that, Berard,” Christopher shouted. He was a fairly good mimic: he had duplicated Berard's taunt perfectly. “You've got two days. After that, we'll hunt you down like rabbits! Remember that: two days!” And then he and his companion both wheeled their horses and set off to the south.

Berard whirled, shouting orders. “Fetch the horses! Gather the men! I want that bastard out there dead!” But when he turned back, he saw not only the dwindling forms of Christopher and his strange companions, but also a distant flutter of movement out to the west. It looked like . . . no, it was indeed a group of people. On foot. It could only be Baron Paul and the survivors of the castle and the towns heading for Malvern Forest.

Berard cursed, kicked the parapet, bruised his foot, cursed louder. “Get those horses out there, and get your unholy asses in their saddles, damn you all!”

Within minutes, the horses were gathered, and a good portion of the men of the company were assembled, armed, and ready to ride. At their head, Berard lifted his sword. “Five thousand pieces of gold to whoever brings me a dead Christopher delAurvre!” He signaled tot he gate guards to open the thick doors and raise the portcullis.

The men leaped to the ropes, seized the arms of the windlass, pulled on the chain. But the twelve-inch thick gates would not budge. Like all the other doors and windows in the castle, they had been replaced by a smooth, seamless, immovable expanse of solid granite.

***

Despite the cocky arrogance he had displayed, Christopher was worried as he rode southward with Natil. Though Berard was, for the time, trapped within Shrinerock, he would be able to smash his way out within a day or so, and the free company captain obviously possessed a large, well-trained force that included archers.

But at least Paul and his people were safely away, making now for the shelter of Malvern Forest under the guidance of icy-eyed Terrill, who had promised to guide them as far as Aurverelle. But if Christopher regretted that someone as level-headed and forthright as Baron Paul would by necessity be missing from the gathering of the allied forces, he regretted even more that he possessed none of Paul's equanimity regarding the immortals who had involved themselves so intimately in his life and his plans.

He stole a glance at Natil. She was still pale from her efforts the previous night, and she clung to her horse as though her weakness must inevitably topple her to the ground. Nonetheless, she was otherwise as calm and tranquil as ever, and with perfect equanimity and flawless courtesy she had brushed aside Christopher's opinion that she was too weak to travel and had remained at his side, even though the road he had chosen would lead her far away from security and rest.

This was the road to Saint Brigid. As the southernmost of the Free Towns, it lay well within striking range of Berard and his company. Worse yet—much worse—Vanessa was in Saint Brigid.

The monkey clung to Christopher's shoulder with the set face of an old man as the miles fell beneath the hooves of their mounts; and the road looped well out to the south before it turned west, skirting the edge of Malvern Forest as it crossed the otherwise open grasslands.

It was a human trail—open, prosaic—and therefore reassuring to a man struggling with revelations of immortal influence. Christopher embraced it, enjoyed it, relished even the hot east wind and the hotter sun that were parching and browning the countryside.

But Christopher said little to Natil, even when they stopped for the night. He did not know what to say. His confusion was absolute, his fears profound. Not until the sun had risen well into the sky on the second day did he summon up enough courage to break his silence. “Why?”