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

of the threatening shadows of Malvern, and he noted with approval that the stars to the northeast were hazy with rising smoke. Jaques had done as he was told. Now, if the rest of the expanded Fellowship proved to be as dependable, he might speedily be rid of Christopher, and Adria would fall into his hand like a piece of ripe fruit.

On the third day, the smoke was rising fiercely, the drought-scorched trees and litter igniting quickly and, driven by an east wind, carrying the flames further into the forest. Berard gave a moment's thought to the possibility that all of Malvern might eventually be consumed, but then he shrugged philosophically: if Paul delMari and his people died, that was enough. Forests always grew back.

The horses clattered along the sunbaked surface of the road. Berard could not be absolutely certain that Christopher and his companion were still ahead—they might well have turned off into the pastures and the fields—but he had expert trackers among his party, and nothing that they had seen indicated anything but that they had stayed on the road.

And then, early in the morning, as the road swung in to skirt closely the ranks of trees, they saw Christopher trotting towards them on a gray horse. Unarmored, unaccompanied, his thoughts apparently turned within, he looked very much the foppish noble out for a morning's recreation. He had a sword at his side, true, but what was one sword against a dozen?

Christopher looked up, saw them, stared. Berard rose in his stirrups. “Get him!”

The horses leaped forward. By the time Christopher had realized the threat and wheeled, the gap between him and his enemies had closed by half.

Christopher fled, the road smoking behind him. Berard spurred his horse bloody. To the right was the forest, the trees thickset and impenetrable, to the left was open grassland: the baron was trapped between too much cover and none at all. It was only a matter of time.

Christopher increased his speed. Berard shouted encouragement to his men. “Ten thousand pieces of gold! Red sealed! I want his head!”

In response, Christopher turned his head and stuck out his tongue at his pursuers.

Berard dug the goads on his heels deeper into his horse. “Scum, little cock-a-whoop?” he muttered. “We'll see. I'll cut your throat and have you stuffed and mounted like the miserable monkey you are.”

Movement suddenly. To the right.

Berard tore his eyes from Christopher just in time to see two riders—women, both of them—charging out of the trees. Clad in green and gray, riding without saddle or bridle, they wove effortlessly through the scattered trunks at the edge of Malvern and bore directly down on Berard.

Berard stared. They had to be crazy. They were attacking.

But, regardless of their mental state, they were closing quickly, and one of them had a sword; and so Berard pointed at them with a shout. Immediately, three of his men swerved to intercept them. Women they might be, but Berard was not taking any chances, and Christopher was still loose.

Christopher, as though heartened by the women's appearance, had abruptly turned about to drive straight at Berard, sword in hand. Berard stared, aghast. “My God . . . he is mad.”

Mad or not, Christopher's first stroke caught Berard's parry soundly, and the captain was almost unhorsed. “I told you to get your scum out of Adria,” cried the baron. “It's been two days now. You're a dead man, Berard.”

“The hell I am.” Berard shoved Christopher back and waved his men forward. Surrounding and disarming a single man by sheer force of numbers was not a particularly chivalrous act, but Berard had given up on chivalry years before.

But as he wheeled to give himself room, he was shocked to see that the three men who had set off to intercept the women were now lying on the ground. And the woman with the sword, carrying herself with frightening grace, was again bearing down on him. Her red-gold hair floated free, and her face was both eerily lovely and terrifyingly determined.

Christopher's sword feinted, doubled back, swept in. Berard barely blocked in time, but he was nonetheless confident: the rest of his men were now encircling Christopher, spreading out to surround him, drawing weapons. Ten to one. Only a matter of time.

Before they could complete their envelopment, though, the second woman, dark-haired and bearing no weapon save a harp, cut in among them and . . .

She must have done something. Berard had no idea what it was, but abruptly, all the horses save those ridden by Christopher and his allies were rearing, beating the air with frantic forelegs, whinnying shrilly. Berard managed to save himself from being dumped into the road, but a number of his men wound up in the dust.

Angry, Berard threw his weight forward, pounded his horse into obedience, and lashed out with his sword at the dark-haired woman. He landed only a glancing blow, but her arm opened at the shoulder, and her blood was as red as any man's.

“Natil!” Christopher was screaming, and before Berard could get in a killing strike, he was again face-to-face with the baron of Aurverelle.

Christopher's gray eyes were hot, his sword quick, and Berard was suddenly parrying frantically, fighting off a raging flood of blows and thrusts. He looked for help, but his men were still struggling with their horses, and the other woman, the one with the sword, had already plunged in among them and wounded several. Berard's previously favorable odds were suddenly tipping in distressing directions.

But the woman with the sword swept past Christopher. “My lord of Aurverelle,” she said with strange courtesy, “I would advise you to flee.”

The baron smashed another stroke into Berard's parry. “I should have known it was going to be you, Mirya.” He sounded almost irritated. “What about Natil?”

The wounded woman's face was pale. “I will follow. Go, my lord!”

Christopher backed. Berard saw his opportunity and lunged, but a stinging blow from Mirya's sword toppled him from his saddle. Christopher and his rescuers