"John Morressy - The Juggler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morressy John)

him. Only a small force remained at the castle. His first thought was to shout a warning, but the fields were
far away and the slight breeze was against him; his voice would not carry. He had to signal somehow. The
treetops obscured him from the outermost fields, where the horsemen would strike first, but he could just be
seen in the village. In desperation, he took off his shirt and waved it over his head, but he saw no sign of
recognition. Even if his signal had been seen, who could know that it was a warning of danger?
He sank down on the bare stone, trembling with fear and frustration. When he looked up, he saw a thin
column of smoke rising from just beyond the trees. Soon a second and third column joined the first, and
then others, until all joined in a single pall. The breeze carried faint shouts and cries to him. Beyond the
tree-tops, the horsemen emerged into view, tiny but dis-tinct, riding toward the castle. Soon flames and
smoke were rising from the castle.
Beran did not dare to stay near the spring, for fear that the horsemen would return the way they had
come, or others might come to join them. He dared not go near the village. He spent the night in the ravine,
huddled in the shelter of two fallen trees. In the morn-ing the fields and the castle were still smoking. He
waited until midday, and when he saw no horsemen and no signs of life, he ventured into the village.
It lay in ruins. The main way had been churned into a mire of mud, blood, and ashes. Bodies lay in the
narrow lanes, or huddled in groups where they had been herded together for easy slaughter. All the
live-stock was gone. Except for the sucking sound of his feet in the muck, the silence was complete. Even
the birds were gone from this scene of desolation.
Like most of the others, his home had been put to the torch. Two walls were completely gone and the
roof had burned away. Beran's parents and brother lay together in a corner, covered in dried blood. Both
his parents had been stabbed many times. Rolf had an axe in his hands. His head had been crushed and
mis-shapen by a tremendous blow.
Everything in the cottage had been destroyed. The boards and trestles of the table, the two stools, the
barrel and buckets, had all been smashed, the handles of the tools broken, the yoke hacked and splintered.
The beds had been slashed open and the dried husks scattered over the floor.
It was the same everywhere, destruction and death, all in a few minutes of an autumn afternoon. Beran
wandered to the edge of the village, and there he sat and wept. Who had done this? Why? The village had
no enemies. It was at war with no one. The outlaw bands who raided from time to time came to steal, not
to kill and destroy. These horsemen came from somewhere else, a place where men spoke a differ-ent
tongue. What had brought their wrath upon this village?
After a time, hunger made him rise. He had not eaten since the previous midday, and now that the first
shock was past, he felt the full bite of the empti-ness in his stomach. He searched the village, but found
nothing. What had not been carried off had been spilled or burned.
He trudged up the hill to the castle. He was in the open now, plainly visible to any watcher, but he did not
think of the danger. He had seen no living soul since coming to the village, and expected to see none. Sir
Morier's home was only a larger and more strongly made version of the surrounding cottages, but the
villagers all thought of it, and spoke of it, as the castle. He was their overlord; his home, with its thick walls
and heavy oaken door, was their stronghold and their refuge. Now it was as silent as the village. All the
outlying buildings had been burned, and smoke still rose from the granary and stables. The castle doors
were splintered and broken. Here the invaders had met their only real resistance.
Beran saw the bodies of tall, pale-skinned men with fair hair. All but one had short beards, some of a
reddish-bronze, some of gold, and some so fair that they were almost white, although the men were young.
Near them -were two fallen attackers dark in coloring, short and muscular, with thick black hair and skin
the color of dry earth. All the invaders carried the same kind of weapons as the men of the castle, but their
shields were made of wood and leather. They must have been good fighters, Beran thought, for around
many of their fallen lay two or three of Sir Morier's men.
The fighting had been fiercest at the keep. The fallen here were piled one atop another, and pairs of men
lay locked in a death grip. Beran had to climb over bodies to enter the hall.
Here, instead of destruction, there had been looting. All the plates and drinking vessels were gone. The
silver cross and candlesticks and the gold chalice were missing from the chapel, and the gold-and-silver