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At last another owl hooted. A shadow flickered between the huts. Softly Simon drew his sword from its scabbard. |
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"All is ready, lord," Beorn's voice muttered. "The sentries think they come in two bands, but whether they will spread or not they cannot tell." |
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"Ian is pent up with the captive. Do you fetch your horse and take your place at my left shoulder. You can watch me better for your lady from there anyway." |
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"Oh, thank you, my lord," Beorn said naively. |
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Simon would have laughed, but he was too busy listening. He was proud of his men. Even knowing what he did, the camp looked perfectly normal. There was some soft-voiced talk, and now and again a burst of laughter. The fires burned low now that the cooking of the evening meal was done. The soft clop of hooves on wet ground warned Simon of Beorn's coming before he saw the man leading his horse between the huts. Then he heard the slither of metal on leather. Beorn was also drawing his sword. Simon smiled wryly. There was no need for weapons yet, but Beorn felt just as uneasy as he did at being concealed. It was the only way to keep from the Welsh the fact that armed and mounted men were ready, but Beorn and Simon could not see the enemy advance either. Simon's horse sidestepped nervously and he patted its neck. He felt as if his body had been turned into a single huge listening organ, which was foolish; the call to action would be loud enough, as it was said, to wake the dead. |
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Finally there was a single cry of "Ware! Arms!" and then another. Then a few well-simulated shrieks and curses as of men taken unaware and scrabbling for their arms and weapons. Simon gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to clap his spurs to his horse and ride out. The half of his troop who had remained unmounted in the outermost huts launched only a few blows at the attackers who came out of the dark fields, and then gave back. The Welsh followed, breaking up into smaller groups as they came in among the huts. |
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