7. The Night is closing in

Cowering behind an upturned cart, Gavroche breathlessly watched the display of terror and chaos around him, trembling slightly and yet determined, pressing Théodore to him tightly. Théodore was a gift from Fantine, a large cuddly toy bear sewn of dark brown rabbit fur, and he had taken him with him down to Lower Rosendale, where he had meant to visit a few playmates, since Javert was busy otherwise once again. But perhaps it was not so bad that Master Wenslow had claimed his big friend for bellows duty, because Javert would surely have forbidden him to go anywhere near the fighters.

To be exact, Orvar had just now told him to take his bear and run, that there was no use for a boy with a sling that shot pebbles, but Gavroche had only run as far as this cart, where he was considering his possibilities while already scooping up a handful of pebbles as well as a little larger rocks. A sling was not to be sneered at! Taking aim carefully, Gavroche let a pebble fly against a dark-clad ruffian's helmet a couple of paces away, where it produced a funnily clanging sound. The man turned, and immediately Orvar smote him down with one strike of his sword. But he did not even wait until the enemy hit the ground, already he engaged another into a fierce duel. He wore neither helmet nor armour, and yet he was unwounded, and one attacker after the other fell before him. By his side were a handful of other men from the village, two armed with swords as well, the rest with pitchforks and clubs, flails and scythes.

But however many Orvar hewed down, there were more and more coming, and screams and shouts from all directions indicated that similar scenes were taking place all over Lower Rosendale. There was smoke in the air, and a woman's voice was yelling for buckets and water. They were setting fire to the houses! Horses neighed, donkeys brayed, cows mooed, sheep bleated in a deafening chorus. A forlorn pig came galloping down the street, then turned and headed back in the direction it had come from again. Instead another black-clad stranger ran past Gavroche's hideout, his black hair a tangle of thin braids, his bare, dark-skinned arms covered with strangely shaped tattoos, two large, scary devices looking like oversized reaping sickles in his hands…

Gavroche did not think long. Leaping out suddenly, he flung his arms around the man's legs and held onto him tightly as he fell. Immediately Talir, the horse-breeder from the edge of the village, was there and thrust his blade into the enemy's broad back with an odd, ugly sound. "Run, boy," he panted. "Run for your life!"

"I can fight!" Gavroche protested. Smoke was stinging his eyes and making him cough. "I want to fight for Rosendale!" he choked out.

"You're too –"

"Watch out!" another man yelled, and Talir could throw himself aside just in time before a large, emerald-green, scaly creature landed where he had just stood, its long, thin tail whipping the air, needle-sharp teeth gleaming in a wide red maw. Instinctively Gavroche hurled his handful of stones at it, and it hissed as dust settled in its yellow eyes. Leaping onto its back, Orvar brought his sword down hard, and the monster collapsed with its skull cloven in two.

"See, see," Gavroche stated. "That oversized lizard had quite a bit of yellow and red goo in its head."

"I told you to run, boy!" Orvar bellowed just as a group of black-clad men, some of them carrying torches, came into sight around the corner. "Morcas, Talir, fall in behind me!"

"Can I have one of those teeth?" Gavroche called after them as they advanced, forming what might be one of those legendary Curanian Arrowheads stories told about. Or maybe not. "Oh, never mind," he told Théodore, who was still lying under the cart. "Let's go somewhere else and thrash them. Yes! Let's go and –" Here he stopped, and a cold chill gripped his insides. "No! You can't do that! That's Jolly Tom's stable! You can't set my old pony's stable on fire, even if I've got Fyalar now!" This was no game anymore! Frantically he looked around him, for something he might use as a weapon, anything… "Kill them, Orvar!" he yelled as there was nothing there. "Kill them! Kill them!"

There had to be another way to those stables. There had to be. Snatching up the bear, he ran while tucking his sling into his belt, into a narrow alley that led past a hedge-encircled vegetable garden… No way of getting in here. Further on, then. Further on. Oh, poor old Jolly Tom! He ran and leapt over a fence, ran over a patch of lawn, yelped as an arrow whistled past his ear. Past the low storehouse, along the stable wall… Why was there nobody there? Why didn't he meet anybody? The stable gates were bolted, and he jumped up and rattled them, wheezing all the curses that came to his mind while thick smoke made him cough. Move, you stupid bolt, just move! Move!

Very suddenly the door swung open, and Gavroche fell back into the trampled grass and rolled over, panting and clutching Théodore to him tightly. No time to lose! He struggled back to his feet, stumbled into the smoke-filled haze inside the stable even as the roof above the entrance was licked by reddish-yellow tongues of flame. His foot caught on something he could not quite make out, and he fell, but got up again without heeding the pain in his knee. "Tom! Tom! Where are you?" But there was nobody there. The stable was empty.

Gavroche howled in frustration. "What did I come to rescue you for?" he shouted as he ran back to the door. "You're ungrateful! I'll never rescue you again, do you hear? Never! Never! Nevaaaaaargh!" He managed to throw himself aside just in time as a piece of wood about as long as his arm came crashing down, brightly ablaze, and landed on a heap of straw beside him, which was shrouded in flames in a matter of seconds. Sparks sprang up and stung his face and hands. Coughing and wheezing he struggled back towards the door, which was crowned by garbs of fire already, closed his eyes tightly and leapt through, pressing the bear to his body with both arms. "I'll never do that again!" he howled, not knowing at whom his fury was directed, at the stable, the pony, the enemies or the fire itself. "And I'll tell you something: I'm fed up! I'm going home! Yes, I'm going –" Here he suddenly broke off, standing in the middle of the patch of lawn by the burning stable, frozen to the spot. "Home," he finished in a whisper. In his mind, the image of a house formed, a house dearer to him than all others, small and with a living room that was a kitchen and bedroom at the same time, and narrow, creaking stairs leading to the upper floor, where he had a room of his own… a house on fire.

And then he was running again, as fast as he could, past burning houses and cattle running wild, past men and women forming bucket chains, past groups of fighters and fallen bodies, through Lower Rosendale and out onto the dusty road that led through fields where the corn stood high on to the main village half a mile away. His sides were aching, his legs felt heavy and tears blinded his eyes, but he had to go on, he had to…

At once a handful of riders overtook him, all armed with swords and with lances carrying a thin black banner, and the last in the row fell back for a moment and used the blunt end of his lance to hit Gavroche on the back of his head. The boy fell to his hands and knees hard, dropping Théodore into the dust, shrieking with shock and pain. There was coarse laughter above him, and then the hoofbeats accelerated again, trying to catch up with the others.

"You swine!" Gavroche screamed. There were a couple of sharp pebbles stuck in his bleeding palms. "You son of a bloody fat kraken!" His knees hurt, they surely were bleeding just as well, and his new trousers certainly were torn. "Wait 'til I tell Whiskers!" he howled. "He'll tear you to bits and throw your ugly cowardly head down the privy!" Wincing, he tugged one of the pebbles out, then another one…

Suddenly he realized that the rider was coming towards him again, reining his horse in sharply before him. Dust swirled up around hooves that seemed larger than they should be, and a rough, leathery face was leering down at him from high above. Even the horse, a huge roan stallion, seemed to be leering, showing off his large yellow teeth. "Did you just call me coward, bug?" the man demanded in a low, oddly nasal voice.

Gavroche gulped down a mouthful of air. Throwing insults at a person was so much easier without having a lance pointed at his nose. "Technically," he replied, trying to keep his voice even and inwardly cursing the tears rolling down his cheeks, "I was talking about part of you only, so the answer would be no, but –"

At once the sharp point was right between his eyes, and Gavroche shifted backwards, wincing as his already grazed knees were dragged over the pebbles again. "Did you call me coward or not?" the mercenary roared, sending spit flying over Gavroche's head. "Answer, or I'll spear you like an ox!"

"I want to see you spear a whole ox with that little stick," Gavroche blurted out before he could stop himself. As soon as it was said, he wished he had not. His eyes transfixed by the spear point, he tried to back away, his knees burning like fire while an icy dread was gripping his insides…

But the spear did not move. Only then Gavroche heard the shouts and clanging of weapons ahead, where the man's sole attention lay now. He had not even heard him.

And yet relief had come too early. Just as Gavroche craned his neck around the roan's legs to see what was going on ahead, the lance point jabbed at him once more, and this time it scratched his chin, making him yelp at the sudden touch of sun-warmed, yet still cold steel. "What was that, worm?"

And then, without a warning, there was a sharp snort from the roan, a sudden flurry of black where the mercenary's head had been, hooves beating the air, and the man slipped out of the saddle limply and crashed to the ground beside Gavroche, blood running over his face. The roan screamed and bolted, galloping off back towards Lower Rosendale. In its stead, a huge black stallion was now looking down at Gavroche out of gentle dark eyes, whickering softly.

"Grim!" Gavroche cried, hardly able to believe his luck. "Whiskers!"

Leaping down lightly, Javert was with him immediately, squatting down at his side. "What in the name of all demons are you doing here, boy?" His voice sounded harsh, his breath was ragged, and some strands of near-black hair had slipped out of his ponytail and fallen over his face. Only when Gavroche heard a clattering sound beside him, he realized that Javert had been carrying a drawn sword. "Here, show me your hands."

Gavroche tried to tell the story of the sudden attack on Lower Rosendale, but a sob constricted his throat. "I… I wanted to… to visit Balan and Muri, and then…" He did not come any further. Instead, he let his head sink against Javert's shoulder, clenching his teeth as his saviour began to pluck out the pebbles still stuck in his palms. "Thanks," he murmured into his rough leather vest.

"You'll have to thank Grim," Javert said, "he's a real warhorse. I just make him rear, and he knows what he has to do."

Twisting his head around to look up into Grim's gentle eyes, Gavroche could barely believe that the stallion might be a battle horse. He had never hurt the boy in any way, not even when Gavroche had tried to braid his mane. He had only nudged him away gently. Was this the same horse who killed a man by kicking in his skull?

"Let's see about the rest of you." Javert pulled him up onto his knee, inspecting the damage done to his trousers. "Hm, that doesn't look good."

"I didn't mean to!" Gavroche sobbed into his shoulder. "I tried to take good care of them, I really did, but then this stupid big man came…" He should have listened to Javert and picked a pair of old trousers instead, then the new ones would not have been torn on the very first day he wore them!

"Never mind the trousers, I'm talking about your knees." Reaching in through the gaping hole in the cloth, Javert removed yet another pebble, and Gavroche winced as a stinging pain shot through him. How could a small thing hurt so much?

"Am I going to die?" he murmured.

"Of course not, silly. It's just a whole lot of cuts and scratches."

"But it hurts like my legs might fall off. And my hands."

"That's what such things do." Javert put him back to his feet gently. "Now listen. Go to the nearest well and wash this out carefully, I can't pick out every bit of dirt, and I have to get to Lower Rosendale with the others. Then hide in the forest until this all is over."

"But Whiskers, you can't go to Lower Rosendale!" Gavroche protested. "It's burning!"

"I can see that. Run along home before Rosendale ends up burning too." Picking up Théodore, Javert dusted him off, then shoved him under Gavroche's arm. "Here, hurry up."

"Javert?" It was Sophia, looking down from a dapple stallion's back, wearing a man's vest and breeches with her embroidered blouse and a leather cap on her head like a helmet, with a braid hanging out from beneath it. She held a bloodied sword in her hand. "We're moving on, catch up with us when you're done here. Orvar must be in there still."

"He is," Gavroche hastily assured her. "With Talir and Morcas and some others, and he killed a big toothy lizard thingy!"

Sophia smiled briefly. "So did your friend here. Run home and take what you can carry, then hide and wait. Javert, I'll see you back in battle." And with this she heeled her stallion into a gallop, a column of riders from the village, many of them men working for her on her farm, following her closely, clutching swords and spears, but also scythes, hayforks and similar tools.

"You killed a lizard thingy?" Gavroche repeated, awestruck. "Oh man! Can I have a tooth?"

"When this is over." Javert was back on his feet now, his sword in his hand once more, already gripping Grim's reins. "By the way, Sophia killed two. They were with a small group that tried to sneak up on us in the main village, but we dealt with them already. They're concentrating their main stroke on Lower Rosendale, it seems, where all the large cattle farms are. They're herding the beasts off." Swinging himself back up into the saddle, he patted Grim's bowed neck. There was a long, bloodied tear in his left sleeve, Gavroche saw now, and the blade was soiled with blood as well. "Run home now, and stay out of trouble."

"But Whiskers, I don't want to run!" Why couldn't his stupid eyes stop overflowing for once?

"Run!" Javert repeated. "Wash out your wounds, or do you want to die of blood poisoning? I'll see you when I get back." And with this he turned Grim and heeled him into a gallop, following Sophia and her men.

"Take care of yourself!" Gavroche shouted after him. "Come back in one piece!" But Javert did not turn anymore.

"There he goes," Gavroche muttered to himself as he trudged off towards Rosendale. "Plucky lad, that Whiskers." He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, careful not to touch his palm. "But hide? In the forest? Me? Nah! Never! Or what d'you think, Théodore? Do we hide? Do you think we should really – ew!" He was standing in a puddle of blood that was oozing from a severed neck, the head belonging to it lying a few paces away. "Blimey, look at that!" he exclaimed, regarding the gory sight with horrid fascination. "You can actually see the bone! Awesome!" Here he paused and pressed his lips together, frowning. "What, Théodore?" he continued after a moment's thought. "You find that awesome? I'll tell you something: You're a very sick person, or rather, a very sick bear. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." He nodded gravely. "Besides, now my shoes are all bloody, and they were fairly new too. Whiskers might be angry. Maybe about the trousers, too, once he's had the time to think about it. Oh dear. He might make me clean the privy again or something."

Wrinkling his nose, Gavroche cautiously stepped over the body and avoided another that lay closely beside it, with dark brown skin and a mane of black that covered his face. "Seems they come from all kinds of places. Whoa." There were several more, of all sizes and skin colours, most of them dressed in rough, dark leather, some at the side of the road, some in its middle, and three horses too, lying there with their legs seeming oddly tangled. The column of riders had never gotten as far as Rosendale.

And there were some who would never go back there. In the middle of the road, on his back and with his arms spread wide, sightless eyes staring up into the sun… His name was Varin, Gavroche knew, and he was the youngest son of a farmer called Danil and a good friend of Bahorel's, often seen at his side. He would never raise a tankard again. A couple of paces away, on his side, one of Master Wenslow's apprentices had closed his eyes forever. Despite the gaping wound in his uncovered head, he looked oddly peaceful. And over by the roadside, curled up as if asleep, yet with his hands clutching at a deep slash in his stomach, his features still contorted in a scream that no one would hear… Narmon. Orvar's friend and former companion in arms. Surely he had slain many a foe, saved many a life before he had died himself. His sword was lying beside him, the blade broken in two.

A couple of horses were grazing at the edge of the road, on the patch of grass between road and fields, all saddled, some with bowcases, quivers and smaller weapons still peeking out of saddlebags or hanging from the saddlebow.

"Where have they gone, Théodore?" Gavroche murmured, making his way through the fallen men, trying not to look at the dead that came from Rosendale. "On to some other place like this? Or back to old Earth? Do you think they'll come back here one day? There are stories about people coming back, you know." Almost picking up a lance someone had dropped, he decided differently after a look at his bleeding palm. "No, no need to answer. You have no idea anyway, because your head is all filled with rags and you can't think, and even if you could you wouldn't be able to say anything. That's too bad. Stupid bear, you. Do you believe in blood poisoning?"

At this thought he stopped short. Blood poisoning. He had heard about it before, and it sounded rather serious, and highly unpleasant as well. "Do you think one can really die of blood poisoning?"

Oh.

"I don't want to die of blood poisoning!" Gavroche shouted at the clear summer sky, into the cool wind that took the words from his mouth and carried them on towards the forest. "It's a stupid thing to die of!" And then, ignoring his aching knees, he started to run.

Once a pair of riders passed him heading in the opposite direction, two farmers from Rosendale, but they did not heed him and he did not heed them. The main village lay before him, its framework houses and dusty streets as they always were, showing no sign of blood or fire.

Not yet, at least.

He almost fell over a ginger cat racing across the road, but apart from that, he at first saw no living being. Could it be that everybody had either fled to the forest or else gone to Lower Rosendale? Why hadn't he met any more people on the road, then?

Perhaps because they were going across the fields. Yes. They did not want to be so easily seen and crept through the little paths between the fields. They had all gone to Lower Rosendale to fight.

And he was to hide in the forest with the children!

"I'm not going to hide," he panted as he reached the large well opposite Yorel's inn, three long metal spouts gushing clear water forward, left and right into a large stone basin shaped like an octangle. "I'll just wash my hands and knees so I won't get my blood poisoned, and then…" He actually managed to giggle once more as he deposited Théodore at the edge of the basin to hold his hands under one of the spouts. Norgard, here I come!

But then Varin's empty eyes and Narmon's contorted face appeared before his inner eye once more, and he wished to be far away, in a place where no one was killed and Norgard was but a myth to scare small children.

The cold water hurt on his bleeding hands, but he clenched his teeth and held them under the spout still, until he could see no more specks of black that signified small splinters of rock or dirt particles. Then he kicked off his shoes, glad that he was not wearing socks, and with some difficulty climbed up onto the basin's rim, where he rolled up his trousers past his knees, careful not to touch anything with his sore palms. Shifting around, he hung his legs into the water. "You know," he told Théodore, who was lying on his side and looking up at him out of eyes that actually were buttons, "I might enjoy that, if it weren't for my knees bleeding. Ouch!" Clenching his teeth, he splashed water over the wounds. Curse that man who had thrown him over, and curse that stupid blood poisoning!

Why did this all have to happen on a beautiful day like this?

Why did people have to die on a cloudless summer day?

But they weren't going to get him! Oh no! And they weren't going to get any of his friends! He would keep them from harming them! He would fight them! If Orvar thought a sling was of no use, he was very wrong indeed!

But Javert had said…

Fine. He could go back to the house, hide what needed to be hidden, and then go back.

But still, Javert had said…

No! He was not leaving them alone! He had to help!

But all the same, Javert had said…

Swinging his legs out of the water, Gavroche let himself fall back on the ground in frustration. There was a village to be saved, and here he was with sore, bleeding palms, unable to handle a weapon. And furthermore, Javert did not want him to.

And who knew, maybe there was nobody there at the moment, but they might come again, sneaking from house to house with torches, heading towards the place where he lived…

Gavroche started to run, then skidded to a halt, snatched up Théodore, turned to run again, braked sharply as he realized that he was still barefoot. In danger of losing his balance, he caught the edge of the well just in time, muttering curses that would have had Javert raise one eyebrow in that nasty way that could make everyone twitchy after a couple of seconds. Putting his shoes back on seemed a lot more difficult than taking them off. The left one was being troublesome, and he had to tug at its heel with a finger to get in properly. And as he managed to put it back on at last, he accidentally brushed his palm with his ankle and gave a little yelp. "Ow! Stupid foot, you!"

As if in response, a horse neighed somewhere, and there were male voices yelling for a moment, then a scream, then – silence.

Gavroche stared in the direction whence it had come hard, as if intending to make the house before him melt from his gaze, his heart pounding madly. Then he said slowly, just as he had heard it from Javert, "What in the name of all demons was that?" It was what one had to say in such a situation, though it would have sounded better had his voice not trembled so much.

Silence again. Nothing but silence.

"Fine," Gavroche murmured. "Fine. I'll just… go home and see… see if anyone was there… if they're trying to break in or something." Or if they're trying to set fire to it… But he did not want to say it out loud. "Don't be afraid, Théodore. Everything's going to be fine."

He looked left and right, then started to run, down along Ivy Lane, past Cotton Walk, past Roses' End… as suddenly someone gripped him by the collar and held him back violently. Gavroche squealed and fidgeted, kicking at his captor, but the hand would not let go. "Stand still, you silly thing," a voice hissed – a voice he recognized.

"Let me go!" he protested. "I'm not some ugly barbarian enemy or four-legged green thing with lots of teeth!"

Indeed he was released, and he spun around to face Jérôme Feuilly. "What did you do that for?" he cried angrily. "You almost tore my collar off, after that foul git of a horseman already ruined my trousers! I'll tell Whiskers it was you!"

"Hush! There could be enemies about." Feuilly raised his forefinger to his lips meaningfully. In his other hand he held a bow, and the top of a quiver was visible over his shoulders, grey-feathered shafts peeking out like a bristling thicket. "Where are you heading?"

"To guard the house." Gavroche tried to stand as straight as possible, but still Feuilly was a lot taller. "Whiskers told me to." It was not quite true, but it also wasn't quite wrong either.

Feuilly shook his head violently, so that his short braid flew. "Nonsense! Run along to the forest, and as fast as possible. The other children are in there already."

"I'm not a baby!" Gavroche protested. Oh, why did his eyes have to overflow again just now? "I want to help! I want to fight them!"

"Here." Feuilly reached into his belt pouch and thrust a small item wrapped in a piece of linen into the boy's hand. "Take this and keep it safe, in the name of Orvar. This should show you I don't consider you a baby. But now, run." His brown eyes were hard as he said it, and so surprisingly dark in an otherwise fair, slightly freckled face and under reddish-brown hair.

Gavroche's fingers closed around the package, and he suppressed a wince as it touched his palm. "I'll defend it with my life," he promised solemnly. Balan and Muri would be so impressed when he told them!

"Excellent. Now run for it. And be careful, there might be an enemy lurking behind every corner."

"How many of you are there?" No, he would not be sent away that easily. He was in no hurry, absolutely.

"Couldn't say, one for every four houses to hide behind. Run, I said. I have to get back to my post."

"Don't you communicate with each other?" Now this sounded exciting, lurking behind houses until an unsuspecting enemy came sneaking along the street…

"I can see Enjolras from my place. And I already shot one off his horse, before you ask. We just dragged him up Roses' End not to arouse suspicion. But now go, or I'll send an arrow after you!" And with this he gave him a firm prod between the shoulder blades. "And keep in mind, this is important!"

Stumbling forward and soon breaking into a run, Gavroche clutched the package as tightly as he dared. There was a scream at some distance, and then the clanging of weapons even closer, but he did not look around. Feuilly would dive back into the shadows of Roses' End now, crouch behind the fence, ready to shoot… "But I have the more important thing!" he told Théodore as he ran. "And I'll keep it safe, I'll go and hide it in the forest, I already know where… And if someone attacks me now you'll have to fight him for me because I have more important things to do…"

Then he suddenly stopped, in the middle of a deserted road, slapping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm an idiot! I should have taken Fyalar!" Turning on his heel, he raced back whence he had come, past lines of houses, to the stable he knew so well. Of course it was locked now, it would certainly be, but there always was the window trick… Now, if he rapped the window frame sharply with his knuckles in just the right place… exactly, it sprang open. Giggling with glee, he threw Théodore into the gentle gloom, then climbed up after him, though with some difficulty this time since he could not use his hands and knees so well. Instead of his usual leap over the heap of hay under the small window, he fell into it face first and came up again coughing and muttering angrily, spitting out a mouthful of dried grass. "Bugger! Whoever came up with the stupid idea to put this stupid pile of hay under the stupid window?" As he crawled out of the hay spluttering, he remembered that he had shovelled all the hay just there himself in case he might fall through the window. It did nothing to improve his mood. "It was your idea, Théodore! I know it was! You made me do it!"

He was interrupted by a soft whickering. From the gentle twilight of a small stable, a pair of large dark eyes was watching him curiously. There was room for no more than two horses, and while one of the places was empty, a white-and-brown dapple stood in the other, turning his head and watching Gavroche's progress with open interest.

"Hello, Fyalar." Stuffing Feuilly's package into his pocket and picking up the bear, Gavroche crossed the stable, kicking the hay off his shoes. "We're going out for a bit. To the forest." Though riding in the forest was bothersome, especially to the place he had had in mind… He patted the horse's nose gingerly, only with the tips of his fingers. Why did it have to be his hands, of all things? If Grim hadn't taken care of that nasty man on the road, he would have murdered him with his bare hands!

Which were hurt, so he wouldn't have been able to. Which was the problem, precisely.

"Oh, bugger this all!" Gavroche muttered. "And bugger the saddle! I'm only just using the reins. Here. Hold still… Why does Whiskers always have to put them so high up? Only because he's so ridiculously tall he can't even walk through a door properly… There, got it!" He brandished the reins triumphantly, almost dropping the bear he held under his other arm. "So, come here, Fyalar, good boy…" Hastily untying the rope holding the horse, he put the reins over his head – luckily Fyalar always lowered it while Gavroche did so, or else it would have been difficult – fastened the buckles and then pulled the horse towards the exit. "Here we go, come on… Oh Whiskers, you monkey! You could have told me you left the stable door open for me!" Indeed the bar that could be shifted by hand from the inside, while from the outside a key was needed, was not holding the door shut currently. It even stood open a cranny, and a thin finger of daylight fell onto the straw-covered floor. Gavroche gave it an angry kick before he yanked it open so that it crashed against the wall, making Fyalar twitch his ears in alarm. "I think I'll ride over to Lower Rosendale and poke you, once I'm done with Orvar's thingy."

Leading Fyalar out, he pulled the door shut again behind him. Still the streets were peaceful and seemed deserted, yet a little back, past Roses' End, a black-clad figure lay on the ground face-down, an arrow sticking from his back… "Good job, whoever," he muttered before he climbed Fyalar's back. "I wish I had a bow of my own…"

Getting up without the help of a stirrup was difficult, and finding a comfortable position was not easy either, especially when holding a large stuffed toy bear under one arm and having sore palms. As Gavroche sat on Fyalar's back at last, panting and sweating, he wondered whether it would have cost him less time after all to simply saddle his horse. Luckily Fyalar was very patient, he just stood and waited, occasionally whickering and flicking his tail. He shifted his ears uneasily, though, the sounds of combat from what seemed to be just a couple of houses away seemed to unsettle him. For a moment Gavroche wondered if heading there might be a good idea – he still had his sling tucked into his belt, after all – but then he decided against it. In the name of Orvar, Feuilly had said.

As Fyalar galloped out of the village, Gavroche wrapped his arms around his neck, Théodore squeezed in between him and the horse's mane, and held on tightly. If he now fell off, he would just hang there while Fyalar ran on, and he would look terribly ridiculous. Never before had he realized how slippery a horse's back could be… and how scarily tall Fyalar was in comparison to his old pony…

Were there enemies about? He could not see any, but all he saw were some strands of white and brown hair belonging to Fyalar's mane, a pair of pointy brown ears and the edge of the forest coming closer rapidly. To look in another direction he would have to lift and turn his head, but right now he did not dare to. If he shifted his weight just a tiny bit, he might slip off… any moment…

It only took Fyalar a minute to reach his destination, but to Gavroche the seconds crept on endlessly. As the dapple stallion slowed down at last and stepped under the dark, cool canopy of the trees, Gavroche breathed a sigh of relief. His arms hurt, and he was grateful to be able to slip off Fyalar's back at last and lead him further on just by his reins. There were low branches under which Fyalar had to bend his neck; riding would have been practically impossible in here. But they were well hidden, and if they went straight on right now, then they would soon come to –

A soft snort from Fyalar was all the warning he had. Then he was grabbed from behind, and a hand was pressed over his mouth firmly. He struggled, dropping Théodore, but whoever was holding him was stronger than he was. "Keep quiet," a voice hissed into his ear.

Then he was released as suddenly as he had been taken. Spinning around furiously, he looked into a pair of dark eyes not too high above his own eyelevel. "You!" he shouted, fuming. "And that from my own sister!"

Crossing her thin arms, Eponine grinned. She looked just as usual, dressed in a skirt and blouse that had both seen better days, combined with a pair of boots and a belt hung with various small pouches and a large dagger in a sheath. There were at least two more daggers hidden under that skirt, Gavroche knew, probably strapped to her thighs. His sister was a wild girl, and he was secretly proud of her. But at times she treated him just like a child, and he hated that. "What are you stumbling around through the forest for, and in the company of a horse? Shouldn't you have left long ago, with the other children?"

Dropping Fyalar's reins, Gavroche crossed his arms in turn, drawing himself up as much as he could, but she was still taller. "You're just jealous because you don't have a horse of your own! And I'm not a baby! Besides, I'm on an important mission, so wipe that stupid sneer right off your silly face and be impressed, and be jealous, and sulk because I'm not going to tell you! Hah! And now get out of my way, because I'm extremely busy."

"And what mission would that be," she jeered, "saving your toy bear from Norgard's clutches, perhaps?"

"You have no idea," Gavroche told her solemnly, picking up both Théodore and Fyalar's reins again and trying to keep himself as dignified as possible.

"So what? I don't care."

"If you knew what's in my pocket," Gavroche said haughtily, "you would. But you don't, and that's my point. Now let me proceed." That last one was a lovely word and made him feel twice as important.

"You've been crying."

"No I haven't!" Gavroche dodged the hand that reached out to wipe his cheek.

"Don't lie to me. What's in your pocket?"

"Hah! So you'd like to know, eh?"

But to be honest, he had not yet found out himself. Should he have a look, and risk that Eponine might sneak a peek as well? Curiosity got the better of him, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the package Feuilly had given him and carefully removed the linen wrappings. Did it feel heavy? Or rather light? Neither, really, which was a little disappointing. But Feuilly had said it was important…

Something dropped into his awaiting fingertips, an object of cool metal, and a fine metal chain rustled gently as it slipped free. It was a round disc, a little smaller than his palm in diameter and about as thick as his little finger, and decorated with a lion's head, beneath it a pair of crossed swords with a tiny crown above them, and all was surrounded by entwining roses carved into its surface. The edge was set with a line of small, glittering crystals.

"How pretty," Eponine stated. "What's this, Orvar's secret medallion he got from his secret sweetheart?"

"No, you silly girl, it's not!" Now Gavroche held this in his hand, he intended never to let it go again. "Don't you know what it is? It's Orvar's seal! The Mayor's seal! It's more important than you and your bow and quiver and knives and stuff put together! Whiskers borrowed it once when he went to Moorcastle on official business of Dolorin's, and he wore it around his neck on that chain, under his shirt and with his collar up all the way so no one could see he had it! That's how important it is!"

For once, Eponine did not make any snappish remarks in return. Instead, she frowned at the engravings thoughtfully. "Where did you get it?"

"Feuilly gave it to me," Gavroche explained. "I met him on the street, and he told me to keep it safe. And that's what I'm doing."

"Fine," Eponine remarked, "and I'll have an eye on you doing it. Now get back on the path, or poor Fyalar will end up with more than just twigs in his mane."

"You don't understand!" Gavroche protested. "I was going to hide it!"

"Where you won't find it again?" Eponine asked sarcastically. "Seriously, I think you and I and Orvar's seal had better go somewhere together. Is there any way to stuff it inside that bear of yours?" And already her hand had wandered to the hilt of her dagger.

"No! You can't cut up Théodore! I forbid it!" Ruining his bear! What a tasteless idea!

"Just a bit, along a seam! And then we'll push that seal of Orvar's in, and nobody will find it!"

"No!"

"You stubborn little twit!"

"You're not murdering my bear!"

"It's not a living thing, so I can't murder it! Give it here!"

"No!" Gavroche held both the seal and the bear behind his back, somehow managing not to drop Fyalar's reins. "You're a twit yourself, and you're not harming my bear! You're quite as bad as your parents, you really are!" That was one of the worst insults concerning behaviour he could come up with.

"And you're a ridiculous little slimeball just like your father!"

"No I'm not!" Gavroche roared, ignoring Fyalar's seemingly pointed snort behind him. "Besides, he's your father, too, so you might as well shut up about him!"

"And you shut up right now!" Eponine hissed. "Making such a racket! What if they find us? Then they take both the seal and your stupid bear, and it's all your fault."

"It's not! You started it!" This was a pointless quarrel, really, but he could not just stop quarrelling when his sister did not. She might think he had run out of clever things to say, and he would certainly not run out of clever things before she did, no indeed!

"Now be quiet and come on! They might find us here!" Taking him by the arm, she firmly pulled him towards the path she had obviously been following before she had spotted him. "What happened to your hands, by the way?"

"Some big fat nasty Norgard man pushed me over." Now this was a safer topic; they might well abuse those evil attackers together. Alone with Eponine, he was not frightened any longer, but still as furious. "They do come from Norgard, don't they? And then Whiskers came and had Grim kick him to death. Boom!" Served him right for ruining a new pair of trousers!

"I think they do," Eponine agreed. She had let go of his sleeve now, and together they followed the narrow path deeper into the forest. "Everybody says they do. No idea who said it first, but someone must have." She shrugged. "They concentrate on Lower Rosendale, mainly, I think. One of the men said it, I heard it when I came to collect some more arrows. There were a couple of attacks on the actual village, too, but not too many men. Odd, isn't it? Well, I don't know. People will do random things sometimes."

"True enough," Gavroche agreed readily. Javert always said he and Eponine were the most random pair of siblings he had ever met, whatever he meant by this.

"I was with Cédric and his friends. Cédric fought very heroically."

Ah, the subject of Enjolras again. Eponine seemed mightily impressed with him, in Gavroche's opinion. "So why are you here?"

"To protect the refugees, of course." Eponine drew herself up proudly and threw him a look that indicated he would be very sorry indeed if he doubted her word. "Cédric sent me. Nobody comes past this spot without me noticing, you see."

"And, did anyone try?" Gavroche pushed the seal back into his pocket, for fear it might slip from his sweaty fingertips and fall either to the ground or onto his wounded palm.

"Only one, an ugly fat one who came after a group of girls. I hit him in the shoulder, and he gave up the pursuit. Lost me a good arrow, but was worth it." She ran her forefinger along the rough linen of her quiver thoughtfully. "I wonder how a warrior can get fat. A real warrior, I mean."

Gavroche shrugged. "You probably got a fake one." All the same, he was proud of his sister, even if she had not managed to kill the man, with one single shot and so that he fell over, whirled up a little dust perhaps, but was quiet immediately, like it worked in the stories. Well, it was not as easy as he had once imagined it would be; he had tried his luck with Javert's bow a few times but never had hit any target. His sole consolation was that Javert was not an expert shot, either, though his arrows always came close to the target, he missed quite a few times; he just lacked the precision that some others possessed, like Sophia, for example, or Talir and Orvar. When Gavroche laughed, Javert always grumbled one should get him a pistol to prove he could aim better than that.

And Valjean. That new fellow had astounded everyone at the village feast by winning the second prize at the village feast's bow competition, and that only after one afternoon of practice. A natural talent, Orvar had said. Besides, Valjean had won the table-lifting contest, which made him the strongest man in the village. No doubt he had killed a lot of enemies now, and was still doing so!

Gavroche wished someday Orvar would accredit him a natural talent too, even if it were just for causing mischief.

"We'll stop here," Eponine decided, taking Fyalar's reins from her brother and leading the stallion behind a thicket, where she loosely tied him to a low branch. "Come on, sit down here. We can peer out through the twigs and watch the path without being seen."

We. She had said we. So there was yet another useful thing for Gavroche to do. Squatting down beside his sister, who had already made herself comfortable with her back against a tree trunk, he felt for his sling and was calmed to find it was still there. There were no pebbles here, but a few other things he might use, even if it was only a thick piece of bark. Bark could be nasty, bits might come loose and hurt an enemy in the eye – if he managed to hit anyone with it, that was.

He wondered where all his friends were, and how they were doing at the moment. Would they manage to withhold the invasion and to keep the men of Norgard from setting Rosendale on fire?

Maybe he should have taken some things from the house in case they did. Actually, Sophia had explicitly told him to do so, and Javert had probably meant the same.

Please, please don't let anything happen to the village, and to all my friends…

How long they crouched behind the thicket he could not have said later on. It seemed a long time, certainly, but if it had been just one hour or two or three he could not determine. Soon he began to feel tired and sore, and sitting still was becoming more and more unbearable. More than once he was close to getting up and running back to Rosendale to see what was going on there and if he could perhaps save someone or help in any way, but Eponine held him back, reminding him that he had to keep the seal safe where no one would find it, and to guard it for Orvar. He stayed, but he suddenly wished someone else had gotten that package from Feuilly. What if nobody ever came here, and they had to sit in the forest forever? What if Rosendale ceased to exist and all his friends were killed or enslaved, and he never found out because he was not there? It was a horrible thought.

At last, when he had begun to believe he would never see a living being again apart from his sister and Fyalar, Eponine nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. "Someone's coming!"

Gavroche tensed, fumbling for his sling, but Eponine held him back. Why did she not ready her bow? What was the matter? Did she mean to simply hide and let the enemy pass? He just wanted to protest when she suddenly sprang up and left their hideout, just as a head became visible through the leaves before his eyes…

Morcas! And there, behind him, Orvar himself! Blowing out the breath he had not realized he was holding, he let himself sink back to the ground. Was it over, then? Was it over at last? What news would they bring?

"Orvar!" Eponine was rushing towards them already, towards the tired, ragged group that came marching along the path. Of course, she was taller than Gavroche, even when she sat, and must have seen who was coming before he could. "Did you repel them?"

But Orvar only shook his head wearily. "No. Me and the rest, we're hiding 'til they leave."

No! This could not be true! How could Orvar give up? How could he forsake Rosendale? "You're fleeing?" he cried, running towards them after his sister. He almost stumbled over a root, but paid it no heed. "What about the people? What about Rosendale?"

Orvar's eyes met his, and his grim gaze silenced him immediately. It seemed that the scar on Orvar's cheek stood out more clearly than ever, but maybe this was because there was a fresh wound beside it, a cut from which blood was trickling into his beard. "A wise man knows when to retreat," the Mayor said calmly. "The death toll is high enough as it is. All they care about is the cattle… and those men who opposed them most fiercely."

Swallowing, Gavroche regarded Orvar and the men around him and the handful of tired, sweaty horses some were leading, then hastily let his eyes rest on his own feet. There was something forming inside his chest, a lump that was growing, covered with spikes… Once again his eyesight blurred as tears began to well anew. Was this what defeat felt like?

"Then we should have died!" a clear voice among the group rang out suddenly, shaking with barely constrained fury. Flanked by two of the veterans who had served in the King's army along with Orvar, Enjolras stood, his blond hair tangled and bereft of its usual gleam, his face smeared with a mixture of soot, sweat and blood, his vest and shirt torn and stained, but still he stood upright and glared at Orvar with utmost defiance. "Then we should have chosen the path of the heroes and given our lives for what we love!"

"Then go back and die, you fool," Orvar bellowed, his voice sharp as a whipcrack in the silent forest. Even the birds were quiet now. "Go and throw your life away uselessly. I won't keep you."

Enjolras drew a shuddering breath. "How can you live under the shadow of Norgard?"

"I can, for now," Orvar replied coldly. "And if I can, boy, you bloody well can as well."

"Retreat for now," a female voice said from the background, "and live to fight another day." The line of men at the front parted, one pushing aside his horse, and out stepped Sophia, a blood-stained blade still in her hand. She had lost the leather cap she had worn when Gavroche had encountered her on the road, but apart from that she appeared unchanged. Directly behind her Javert followed, and Gavroche wanted to leap at the sight of him, though with joy or with horror he could not have said. For the first time it seemed to him that his friend looked pale, despite his dark skin, and the way his jaw was clenched… His shirt was dark with blood at his left upper arm, and the stains continued downwards along the sleeve, out of which blood was dripping onto his hand.

"Where are the others?" Orvar demanded.

Eponine pointed ahead. "This way. On the clearing or close to it, at least most of them. Can they return now?"

"Soon, I take it. As we speak, they're herding off part of the cattle, and they seem to be in a hurry. We kept them far too long, it seems; they did not expect so much resistance."

"Does the village still stand?" Gavroche asked anxiously. Please say yes, please…

"Mostly. It's pretty bad down at Lower Rosendale, but the rest is pretty much unharmed. Curse them, they knew exactly where the largest cattle farms are." Orvar spat on the ground. "If we were to find a traitor among our own men now, it would not surprise me."

"Everybody can see where the large stables are," Sophia put in. "I wouldn't be too rash."

"And not too gullible, either." Orvar gestured to the men on his right. "Ten of you, come with me. Morcas, you pick, and mind you don't take the wounded. Sophia is left in charge here. We're going to the clearing. You too, girl," he added, nodding at Eponine.

"Wait!" Gavroche cried as he turned to go. How could he not have thought of it for so long? "I have something of yours." And he held out the linen-wrapped seal.

Orvar accepted it without any closer inspection; he seemed to recognize it immediately. "Thank you, boy. You're redeemed. Morcas, are the men ready? Fine, then, follow me." And off they marched, deeper into the forest, Eponine falling in behind them, beside Enjolras.

There were about fifteen left, Gavroche estimated, all men except Sophia, and six horses, which were now tied to branches. Grim he tied himself, right beside Fyalar. As he returned, some of the men had already settled down on the mossy ground, and some were tending to their own or others' wounds. Bahorel was among them, he suddenly realized, sitting there beside Morcas with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring ahead into nothingness.

Javert had taken his place on a rock, his vest and sword belt lying on the ground beside him, with Sophia and one of her stablehands fussing over him, trying to get him out of his shirt to have a look at his arm. "It's just a scratch," he grumbled, weakly attempting to fend them off.

"Yes," Sophia said dryly, "and a big scratch. Stop being silly and let Teril have a look."

At last he agreed, and soon the man was bandaging him with strips torn off the already ruined sleeve, muttering as he did so, while Sophia began to clean her sword. Sitting down closely beside him, Gavroche imitated Bahorel's pose. "Are you alright?" It was supposed to sound calm, but came out as squeaky.

"Couldn't be better," Javert growled, but as he briefly ran his hand over Gavroche's head, the boy knew that his lingering fury was not directed at him. "At least you really got out of trouble; all the time I was worried you wouldn't."

"Is it true there are so many dead?" It was hard to believe, even when seeing part of the wounded before him.

"We can't say how many, at the moment," Sophia replied in Javert's stead. "I know that I lost at least five of my own men, and I saw several others slain, but I couldn't give you a number. Orvar lost several of his friends, too, including Talir. At least it seems they were only fighting those who fought back and not attacking the women and children putting out the fires." Of course, someone like Sophia wouldn't even dream of being counted among those women; from the competitions at the village feast Gavroche knew that she wielded her sword as well as any man. "And we don't know how much cattle they came for, but it's their main interest, apparently. That, and a handful of warriors to be taken captive, if they can get any."

"How d'you know about the warriors?"

With a sigh, Sophia sheathed her sword. "A column of riders passed through Rosendale, heading south, when suddenly a man came galloping into their way and stopped them. It seems he was the leader, and one of Enjolras's lads who was lying ready to ambush heard him say quite clearly, Get me Orvar. They complained they were on another errand, but he told them to keep their eyes open and gave them a short, but very accurate description. He also told them to keep in mind that those who resisted most fiercely were to be taken alive if possible and taken back to Norgard. They said they doubted they were to meet anyone on their errand, but he insisted that they should carry out the order if they did. Then they rode on south, and he turned his horse and headed east towards Lowford."

"D'you think…" It was a terrible thing to imagine. "D'you think he was the Sorcerer?"

"No," Sophia said decidedly. "He clearly led the attack, probably on all of the villages, but I doubt he did magic of any kind. I saw him too, a tall blond fellow wearing one of those browbands they wear in the south and with a couple of beads in his hair, but clearly a northerner, judging from his pale skin. Orvar thinks he's Rendon Paric."

"Who?"

"Rendon Paric," Sophia repeated. "He served along with Orvar once, before he left the army and became an outlaw. Now he's a well-known leader of mercenaries. Apparently whoever rules Norgard has taken him into his service. We don't know if there's a Sorcerer, Gavroche, but Paric alone is bad enough."

Silence fell, and although there were a few birds singing in the tree crowns above, it seemed to Gavroche that the forest was dark, darker than ever.

"I brought you something," Javert said suddenly. "You wanted one, so I got you one." Reaching into the pouch that lay on the ground along with his sword belt, he picked out something and held out his hand for Gavroche to take it. It was a long, curved tooth, larger than Gavroche's little finger.

Placing Théodore on the moss and accepting it from Javert cautiously, Gavroche held it up to examine it, a true torrent of different emotions welling up in him. "Oh, Whiskers…" He had actually brought him back a lizard tooth! And then it all became too much for the boy. Clutching the tooth tightly, he climbed onto Javert's lap, although he was too old for it and everybody was watching, wrapped his arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder, for Jolly Tom, whatever had happened to him, for Varin and Narmon, for Talir, for all the others who had died, and most of all for Rosendale.