Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  Thirty-two

  From the crest of a ridge overlooking the small camp, Bacari watched.

  He wondered why the young archer had ridden away. Maybe he'd given up the chase? Then he shook his head. That didn't seem to fit with what he had seen of these three so far. More likely he'd gone in search of a local apothecary or healer.

  The bearded one would be in bad shape by now, he knew. Bacari had heard him cry out and heard the clatter of his bow as he'd dropped it. That told him that his bolt had at least wounded his enemy.

  And a simple flesh wound was as good as a killing shot with the poison he had used on the bolt. He was surprised that the bearded stranger had survived as long as he had. He must be in excellent physical condition to resist the effects of the poison for so long. The Genovesan smiled grimly to himself. The young man's quest for a healer would be in vain. No country potion merchant would have the faintest idea how to counteract that poison. In fact, he thought, very few healers in large towns would know either.

  It was all to the good, he thought. The camp site where Tennyson had arranged to meet with his local followers was barely four hours' ride away. If their pursuers had continued to follow them, they would have caught up in another half day's march. And with Marisi killed in the encounter in the dead forest, the odds were tilting in their pursuers' favour. Bacari didn't relish another straight-out confrontation with the two younger riders, even if the older one was out of the way.

  For a few seconds, he considered working his way into crossbow range and taking a shot at the young warrior. But he quickly abandoned the idea. He'd be crossing open ground, where he might easily be seen. If he missed his shot, he'd have to face the swordsman and he'd seen ample evidence of his skill in Hibernia. In addition, he had no way of knowing when the younger archer might return. No, he decided. Leave them be. They represented no immediate danger and his own priorities were changing.

  It was time to report back to Tennyson, he thought. He'd already decided that his time with the self-styled prophet might be coming to an end. But before he left, he had to discover where Tennyson kept the gold and precious stones that he'd brought from Hibernia. So, for the time being, he'd play the part of the faithful bodyguard.

  By the time he reached the sprawling camp site, he could see that the numbers had already grown. There must have been over fifty new arrivals. He rode slowly through the camp to Tennyson's tent. He smiled as he saw that the simple canvas tent had been replaced with a more substantial pavilion. The newly arrived converts had obviously brought the materials with them.

  One of the white robes stood guard outside the pavilion. As Bacari dismounted and walked stiffly towards the entrance, the guard began to draw himself up, as if he were going to bar the way. Bacari smiled at him, but there was something in the smile that told the man he was not a good person to cross. Hastily, the guard stepped back and beckoned him to enter.

  Tennyson was seated at a folding table, writing on a large piece of parchment. He looked up in annoyance as Bacari entered unannounced.

  'Don't you ever knock?' Tennyson asked sourly.

  The Genovesan made a pretence of looking around for something in the canvas walls to knock on. With bad grace, Tennyson waved him to a folding canvas chair, on the opposite side of the table to his own.

  'So, what do you have to report?' the prophet said, finishing the last few words on the parchment.

  'They've stopped,' Bacari said. That got Tennyson's attention, he thought. The burly man dropped his quill pen and looked up.

  'Stopped? Where?'

  'About four, maybe five hours' ride away. The older one is sick. He'll die soon.'

  'You're sure of that?' Tennyson put in.

  'Yes. The poison is in him. He's been wrapped in his blankets for almost two days now. I haven't seen him move. There's no way he will survive. Nobody does.'

  Tennyson nodded several times. A cruel smile formed on his lips. 'Good,' he said. 'I hope he dies in pain.'

  'He will,' Bacari assured him.

  'What about the others? The two young ones?'

  Bacari frowned as he answered. 'One has gone. The other stayed with the greybeard.'

  'What do you mean, "gone"?' Tennyson asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

  'Gone means gone,' Bacari said insolently. 'He rode away. The other one stayed behind. He seems to be tending the bearded one.'

  Tennyson rose and began pacing the tent, his mind sorting through this strange turn of events. He turned back to the Genovesan. 'Did he take anything with him?'

  Bacari made a small gesture with his hands – it seemed to indicate that the information was unimportant.

  'Not that I could see. Aside from the two other horses.' He noticed that Tennyson's face was beginning to flush with rage as he heard this piece of news.

  'He took all the horses?'

  Bacari shrugged and nodded. He didn't say anything.

  'Did it occur to you,' Tennyson said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, 'that he obviously plans to bring someone back? That's why he took extra horses.'

  'He may be planning to bring back a healer. I thought of that. But if he is, so what? It will be no use. The bearded one has no chance. And besides, the nearest large settlement where he might hope to find a healer is Collings Vale – and that's more than a day's ride away. That means they won't be moving for at least three days – more if they wait to see if their friend can be cured.'

  Tennyson pondered this, his anger slowly subsiding. But the Genovesan's arrogant manner was still a thorn in his side.

  'True enough. You're sure there's no cure for this poison of yours?'

  'There's a cure. But they won't find it. However, the longer the bearded one survives, the better it is for us.'

  'Just how do you figure that?' Tennyson asked. The thoughtful frown was back on his face.

  'They won't travel any further while he's sick. So if they find a healer and he delays the inevitable, then that's all to the good. At least so far as we're concerned,' he added, with a cruel grin. 'Postponing things won't do the bearded one much good.'

  Tennyson thought about what the Genovesan had said and nodded several times. Finally he came a decision. 'I think you're right,' he said. 'But I want you to get back there and keep an eye on things, just in case.'

  The assassin bridled with anger. 'To what purpose?' he demanded. 'I've just ridden four hours. I tell you they're not going anywhere. I'm not going to spend a night out in the wet grass just because you're jumping at shadows! If you want to watch over them tonight, you go and do it.'

  Tennyson glared at him. Sooner or later, he had known it would come to this with the Genovesans. They were too proud, too arrogant. And too sure of themselves.

  'Keep a respectful tongue in your head when you talk to me, Signor Bacari,' he warned. The Genovesan let go a short bark of contemptuous laughter.

  'Or what? I don't fear you, fat man. I don't fear any of your men or your false god. The only person in this camp who is to be feared is me. Understand?'

  Tennyson forced down the rage that was welling up in him. The Genovesan was correct, he realised. But that didn't mean that, as soon as the chance arose, Tennyson wasn't going to kill him. For the moment, however, he would maintain an outward appearance of agreement.

  'You're right,' he said. 'You must be tired and cold. Get some food and rest.'

  Bacari nodded, satisfied that his point had been made. Now he could afford to compromise, for the sake of good relations – and until he found where Tennyson had stashed his gold.

  'I will sleep tonight,' he said haughtily. 'Tomorrow, before dawn, I will ride back to check on them.'

  'Of course,' Tennyson said in a silky tone. He wondered if Bacari knew how much he hated him at this moment – but took care not to let any hint of that fact enter his manner or tone of voice. 'That's an excellent compromise. After all, for the moment, they're not going anywhere, as you say.'

  Bacari nodded, satisfied. But he couldn't resist one las
t barbed statement.

  'That's right,' he said. 'It is as I say.'

  And he turned and swept out of the tent, his purple cloak swirling round him. Tennyson stared after him for several minutes, his fists clenching and unclenching in rage.

  'One day, my friend,' he said in a whisper, 'your turn will come. And it will be long and slow and painful. I promise you that.'

  Thirty-three

  Someone was watching them.

  Horace didn't know how he knew. He simply knew. Some sixth sense, the same extra sense that had kept him alive in a dozen combats, told him that someone was watching. He thought he'd sensed a presence on the previous day, when Will had left. Today, he was sure of it.

  He continued to move around the camp site, attending to the chores that needed his attention. He cleaned his breakfast utensils and the frying pan he'd used, scouring them with sand and then rinsing them clean in a bucket of clear water from the pond. Halt was still asleep and he seemed to be resting easily. Horace thought he preferred Halt that way, compared to the way he had been – mistaking Horace for Crowley and talking about a long-ago battle with bandits. There had been something decidedly unnerving about that. It forced him to acknowledge the fact that Halt was seriously ill, even close to death. The sight of him resting peacefully was more encouraging. He could believe – or at least he could hope – that the Ranger was actually recovering from the effects of the poison. Logically, he knew that it was only a matter of time before Halt woke again and rambled on about events long past. But hope doesn't always follow logic and he clung to it desperately.

  Besides, there was the small matter of someone watching them. That would need to be addressed before too long. He assessed the situation. He knew it would be a mistake to let the watcher know that he had been detected. But here in the open, there was no way he could scan the surrounding countryside to search for some sign of the observer without alerting him.

  The odds were that the unknown watcher was somewhere on the ridge to the south-east – the direction in which Tennyson and his group had been travelling. That, after all, was the direction of greatest danger. Of course, it could be someone who had no connection to their present situation – a random traveller who had crossed their trail. Or perhaps a robber, waiting his chance to steal into the camp, assessing his chances against the strangers, measuring their strengths and weaknesses.

  But the greater likelihood was that they were being observed by one of Tennyson's followers. And if that were so, it would most likely be the surviving Genovesan. For a moment, his flesh crawled at the thought of a crossbowman lying hidden somewhere out there. Then he relaxed. The low ridge was over three hundred metres away and Will had told him that the Genovesans were armed with relatively low-powered crossbows. Maximum accurate range couldn't be more than one hundred and fifty metres.

  But still, the thought that he was being watched rankled. It was like an itch that he couldn't reach to scratch. He glanced casually around the surrounding terrain. The nearest cover where he could scan the horizon without being seen was by the pond, some fifty metres away. It was in a depression in the ground and there were several trees and bushes growing beside the water. From there, he could easily find a concealed observation point. The only problem was, he had already fetched fresh water for the camp. It had been his first task of the morning, before he became aware of the eyes upon him. The watcher might not have been there at that time. But if he had, he would wonder why Horace was fetching water again so soon. And if he started to wonder, he'd grow suspicious.

  Then he'd either move off or move against them, and Horace wasn't ready for either of those alternatives. He wanted to know who was out there. And why. He wished Will was back. But the earliest he could expect him would be the next day – assuming he'd been able to maintain the pace he had planned on.

  An idea struck him. He moved to the fire and selected a few medium-sized branches from the pile of firewood. Adding them to the fire, he turned away and kicked against the full bucket of water. It lurched sideways and he stooped quickly, as if trying to prevent it tipping. In reality, he finished the job, shoving the bucket over onto its side, spilling the water.

  Some of the water ran into the freshly replenished fire, creating a plume of steam and smoke that would be easily visible to the observer. Just to make sure he got the full picture, Horace aimed a kick at the bucket, sending it spinning away, and said in a loud voice:

  'Damn it!'

  He was rather proud of that bit of byplay. He recalled a conversation at Castle Araluen some months prior, with a member of a touring acting company. The actor had advised Horace to take a seat a little way down the hall for their performance, not right at the front.

  'We have to play to the back of the house,' he had explained, 'so our expressions and gestures are somewhat larger than life. Sit too close and it becomes unrealistic.'

  At the time, Horace had thought he was simply creating an excuse for what seemed to be excessive over-acting. But now he saw the sense of it.

  I certainly played to the back of the house then, he thought with grim satisfaction.

  Halt had stirred and murmured briefly when Horace swore and kicked at the offending bucket. Horace checked on him now, reassuring himself that the Ranger had settled. He winced as he moved. His toe was bruised from the solid contact with the bucket and he knew it would ache for a day or two. He shrugged philosophically. Sometimes, an actor had to suffer for his art.

  He moved to retrieve the bucket then, walking through the camp, he bent quickly to his pack and picked up his sword and scabbard, holding them close against his side, out of sight. With any luck, the distant watcher wouldn't have seen what he'd picked up.

  Trying to look casual, he strolled across the grass to the pond. He walked down the shallow incline to the bank, dropping below ground level as he did so. As soon as the horizon was concealed from his sight – and, by the same token, he was concealed from anyone watching from there – he went into a crouch and placed the bucket on the ground. Staying in the crouch, he moved quickly to the cover of the trees and bushes, where he dropped belly down on the ground.

  Pushing himself along on elbows and knees, he squirmed carefully through the undergrowth until he could see the distant ridge.

  He began to scan it carefully, dividing it into sectors and searching methodically back and forth, keeping his eyes moving so they wouldn't become fixed to one focus. It took a couple of minutes, but finally he saw a quick movement. He caught it with his peripheral vision, then swung his eyes and focused on it. The watcher had edged forward. Perhaps, after Horace had dropped from sight, he was trying to find a better vantage point to catch sight of the young warrior again.

  Now his head and shoulders were visible above the ridge line. If he hadn't seen that small movement, chances are Horace would never have noticed. But now he could see the shape clearly. And he fancied he could also see a faint tinge of dull purple.

  'So you've come back, have you?' he muttered. He glanced around, searching the surrounding countryside, looking for a way he could approach the watcher without being seen.

  'I need a gully or a stretch of dead ground somewhere,' he said to himself. But he could see no such feature in the land between him and the ridge. Ruefully, he decided that if he were a Ranger, he would have the skill to ghost forward unseen and unheard through the long grass. But, even though Halt had given him a camouflage cloak, he knew the task was beyond him. And the thought of approaching an expert crossbowman across open ground was not an inviting one.

  Besides, it would take too long. The Genovesan would be expecting him to reappear in the next few minutes, heading back to the camp site with a replenished water bucket. If he became suspicious, who knew what his next action might be? No, Horace decided, since he couldn't get close to the man, it was best to pretend he hadn't spotted him. It would be a sleepless night tonight, he thought.

  He retrieved the bucket and, at the last moment, remembered to refill it. His mind
was so preoccupied with the problem of the watching Genovesan that he nearly forgot that small detail. If he'd had to make a return trip, that would really have roused the observer's suspicion, he thought.

  When he arrived back at the camp, the problem of the hidden watcher was pushed from his mind for a few minutes. He was delighted and surprised to find Halt awake and lucid.

  As they talked, it became apparent that Halt knew where they were and what had happened. He no longer mistook Horace for Crowley and his mind was well and truly back in the present.

  His throat was dry, however, and Horace fetched him a cup of coffee. He could see the colour flowing back into Halt's face as he drank the reviving beverage. After a few appreciative sips, Halt looked around the neat camp site.

  'Where's Will? I assume he's gone on after Tennyson?'

  Horace shook his head. 'He's gone to fetch Malcolm,' he replied and, as Halt momentarily puzzled over the name, he added, 'The healer.'

  That brought a frown of disapproval to Halt's face and he shook his head.

  'He shouldn't have done that. He should have left me to my own devices and followed the Outsiders. They'll be miles away by now! How long did you say I've been unconscious?'

  'Tomorrow will be the third day,' Horace said and the frown on Halt's face deepened.

  'That's too big a lead to give them. They could give you the slip. He shouldn't have wasted time going after Malcolm.'