“Let me know if she needs anything,” he said. The woman nodded and he put gentle pressure on the reins, letting Cropper know that he should slow down and drop back to their original position.
Sir Athol gave him an inquiring glance and Crowley smiled. “They seem to be fine,” he said. “The Queen’s sleeping.”
Sir Athol yawned. It had been an early start and he had slept badly the night before, nervous about the responsibilities he would face on the journey.
“Wish I could join her,” he said, then immediately went red as a beetroot as he realized how that statement could be misconstrued. “I mean . . . I didn’t . . . I mean to say . . . ,” he gabbled.
Crowley leaned over and put a hand on his arm. “Relax. I know what you mean.”
Gradually, Athol’s face regained its normal shade and he made a bitter mental note to always, always think before speaking in future. Then he realized that Crowley wasn’t paying him any attention. He had edged Cropper out to the roadside, and was peering ahead of the carriage. As he noted this, Athol became aware of the sound of galloping hooves up ahead.
“Come on,” said Crowley, and he urged Cropper forward, overtaking the carriage and moving to the head of the column.
One of the two forward scouts was reining in his horse as they came closer. Athol and Crowley rode closer to the scout.
“Ranger Crowley,” the man said. His tone was urgent but he had the sense to keep his voice low. “We’ve spotted a band of brigands up ahead. They look like they’re planning to ambush the carriage.”
11
HALT REGARDED THE THIN, RAGGED FIGURE WITH NEW interest.
“How long have you been living up here?” he asked. Norman’s expression became vague as he tried to answer. He frowned and finally spoke.
“Dunno,” he said. “Must be five years or more. I came up here after the big floods in the Mossback Valley. My house was washed away. It was the third time I’d been flooded, but before then, the house had been all right. I thought I’d head for higher ground.”
It was Halt’s turn to frown as he heard this. Pritchard had told him of the Mossback Valley floods. They had been the worst natural disaster in the southeast corner of Araluen in living memory.
“But that must have been eleven years ago, not five,” he said.
Norman nodded casually. “If you say. Been here a long time, anyways.”
“And the Wargals didn’t bother you?” Halt asked.
A bitter look came over Norman’s face. “Wargals was no problem. They was a peaceful folk then. Have been right up until the Black Lord took control of them. Not saying we was friends, mind you. They was shy, and they avoided contact with me. Kept themselves to themselves, and so long as I did the same, things was fine. But they was never no threat to me before.”
“What about now?” Halt asked. He lowered himself to the sandy ground and sat cross-legged in front of the older man.
“The Black Lord knows I’m here,” Norman said. “He doesn’t want anyone spying on him or seeing what he’s up to. So he set the Wargals after me to hunt me down and kill me.” He shrugged angrily. “I’m not interested in spying on him, mind. Live and let live is my motto. But that doesn’t seem to be the way he thinks.”
“So how did you avoid them?” Halt asked, and Norman’s anger was replaced by a cunning smile.
“I knows the land,” he said. “I knows every path through the rocks, every cave, every tunnel, every blind canyon.” He swept his arms around the bleak landscape. “These rocks and mountains are riddled with tunnels and caves and I’ve spent years studying them. I can come and go as I please and even the Wargals can’t track me.
“Eventually, the Black Lord realized that trying to catch me was a waste of his time and gave it away. Mind you,” he added seriously, “I still don’t take any chances with the Wargals. I steer well clear of them. Once an idea like that has been put in their heads, they’ll keep on with it.”
In the background, the rhythmic grunting and foot stamping had been continuing. Now, suddenly, it stopped. Norman looked quickly at the position of the watery sun in the sky and frowned.
“They’re finished early,” he said. “That’s not a good thing. They may have got wind of the fact that we’re here.”
“How would that have happened?” Halt asked.
Norman shook his head emphatically. “I never stop to ask that question. Stopping is the way to get caught. The Black Lord has lookouts in the mountains above his base. Maybe they saw us moving in the rocks.” He paused. “Not me, mind you. But if you didn’t know they was there, you might have been spotted.”
Halt raised an eyebrow. When they were on the move, Rangers weren’t “spotted,” as Norman put it. But the drill session on the open plain had definitely stopped and perhaps the hermit was right. It was time for them to move.
He glanced in the direction of the field where the Wargals had been drilling. “We’re wasting time. Best we get out of here now.”
• • •
They moved at a brisk pace through the tumbled rocks and trackless land, zigzagging between the larger outcrops, sometimes climbing over the lower ones. At Norman’s insistence, they moved in a half crouch, seeking cover from the rocks and groves of stunted trees as they went, and angling away from the drill field and the mountain where Morgarath had his base.
On two occasions, the ragged hermit led Halt into tunnels beneath the larger rocks. They sloped down, and the two men could see by virtue of a dim light that filtered through cracks in the rock ceiling overhead. The tunnels twisted and turned, and there were numerous side trails and forks in their path. But Norman seemed to know unerringly where they had to go.
On both occasions, when the tunnels returned to ground level, he would pause and scout ahead, peering cautiously round the tunnel entrance to make sure the way was clear. Then he would scamper off, threading his way through the narrow spaces between the rocks. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the zigzag path that he took, but he never hesitated. He was obviously following a trail that only he could see.
Eventually, they arrived at a rock wall—a sheer face of granite that towered nearly forty meters above them. The rock face appeared to be blank, and Halt hesitated, puzzled. Norman grinned at him and motioned for him to follow, leading the way to where a section of the granite stood out like a solid buttress from the cliff. Mystified, Halt followed him as he made his way down the edge of the buttress, then suddenly disappeared from sight.
When Halt reached the spot where his guide had disappeared, he saw a narrow split in the rock, invisible until you were virtually upon it. It was less than a meter wide and he stepped sideways through it, to discover a grinning Norman waiting for him in a cavern that opened up behind the narrow opening.
“This is my cave,” he said, gesturing for Halt to come farther inside.
Halt stared about the cavern in wonder. It was massive. A large sandy level space stretched out on both sides, forming the floor. In the distant shadows, he could see a curved rock wall, forming a semicircle. There were several dark holes, entrances to other tunnels leading away from this main gallery.
The ceiling soared high above them, and there were gaps in what was obviously the granite wall that they had faced outside. Daylight filtered through these, illuminating the cavern with a soft, diffuse light.
“So this is where you live?” Halt said, staring about him. But Norman snickered and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward one of the tunnel entrances.
“No. Not here! I live through here. Come and see!”
The tunnel was dark and constricting after the light of the huge cavern. Halt followed Norman blindly as it twisted and turned, then he saw more light ahead and finally the tunnel opened into another cavern. It was smaller than the first, but still roomy and well lit. High-set cracks in the walls and ceiling allowed light to enter as in the la
rger cavern. Halt could see the stones of a fireplace arranged against one wall and, a few meters away, a bedroll and a rough camp chair, constructed from twisted tree limbs, with a canvas seat. Several blackened pots and pans were ranged in a line beside the fireplace, and a large wooden bucket stood a few meters away. Halt heard water trickling and looked closer. A spring ran down one side of the cavern, culminating in a shallow rock pool, then draining away as the pool filled and overflowed into the crevices and cracks in the rock floor below it.
He looked up again, studying the network of narrow apertures in the ceiling. Smoke from the fire would be dispersed through there, he thought. With so many ways for it to exit, it would be virtually invisible from the outside.
“What do you live on?” he asked, still looking about in wonder.
“Coneys and birds mainly,” Norman answered. “Plenty of plovers in the rocks hereabouts. And I trap the coneys. Plenty of them too.”
Coneys were rabbits, Halt knew. “You can’t live just on rabbits,” he said. Rabbit flesh was too lean to sustain life over a long period, although he supposed the plovers would provide the necessary fat and minerals that were missing from rabbit meat.
Norman jerked a thumb upward. “Got me a small vegetable garden up on the cliffs,” he said. “I grows greens and turnips and potatoes there. Keep myself well fed.”
“I’m sure you do,” Halt replied, still looking around, taking stock of his surroundings. It was a remarkable place, he thought. Roomy, airy and sheltered. And well hidden.
“And Morgarath has never managed to find you?” he asked.
Norman sneered. “He won’t stir himself to look for me. Guess he figures I’m beneath him. He knows I’m somewhere on the plateau but he’s learned to leave me alone. His Wargals can never find me. He set them after me a few times. But I always managed to give them the slip. These days, he doesn’t bother with me. Knows I’m here somewhere, but doesn’t have the time or energy to find me.”
“That may change if he realizes I’m here,” Halt said. “He hates me like poison.”
Norman shrugged. “No way he’s going to know about you,” he said comfortably. “Just stay here nice and cozy and stay out of his way. You’re welcome to whatever I have.”
“That’s kind of you,” Halt said, and he meant it. “But I can’t stay cooped up in here. I have to find out what he’s up to—what he’s planning. And I need to know more about these Wargals that he has working for him.”
Norman shook his head warningly. “You go traipsing around these mountains on your own and spying on him, you’ll come to no good,” he said. “I know these rocks and tunnels and caves like the back of my hand. And the Wargals have lived up here for hundreds of years, far as I know. But you—you’d be a novice out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the far cavern and the entrance. “You go out there snooping around and you’ll be seen. And once they see you they’ll come after you.”
“I understand that,” Halt said. “I was hoping you might help me—guide me if you like.”
Norman shook his head. “Not me. Why would I want to stir up a hornet’s nest just to satisfy your curiosity?”
Halt spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. “Well, you might want to get rid of Morgarath—the Black Lord,” he corrected himself.
But Norman snorted dismissively. “He don’t bother me. Can’t find me for a start. Let well enough alone, I say.”
Halt looked at the old hermit but Norman wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was staring into the ashes of his fireplace. The Ranger decided to try another tack.
“Maybe you’d help me because Morgarath is planning to start a rebellion in the Kingdom and seize the throne,” he said. But again Norman remained looking into the ashes and again he shook his head.
“No worry of mine if he does,” he said. “He takes over the Kingdom, he won’t be staying up here, will he? He’ll be back in the lower country, living in a fine castle.”
“Well,” said Halt, “I guess I’ll have to just see for myself.”
This time, Norman looked up and met his gaze. The watery blue eyes were deadly serious.
“You do that, they’ll kill you, sure as anything,” he said.
12
CROWLEY RUBBED HIS CHIN THOUGHTFULLY. HE WASN’T altogether surprised to hear that an ambush had been laid ahead of them. The carriage was obviously an expensive vehicle and, as such, it would carry a wealthy passenger.
And the roads in Araluen were still unsafe and afflicted by bands of robbers and brigands. In the few years, the rule of law throughout the Kingdom had suffered badly, and Duncan was yet to restore it.
Exacerbating the situation was Morgarath’s having weakened the Ranger Corps so badly. The Rangers would normally have led the way in keeping down such robber bands. It was one of the main priorities in Crowley’s reorganization of the Corps, but so far, he didn’t have the numbers of Rangers necessary to carry out the program.
Athol made a gesture down the road in the direction from which the archer had ridden and spoke in a low voice to Crowley. “Do you think these brigands know that the Queen is traveling with us?”
Crowley shook his head. “It’s possible. There are spies everywhere these days. But I doubt it. Not that it matters overmuch. They’ll know that anyone in a carriage like this will be a worthwhile target.”
He caught the coachman’s eye and gave him a signal to halt, pointing to a small cleared space beside the road where he should take the carriage. The little cavalcade came to a stop.
Crowley turned to the scout who had brought the warning to them. “Tell me,” he said, “what did you see?”
“About ten minutes ago, we heard a horse galloping on the road, coming up from behind us. It was a scout for the robbers. He went past us and a little farther down the road. That’s when we saw his comrades. They rode out of the trees and he alerted them that a carriage was coming.”
“Did he see you?”
“No, sir. We were riding off the road, making our way through the trees to avoid being seen. He went straight past us without a second glance. We listened to him making his report and then we withdrew fifty meters back down the road. The robbers deployed to either side. They’re waiting in the trees for the carriage to come level.”
“How many?” Crowley asked.
“Fifteen or sixteen,” the archer told him.
Crowley inclined his head thoughtfully. The spy had seen the carriage, so he would also have seen the size of the escort. If sixteen robbers were willing to attack a force of ten men-at-arms, they must have a lot of confidence in their ability. Still, they would assume they had surprise on their side. A shower of spears from either side of the road could take down half the escort. Then a rapid charge while the remainder were confused and disorganized would probably give them a quick and easy victory.
But now their prey had been warned, the element of surprise would be against them. He thought quickly. The Queen’s health dictated that she shouldn’t be put under any stress or danger. Therefore he would have to deal with these brigands where they were, avoiding any direct attack on the carriage.
“Stay here,” he told Athol, “and deploy your men around the carriage in a screen, just in case these bandits get past us.”
“What are you going to do?” Athol asked.
Crowley pointed down the road. “I’m going back with young Donald here”—he knew the names of all five archers, a sign of a good commander—“to discourage them.”
“Just three of you?” Athol said. “Let me come with you. You might be able to use an extra sword.”
But Crowley shook his head. “I don’t plan on letting them get within sword’s reach,” he said. “Three of us should be able to manage that. But when the other two archers catch up, send them forward to help us.”
He saw the lady-in-waiting he had spoken to earlier. She was looking out the w
indow of the carriage, trying to catch his eye. He trotted Cropper over to the vehicle.
“Yes, Lady Ingrid?”
“The Queen wants to know why we’ve stopped,” Ingrid said. “Is there a problem?”
Crowley leaned down in his saddle to look into the carriage. On the far side, propped up on the litter, he could see that the Queen was awake. Her pale face stood out in the dim interior of the carriage.
“No problem, my lady,” Crowley said, with a reassuring grin. “Just some business on the road ahead that we need to take care of. Nothing for you to worry about.”
But Rosalind was no fool. She knew that they wouldn’t have stopped for anything trivial and she knew the situation on the roads in Araluen as well as Crowley did.
“Be careful, Crowley,” she said, her voice barely carrying to him where he sat astride Cropper beside the carriage. “I don’t want to lose you. My husband needs you.”
His grin widened. “I don’t plan on being lost, my lady,” he said. He nodded his head toward the young knight a few meters behind him. “Sir Athol will take care of things here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Make sure you are,” she said, then, obviously exhausted by the effort of conversing, she sank back among the cushions of her litter, her eyes closing.
Crowley glanced round at Athol. “Make sure she’s safe,” he said quietly. The young knight turned in his saddle and began calling commands to his men in a lowered tone, positioning them in a screen around the carriage and its passenger.
“Let’s go, Donald,” Crowley said to the archer, and the two of them set their heels to their horses and cantered away down the road. After sixty or seventy meters, Donald held up a warning hand and they slowed to a trot. There was no sense in warning the enemy of their approach. They were coming to a sharp turn in the road, where it veered left to avoid a massive oak. Crowley saw the dim shape of the second archer waiting in its shadows. He rode close to the other man, who gave him an informal salute.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 8