Softly, Halt emitted the low, gurgling chuckle of a kingfisher. It was a good approximation of the real thing, but not perfect. If there happened to be a real kingfisher in the area, Halt didn’t want Abelard becoming confused. The horse’s acute hearing would pick the difference between the real thing and Halt’s impersonation. A man might not.
Abelard’s ears flicked forward and back twice in quick succession—his signal to Halt that he had registered the sound. Halt patted his muzzle again.
“Good boy,” he said quietly.“Now relax.”
He moved back to his vantage point among the rocks. There was a cleft between two of the larger boulders where he could sit, his head and face concealed by the cowl of his cloak, and survey the darkened expanse of the hillside below him. The moon wasn’t due to rise for at least four hours. He assumed that the enemy, if they were going to try anything, would do so before the slope was bathed in moonlight.
From time to time he heard the muted yelping and snarling of the dogs as they fought among themselves, then the cries of their trainers as they silenced them. They’d be the trackers, he knew. The massive, iron-jawed war dogs wouldn’t make noise. They were trained not to.
He considered the possibility that the enemy might unleash another war dog under cover of darkness but decided that it was unlikely. They had already lost three of the monsters to his arrows, and dogs like that were not to be squandered. They took years to breed and train. No, he thought, if an attack came, it would be men who launched it. And before they did that, they’d have to scout his position.
At least, that was what Halt was hoping for. He was beginning to see the first glimmer of a way out of this predicament. Carefully, he set his bow and quiver down beside the rocks. He wouldn’t be needing them. Any confrontation during the night would be at close quarters. He reached now into his saddlebag and found his two strikers.
These were unique Ranger weapons. They were brass cylinders, as long as the breadth of his hand with a lead-weighted knob at either end. When held in a closed fist, the strikers turned the fist into a solid, unyielding weapon, with the weight lending extra force and authority to a punch. They could also be clipped together, forming a throwing club that had the same balance as a Ranger’s saxe knife.
He slipped the two heavy cylinders into the side pocket of his jerkin.
“Stay here,” he told Abelard, although there was no need to do so. Then, belly to the ground, using his knees and elbows to propel himself, he slipped out of the cover of the rocks and moved downhill. Thirty meters below the spot where he’d taken cover, he stopped, slumping prone in the undergrowth, his cloak rendering him virtually invisible as soon as he stopped moving.
Now all he had to do was wait.
9
WILL AND CROWLEY SLIPPED QUIETLY AWAY FROM THE OTHER Rangers, the sandy-haired Commandant leading the way through the trees to a small, quiet glade. When he was sure there was nobody else within earshot, Crowley stopped and sat on a tree stump, looking up quizzically at Will.
“Disappointed that I left you in Seacliff?” he asked.
“No! Not at all!” Will answered hurriedly. Then, as Crowley continued to look at him, Will stared at the ground. “Well, perhaps a little, Crowley. It’s awfully quiet there, you know.”
“Some people might not think that’s a bad thing. We are supposed to keep peace in the kingdom, after all,” Crowley said.
Will shifted his feet awkwardly. “I know. It’s just that . . .”
He hesitated and Crowley nodded his understanding. Will had crammed a lot of excitement into his relatively short life. The fight with the Kalkara, the destruction of Morgarath’s secret bridge and his subsequent kidnapping by Skandian pirates. Then he’d escaped from captivity, played a pivotal role in the Battle for Skandia and returned home in triumph. Since then, he’d helped rescue the Skandian oberjarl from desert bandits and staved off a Scotti invasion at Norgate.
With a history like that, it was small wonder that he’d developed a taste for adventure—and that he found the uneventful life at Seacliff more than a little restricting.
“I understand,” Crowley told him.“You don’t need to explain. But I have to admit that I haven’t been totally forthcoming with you.”
He paused and Will looked at him curiously.
“Forthcoming?”
Crowley made an awkward gesture with one hand.“There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he said. “I think it’s important, and I think it’s a big opportunity for you. But you may not agree. As a matter of fact,” he added as an afterthought, “it’s partly the reason why Halt didn’t come to this Gathering.”
Will frowned, puzzled by the news. “But I thought he—”
“Oh, he’s off chasing down rumors about the Outsiders, all right. But that could possibly have waited. He used that as an excuse because he didn’t want to influence your decision one way or the other.”
“My decision? Crowley, you’re talking in riddles. What decision? What is it that Halt didn’t want to influence me about?”
Crowley indicated for Will to take a seat beside him and waited till the younger man was comfortable.
“It’s an idea I’ve been tossing around for some time,” he said.“Since you all went racing off to Arrida to fetch Erak back, as a matter of fact. Our world, or rather our sphere of influence in the world, is growing larger every day, Will. It extends past fief boundaries, past our own national boundaries at times.
“The Skandian operation was one example. So was your assignment in Norgate. We were lucky that we had someone as accomplished and capable as you to take that on, and that your own post at Seacliff was relatively quiet.”
Will felt his cheeks flushing at Crowley’s praise, but he said nothing. Crowley continued.
“Ordinarily, I couldn’t drag a Ranger out of his fief and send him somewhere else for weeks on end. But more and more, we’re facing that sort of necessity. Someday soon, for example, someone’s going to have to go to Skandia to see how the treaty arrangement is working—how our archers are faring over there. Who do I send? You? Halt? You’re the two logical choices because the Skandians know you and trust you. But what happens to your two fiefs in the meantime?”
Will could see the problem. But he had no idea where Crowley was going.
“That’s why I want to form a Special Task Group,” the Commandant said. “And I want Halt and you to run it.”
Will leaned forward, thinking over Crowley’s words. Already, he was interested in the idea and wanted to know more.
“Special Task Group,” he repeated, liking the sound of the words. “What would we be doing?”
Crowley shrugged. “Any situation, either within Araluen or overseas, that requires more than a routine response.
“Now that the threat of Morgarath has been removed, and with our northern border secured, Araluen is a powerful and influential player on the international stage. We have treaties in place with half a dozen other countries—including Arrida and Skandia, thanks to your own efforts.
“I’d like to think, and the King agrees with me, that we could have a small team ready to respond to any emergency that might crop up. Incidentally, I’d like to see Horace as part of that team as well. In the past, the three of you have pulled off some amazing successes. He’d remain based at Araluen until such time as he was needed. Then he’d be detached to work with you and Halt. And you’d be able to recruit other people as you needed them.”
“And I’d be based . . . where, exactly?” Will asked. Crowley’s face showed a hint of concern. He hesitated before he answered.
“That’s the problem. We can detach one knight from the Royal Guard without too much trouble. But we can’t have two fiefs, yours and Halt’s, left without their Rangers for extended periods of time. You’d have to give up Seacliff.”
“Oh,” Will said. Seacliff might be an unexciting little fief, but it was his. He represented the King’s authority on the peaceful little islan
d and, much as he had been anxious for change earlier in the evening, the thought of simply giving it up came as a wrench to him.
“Exactly,” Crowley said, reading his thoughts. “That’s why Halt didn’t want to be here when you decided. He knows that having your own fief is a big thing for a Ranger. It means independence and authority, and he didn’t want you to be influenced by his presence when I put this to you. He said he’d love to have you back at Redmont, but it had to be your decision to—”
“Back at Redmont!” Will said eagerly. “You didn’t mention that!”
Crowley frowned, then nodded. “No. I suppose I didn’t. Well, that is the plan. You’d take over Halt’s cabin—he and Pauline are very comfortable in the castle these days—and you’d oversee one half of Redmont Fief while Halt looked after the other. It’s a big fief, after all. There’d be plenty for both of you to do.”
A huge grin was spreading over Will’s face at the thought of it. To go back to Redmont, where he’d grown up. To be with Halt and Baron Arald and Sir Rodney.
And Alyss. The grin, already wide, grew immense.
“I assume from the ridiculously happy look on your face that the idea meets with a certain amount of approval?” Crowley said.
“Well . . . yes, actually. It certainly does. But—” A thought struck him, and he frowned at it. Crowley gestured for him to continue.
“Problem?” he prompted.
“Redmont is an important fief,” Will began. “You can hardly leave that without a Ranger in place if Halt and I have to attend to matters somewhere else.”
Crowley beamed at him. “I was hoping you’d raise that. Now I get a chance to show what an administrative genius I am. Gilan’s new fief adjoins the northeastern border of Redmont. In fact, Castle Whitby is less than ten kilometers from the border.” He raised a hand to still Will’s instant question. “Yes, yes. I know, Whitby is an important fief too. So that’s why, if you agree to all this, Alun will base himself at Whitby rather than Castle Araluen. He can still attend to paperwork and administration for me, and he’ll be on hand if you and Halt are called away. In such a case, Gilan moves into Redmont Fief—”
“Which he is familiar with anyway,” Will added.
“Exactly. He served his apprenticeship there, after all. Then Alun can resume temporary duty as Ranger of Whitby. And, of course, young Clarke will take your place at Seacliff. Didn’t I say I’m a genius?” He spread his hands, as if looking for praise.
Will nodded acknowledgment. “I have to agree.”
Crowley instantly became serious. “Of course, we’re lucky that at the moment we’re blessed with a wealth of talented people. It all dovetails quite nicely. Mind you, you’re yet to tell me if you accept.”
“Of course I accept,” Will told him. “I couldn’t think of a better plan.”
They shook hands on it, smiling. Then Crowley said cheerfully, “Now all we have to do is tell Halt when he comes back from his little holiday by the seaside.”
10
HALT HAD BEEN WAITING IN THE DARKNESS FOR OVER AN HOUR when he heard the sound of someone moving through the low shrubs close to him.
Anyone else might have turned his head to look, trying to see where the newcomer might be. Halt knew that any movement could lead to his discovery, so he stayed still as the rock he looked like. Instead, his ears, attuned to judge movement and direction by years of training and practice, told him that there was one man, moving up the hill and slightly to the right of where Halt lay prone, merging into the long grass.
The stalker was good. He made only slight noises as he progressed up the hill. But slight noises were enough to alert a Ranger, and Halt lay, unmoving, as he judged that the other man had moved level with him, then past him.
Now the man stopped moving and Halt realized that he was taking stock of the situation. There were four rocky outcrops within the next thirty meters. Any one of them could conceal Halt and Abelard.
After a few minutes, the man was on the move again, angling away to the farthest outcrop on the right. That made sense, Halt thought. If he was going to check them all out, his best course would be to work from one end of the line to the other.
As the noise of his movement faded, Halt raised his head slightly, moving only a millimeter at a time.
He let out the low, gurgling chuckle that he had rehearsed with Abelard. Instantly, the noise of the Outsider’s movement stopped as he tried to ascertain whether the sound was natural or not. After thirty seconds—a sufficiently long gap so that it didn’t sound like a response to the bird call—the low, snuffling snort of a horse came clearly from the rocks above Halt’s position. Then, for good measure, Abelard shook his mane.
Good boy, thought Halt. Chin on hand, he watched a dark shape sliding across the hillside, angling toward the clump of rocks where Abelard was concealed. He was aiming to skirt the rocks, Halt saw, and approach from uphill. It was time to spoil his plans a little. Stealthily, the Ranger began crawling after the other man.
He moved with remarkable speed, making no sound and seeming to glide snakelike over the ground on his belly. He could see the other man still—a dark crouching shape in the night—and hear the slight sounds that he made. Halt, even moving on his belly, was gaining ground on him, approaching him from directly behind and downhill.
Once, his quarry stopped moving and glanced quickly around him. He was obviously no novice at this game. But Rangers weren’t novices either. As the crouching man stopped, Halt froze instantly. His face was up but he knew it was shadowed by his cowl. He also knew that if he dropped his head to hide his face, the movement would catch the other man’s eye.
Trust the cloak. He’d dinned that lesson into Will’s brain hundreds of times. Now he took note of it himself. The man’s gaze passed over him, seeing nothing to alarm him. Then he faced back up the hill and began moving again. After a few seconds to make sure it wasn’t a feint, that the man hadn’t seen anything he felt was suspicious, Halt followed.
He was only a few meters behind his quarry now and could actually hear the man breathing. He’s tense, Halt thought. With his veins charged with adrenaline, the stalker’s breath was coming more heavily—probably without his knowing.
If he looked around now, he was bound to see Halt right behind him, cloak or no cloak. It was time to act. Halt rose slowly from the ground and crept forward in a low crouch, one of the strikers clenched in his right fist.
Perhaps Halt made some infinitesimal noise, or perhaps the other man just sensed a presence behind him, but he started to turn. Unfortunately for him, it was a few seconds too late. Halt swung an overhand blow and brought the striker knob down hard onto the man’s skull, just behind the left ear. He felt the shock up his arm as the man emitted a strangled grunt and collapsed, limp as a rag, onto the ground.
Still in a crouch, Halt grabbed him under the arms and quickly dragged him into the shelter of the rocks. Abelard looked at him curiously but made no sound.
“Good boy,” Halt said briefly. The horse responded by raising then lowering his head.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Halt said, and rolled the unconscious man onto his back. The would-be stalker was armed with a small arsenal of weapons. There was a short sword slung across his back. In addition, he had a long stabbing dagger in a belt sheath, another smaller knife in a scabbard strapped to his left forearm and a third tucked into the cuff of his boot. Halt examined them briefly. Cheap weapons, but kept well sharpened. He tossed them to one side. There was a length of cord looped around the man’s left shoulder. It was just over a meter in length and had a weighted ball at either end. A bolo, Halt recognized, a hunting weapon designed to be whirled around the head and thrown at a target’s legs. When the rope snagged the target, the weighted ends would whip around, tripping the victim and binding the feet together. Drawing his saxe knife, Halt cut the weights off the end and tossed them into the gorse.
The man was wearing a soft hat, folded up to form a narrow brim, and a th
igh-length jacket of rough wool, belted at the waist. Halt fastened the stalker’s thumbs behind his back with a pair of wood-and-rawhide thumb cuffs. Slipping the man’s patched and shabby boots off, he fastened his big toes with another pair of cuffs, wrinkling his nose at the rank smell of the man’s feet. When his prisoner was secured, he slipped his hands under the man’s arms, dragged him to a large rock and leaned his shoulders against it. Then Halt sat down to wait for him to regain consciousness.
After several minutes, he moved away from the downwind position he had taken, his nose twitching again.
“Those feet of yours smell like something crawled into your boots and died there,” he said softly. There was no reply.
It was some fifteen minutes later that the man emitted a shuddering sigh. His eyelids flickered open, and he shook his head to clear it.
Involuntarily, he tried to reach up to rub his eyes, then discovered that his hands were fastened securely behind his back. He struggled briefly against the restraint, then winced and uttered a cry of pain as the leather thong of the thumb cuffs cut into the soft skin at the base of his thumbs.
“Stay still and you won’t hurt yourself,” Halt told him quietly.
The man looked up in alarm, registering Halt’s presence for the first time. The Ranger had been sitting, quiet and unmoving, only a few meters away. Halt now saw a bewildered look pass over the unshaven face as the man tried to recall what had happened, how he had arrived in this predicament. Judging by the expression on his face, he had no idea. Then bewilderment gave way to anger.
“Who are you?” he demanded roughly. His aggressive tone left no doubt that he was used to berating people to get his own way.
Halt smiled thinly. Had the man known anything about the gray-bearded figure sitting opposite him, that alone would have been enough to set alarm bells ringing. Halt rarely smiled, and even more rarely was it a sign of good humor.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 6