They emerged from the cluster of market stalls into clear ground.
“Over there,” said Horace, pointing.
An armed man stood a few meters clear of the trees. Behind him, half hidden by the uncertain shadows among the trees, more armed men were visible. Standing between Halt and Horace’s position at the edge of the market ground were three of the village’s watchmen. They too were armed, but their weapons—clubs, a sickle blade mounted on a spear handle and one slightly rusty sword—seemed inadequate when viewed against the chain mail, swords, shields and maces wielded by the newcomers.
As the two Araluens watched, one of the village guards called a challenge to the man standing clear of the trees.
“That’s far enough! You have no business here. Turn around and be on your way!”
The stranger laughed. It was a harsh sound, devoid of any humor.
“Don’t tell me where my business lies, farmer! I’ll come and go as I please. My men and I serve Balsennis, the mighty god of destruction and chaos. And he’s decided that it’s time your village paid him tribute.”
A buzz of recognition went around the marketplace as he spoke the name Balsennis. They had heard Tennyson warn of this dark and evil spirit, heard him blame the god for the reign of lawlessness and terror that was sweeping Clonmel.
Several more of the town watchmen had thrust their way through the crowd. They had obviously armed themselves in haste, as most of them carried makeshift weapons. They formed up in an uneven line behind the first two. There were ten of them in all. If their intent was to discourage the stranger with their numbers, they were doomed to failure. He laughed again.
“That’s what you have to oppose me? A dozen farmers, armed with sharp sticks and sickles? Get out of my way! I’ve got eighty armed fighting men in the trees here. If you choose to resist, we’ll kill every man, woman and child in the village, and then take what we want. Drop your weapons and we might spare some of you! I’ll give you ten seconds to think it over.”
Halt leaned closer to Horace and said in a low tone, “If you wanted to frighten people with your overwhelming numbers, would you keep them hidden in the forest?”
Horace frowned. He had been thinking much the same thing. “If I had eighty men, I think I’d show them. A show of force like that would be more frightening than simply talking about them.”
“So the odds are,” Halt said, “that he’s bluffing.”
“Probably. But he’s still got the watchmen outnumbered. I count at least twenty men in the trees. Of course,” he added, “the village can probably muster more men, given time. Those dozen out there are just the ones on duty at the moment.”
“Exactly. So why give them time, as he’s doing now?”
“Time’s nearly up, farmer! Make up your mind. Stand aside or die!”
There was a bustle of movement within the crowd, and Halt looked in the direction it was coming from. He nodded slowly.
“Ah. I thought something like this might happen.”
Horace followed his gaze and saw the burly, white-robed figure of Tennyson pushing through to the front of the crowd. He was followed by half a dozen of his acolytes.
Horace recognized them as the group who had been singing earlier in the day, two women and four men.
Strangely, despite the threatening situation, there was no sign of Tennyson’s usual giant retainers.
The white-robed priest strode purposefully out to stand between the watchmen and the bandit chief. He carried his staff, with the unusual double-circle emblem of the Outsiders at its head. His voice, deep and sonorous, carried clearly to all in the market ground.
“Be warned, stranger! This village is under the protection of Alseiass, the Golden God of friendship.”
The bandit laughed once more. But this time there was genuine amusement in his voice.
“What do we have here? A fat man with another stick? Pardon me while I tremble in fear!”
As he spoke, some of his men emerged from the trees and moved to form a line behind him. There were perhaps fifteen of them in all. They joined in his laughter and called insults and curses at Tennyson. The burly priest stood unflinching, his arms spread wide. When he spoke again, his voice drowned out the catcalls and insults.
“I give you warning. You and your false god cannot stand against the power of Alseiass! Leave now or suffer the consequences! If I call on Alseiass, you will know pain such as you have never felt.”
“Well, priest, if I take my blade to your fat hide, you’ll know some pain yourself!”
The bandit drew his sword. His followers did likewise, the rasp of steel sounding across the field. The dozen watchmen, who were slightly behind Tennyson, began to move forward, but the priest signaled for them to stay back. At the same time, the outlaws began to advance toward him. More of them emerged from the trees, swords drawn.
Tennyson stood firm. He turned and said a quiet word to his six followers. Instantly, they dropped to their knees in a semicircle around him, facing the outlaws, and began to sing. The words of their song were in some foreign tongue. Tennyson raised his long staff and pointed it at the line of advancing bandits.
The intruders continued to advance. Then the singers hit a strange and discordant harmony—a strident sound that rang in the air, the overtones setting up a harmonic vibration that seemed to pulse and throb eerily. Tennyson now raised his staff high in the air and his singers held the note, swelling the volume.
The effect was instantaneous. The leading bandit stopped and staggered backward as if struck by some invisible force. His men also seemed to lose the use of their limbs, staggering and blundering in wild circles. Some threw up their free hands as if to ward off a physical blow. They cried out in pain and fear.
The choir paused for breath, then sang the same chord once more, even louder this time, as Tennyson gestured for them to rise to their feet. With the invisible barrier of the chord preceding them, they began to advance toward the bandits.
It was too much. The intruders, their spirit broken, turned and fled in terror and confusion, colliding with one another as they ran back into the trees. As the last of them disappeared into the shadows, Tennyson called a halt and his choir fell silent.
Now the priest turned back to the people of Mountshannon, who had watched openmouthed with awe as he drove the intruders off. He smiled at them, holding his arms wide as if to embrace them.
“People of Mountshannon, give praise to the god Alseiass who has saved us this day!” he boomed.
And the spell was broken as the villagers streamed forward to surround him, calling out his name and the name of his god. He stood among them, smiling and blessing them as they swarmed around him, seeking to kneel before him, to touch him, to shout his name and to thank him.
Halt and Horace stood back and exchanged a glance. Horace scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“Funny,” he said, “those bandits were completely disabled. That strange chord hit them like a ton of bricks, didn’t it?”
“It certainly seemed to,” Halt agreed.
“Yet I couldn’t help noticing,” Horace went on, “that as they were staggering and suffering and terrified, not one of them dropped his sword.”
“Indeed,” said Halt.
26
WILL KEPT TUG MOVING AT A STEADY LOPE THROUGHOUT THE day. It wasn’t the Rangers’ forced march pace, but it ate up the distance on the road to Mountshannon, and he knew Tug would keep up the pace as long as he was asked.
He also knew that he would probably reach the village after Driscoll had put on what he had referred to as his “show.” Even though he was mounted, the ridge road was long and circuitous, and the thirty-man raiding party had far less distance to cover on the lower road they were following.
He was becoming convinced that there would be no attack as such. The bandits were planning a thrust at Mountshannon, but for what purpose he wasn’t yet sure. Driscoll had referred to a “holy man,” and Will assumed that was Tennyson. He wasn
’t sure how the preacher fit into the overall plan, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that the real attack would be on Craikennis the following day.
He reached Mountshannon in the middle of the afternoon. As he passed the guard post by the bridge, Will raised his eyebrows when he saw it was deserted. So were the streets of Mountshannon. For a moment, he feared the worst. But as he rode in, he heard a good deal of noise coming from the other end of the village. Singing, shouting, laughing.
“Someone’s having a good time,” he said to Tug. “Wonder if it’s Halt?”
Halt’s no singer, the horse replied.
He followed the noise to the end of the village. It seemed that the entire population was gathered on a large meadow outside the protective barricade, where a marketplace had been set up. But the stalls and livestock pens were deserted now and a sizable crowd was gathered in front of a large white pavilion set in the southwest corner of the meadow.
He reined Tug in, staying in the shadow of a house while he surveyed the scene before him. In the adjacent corner, he made out the two low tents that Horace and Halt had pitched. But he could see no sign of his friends there.
He turned his attention back to the large pavilion. It was surrounded by a noisy mass of celebrating villagers. Food was roasting over several open fires, and a cask of ale had been perched on a table and broached. By the looks of things, most of the villagers had taken their share.
In the center of the throng he could see a smaller group of white-robed figures. The large, heavily built man with shoulder-length gray hair must be Tennyson, he thought. He was the center of attention, with a constant stream of villagers coming up to him, touching his arm, patting him on the back and offering him choice cuts from the roasting meat.
“Something’s happened,” Will said to himself. Then he made out Halt and Horace standing at the back of the crowd. As he saw them, the bearded Ranger glanced around and made eye contact. Will saw him nudge Horace, then point unobtrusively to the two small tents some fifty meters away. Will nodded and urged Tug forward in a walk. He headed around the far side of the market stalls to lessen the probability that he’d be noticed. But he sensed nobody was looking his way in any event. Tennyson and his people were the focus of all attention.
He reached the campsite, unsaddled Tug and rubbed him down thoroughly. The little horse had put in a hard day and he deserved some attention. Then Will foraged in his pack and found an apple. Tug crunched it blissfully. Tug was nosing around his pockets, searching for a second apple, when Halt and Horace made their way back to camp. Will slapped his neck affectionately before unstrapping his pack and finding another apple.
“You spoil that horse,” Halt said.
Will glanced at him. “You spoil yours.”
Halt considered the thought, then nodded. “That’s true,” he admitted.
“Welcome back,” Horace said, deciding not to join this discussion of how a horse should be treated. He knew that when Rangers started talking about their horses, it could take a lot to shut them up.
Will stretched himself, imagining he could hear the tendons cracking and groaning in his stiff arms and legs. It had been a long ride and he was thirsty. He grunted in satisfaction as he relaxed his muscles and looked meaningfully at the coffeepot, upside down beside the fire.
“I’ll make it,” Horace said. He filled the pot from a canteen hanging in a nearby tree, then blew on the embers of the fire to get the flames going again. He added a handful of kindling until the fire was burning brightly, then shoved the pot into the hot coals beside the flames.
Will settled himself onto the soft ground by the fireplace. There was a convenient log for him to rest his back against, and he sighed in contentment. He nodded toward the noisy gathering some hundred meters away.
“I take it that’s our friend Tennyson?”
Halt nodded. “He’s quite a local hero.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “A hero, you say?” He sensed the irony in Halt’s tone.
Horace, readying a handful of ground coffee beans from a small linen sack, glanced up from his work. “Saved the village of Mountshannon from a terrible fate, did Tennyson,” he put in.
Will looked from Horace to Halt, a question in his eyes. “Bandits tried to attack the village a few hours ago,” the Ranger explained. “A force of armed men came out of those woods there, threatening all sorts of dire consequences if the villagers put up any resistance. And our friend Tennyson just calmly strolled up and told them to be off. And off they went.”
“Not before his followers sang at them,” Horace reminded him.
Halt nodded. “That’s true. A couple of verses and the bandits were staggering around, hands over their ears.”
“The singing was that bad?” Will asked, straight-faced. He had a pretty good idea what had happened earlier in the day. Now Driscoll’s cryptic comment about a holy man began to make sense.
“The singing was very good, so Horace tells me. But the sheer force of Tennyson’s personality, and the power of his god Alseiass, was enough to see off a force of eighty men.”
“Thirty,” Will said, and his friends looked at him inquisitively. “There were only thirty. They were led by a man called Driscoll, and they were never going to attack.”
“You know this?” Halt said.
“I know it. I eavesdropped outside their leader’s tent last night. The plan wasn’t to attack Mountshannon. They referred to ‘putting on a show’ here. But then one of them said they’d do more than that at Craikennis, because ‘there’d be no holy man to send them packing.’ ”
“Which Tennyson did here,” Halt said, seeing the connection.
“Exactly. But tomorrow at Craikennis, there will be eighty of them. They’re joining up with a further fifty men, and this time they won’t be pretending. They’ll tear the place apart.”
His expression darkened as his mind went back to the scene at Duffy’s Ford. He knew how pitiless these raiders could be.
Halt scratched his beard thoughtfully. “So the fake attack here was simply an opportunity for Tennyson to demonstrate his power.”
“And his ability to protect the village,” Horace put in. “Remember what he was saying yesterday? ‘Who can protect you?’ This was obviously intended to make his point—only Alseiass, by virtue of Tennyson.”
“Exactly,” Halt said, his eyes narrowing. “Craikennis will demonstrate what happens if Tennyson isn’t around. Bandits attack Mountshannon, and Tennyson chases them off. A day later, bandits attack Craikennis, and there’s no sign of Tennyson. It’s obvious what the result will be.”
“The villagers will be massacred,” Will said quietly. “Craikennis will be Duffy’s Ford all over again, but ten times worse.”
“That’s the way I read it,” Halt said. “It’ll be an object lesson for the people of Clonmel. With Tennyson on your side, you’re safe. Without him, you’re dead.” He turned to Horace. “It’s the big event I said he needed.”
Horace studied his friends’ grim faces.
“We’re going to have to do something,” he said. He felt his anger rising at the thought of the helpless villagers attacked by vicious bandits. When he had been knighted, Horace had sworn an oath to protect the weak and the helpless.
Halt nodded agreement. “Saddle up. We’ll leave the tents here so it’ll look as if we’re coming back. I don’t want Tennyson wondering why we’ve suddenly left. We have to get to Craikennis tonight and warn them. That way, they can organize their defenses.”
“What about us?” Will asked. “Are we going to take a hand in this?”
Halt looked at his two young friends. Will’s face was grim and determined. Horace was flushed with anger and indignation. The gray-bearded Ranger nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I rather think we are.”
27
THEY TOOK A CIRCUITOUS ROUTE OUT OF MOUNTSHANNON. Halt wasn’t sure if Tennyson was watching their movements, but if he was, the Outsider would have seen them depart to
the southwest. Once clear of the village, however, they followed a series of back roads and smaller trails that took them in a giant circle until they were headed due east, to Craikennis.
“What was the name of the fellow who led the false attack?” Halt asked Will at one stage.
“Driscoll,” Will told him.
“Well, we need to make sure that we don’t run into him and his scruffy band. Keep your eye on the ground for any sign of tracks.”
Will nodded. They were all aware that Driscoll and his thirty men were heading in the same general direction they were, to rendezvous with Padraig and the main party a few kilometers from Craikennis. But as the afternoon wore on into evening, they saw no sign of them. Halt assumed they had taken a different route.
There was an early moon, and they continued riding after dark. To make up for the time they’d lost taking their original detour to the southwest, Halt led them off the road and they cut across country, directly toward Craikennis. Around nine in the evening, they saw the lights of the little village across the fields. The three travelers eased their horses to a stop and took stock of the situation. They were on a slightly elevated position and could see the main road leading out of Craikennis—the road down which Padraig and his men were expected to come the next day. There was no traffic on the road now, no sign of the outlaw band.
Halt grunted in satisfaction.
“Looks quiet enough,” he said. “But keep your eyes and ears open.” He touched Abelard with his heel and the little horse trotted forward.
They crossed two more fields, then rode out onto the high road. As on their previous visit, the guard post was manned by two watchmen. Halt had hoped that they’d encounter the guards from their previous visit. It would save time identifying themselves. But unfortunately, these were two new men. They stepped out into the road, one of them holding his hand aloft in a signal for the three riders to stop.
“Idiots,” Halt muttered to his companions. “If we were here to cause trouble, we could simply ride them both down.”
The sentry who had signaled them to stop stepped forward and peered suspiciously at them. These were not run-of-the-mill travelers, he thought. Two of them wore mottled, hooded cloaks, rode small shaggy horses and carried massive longbows. The other rider was taller and rode a heavyset battlehorse. A long sword hung at his side, and there was a round buckler strapped to the saddle ties behind him.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 17