“Will! Get that water jug in the tent! It’s been drugged! Don’t let anyone interfere with it!”
He saw a moment of confusion in Will’s eyes, then dawning comprehension. If the water had been drugged, they’d need to keep it safe to prove the fact.
Will spun on his heel and darted away.
Horace jogged Halt’s arm. “Let’s keep moving,” he said.
Halt turned to him. In spite of the urgency in Horace’s tone, an observer would have thought they were simply discussing unimportant matters.
“We’ll call for a postponement,” he said. “You can’t fight if you can’t see.”
But Horace shook his head. “Tennyson will never accept that. If we withdraw, he’ll claim victory. Unless we can prove that they’ve broken the rules.”
“Well, of course they’ve broken the rules! They’ve drugged you!”
“But can we prove it? Even if we prove that the water’s drugged, can we prove they did it? I’ll have to keep going for now, Halt.”
“Horace, you can’t fight if you can’t see!” Halt repeated. His voice was strained now. He should never have gotten Horace into this, he told himself bitterly.
“I can see, Halt. I just can’t focus,” Horace told him, with the ghost of a smile. “Now let’s go. The scrutineers are waiting.”
43
THE PURPLE-CLOAKED FIGURE SLID EASILY THROUGH THE LAST-MINUTE customers around the food and drink vending stalls. As he approached the tall white pavilion, he slowed his pace a little, glancing left and right to see if there was anybody watching him.
But he saw no sign of surveillance and walked directly to the entrance. As before, the tent flaps were fastened on the outside, which meant there could be nobody in the tent. Quickly, his strong fingers undid the knots. As the last one fell loose, he resisted the temptation to look around. Such an action would only appear furtive, he knew. Far better to simply walk in as if he had every right to be here.
He slipped the dagger from the scabbard under his left arm—it never hurt to take precautions—and stepped quickly into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back into place.
He let out a pent-up breath, relaxing. There was nobody inside, and the water jug stood on the table where he had last seen it. Quickly, he crossed to the table, picked up the jug and poured its contents onto the ground, watching in satisfaction as the drugged water soaked into the dirt.
“And that’s the end of the evidence,” he said softly, in a satisfied voice, a second before something heavy and hard crashed into his head, behind the ear, and everything went black.
“So you say,” Will said. He resheathed his saxe knife, satisfied that the Genovesan was unconscious. He rolled the man over on his back and searched him quickly, disarming him as he did so. He glanced curiously at the crossbow that had been slung over the man’s shoulder. It was a graceless weapon, he thought, heavy and utilitarian. He tossed it to one side and resumed searching the unconscious man. There was a dagger in his belt, another in each of his boots and one strapped to his right calf. He also found the empty scabbard under the man’s left arm. He whistled softly.
“Planning on starting a war?” he asked. The Genovesan, naturally, made no reply.
Will dug into his belt pouch and produced thumb and ankle cuffs. He quickly secured the man’s hands in front of him and trussed his ankles, leaving enough slack so he would be able to hobble awkwardly, but not run.
Will sat back on his heels, thinking quickly. They needed proof, he knew. He’d arrived a few seconds before the Genovesan, approaching from the opposite side and entering by cutting through the canvas at the rear corner, where the privy was positioned. That way, the outer knots on the door were left undisturbed. Yet he had arrived a second too late, emerging from the privy and slamming the brass pommel of his saxe just behind the man’s ear.
There was something in the back of his mind—something that would help him connect the Genovesan with the drugged water. Then he had it. When he had poured the glass for Horace, he had heard the tinkle of ice. Yet the ice he’d placed in the water should have melted long ago. The Genovesan must have replenished it, and there was only one place he could have done so.
He looked at the man, saw that he was still unconscious and hurried outside the tent. One of Sean’s marshals, tasked with keeping an eye on the pavilion—as well as watching for the inevitable pickpockets who’d be working the crowd—was strolling nearby. He turned and approached quickly as Will hailed him.
“Keep an eye on him,” Will said, jerking his thumb at the unconscious Genovesan inside the pavilion. The marshal’s eyes widened at the sight, but he recognized Will as one of the Sunrise Warrior’s retainers and nodded agreement.
“I’ll be back,” Will told him, and hurried toward the drink stalls.
There was one stall selling ice. It was where Will had bought his supply previously and, presumably, where the Genovesan had done the same. Ice was a rare commodity. It would have been cut in large blocks, high in the mountains during winter, then packed in straw and brought down to be stored deep in a cool cellar somewhere. The vendor looked up as Will approached. Initially, he’d been reluctant to sell some of his ice without selling a drink as well, but the young man had paid well. He nodded a greeting.
“Will it be more ice for you, your honor?” he asked. But Will cut him off abruptly.
“Come with me,” he said. “Right away.”
Will was young and fresh faced, but there was an unmistakable air of authority about him, and it never occurred to the ice vendor to argue. He called to his wife to mind the stall and hurried to follow the fast-moving figure in the gray-green cloak. As they entered the pavilion, his eyes also goggled at the sight of the unconscious man lying bound on the grass.
“Did he buy ice from you?” he demanded, and the man nodded instantly.
“He did, your honor. Said it was for the mighty Sunrise Warrior.” He glanced around the tent, and his eye fell on the water jug. “Fetched it in that jug, as I recall,” he added, wondering what this was all about. Then, making sure that he couldn’t be blamed for anything, he volunteered more information.
“He was watching earlier when you bought the ice. I assumed he was with you.”
So that was it. Will guessed that the Genovesan, when he had drugged the water, had added ice so that the chill would mask the taste. Or simply make the water more appealing. Yet he would hardly have done so if he hadn’t known there was already ice in the jug. He looked at the marshal and the vendor. In the background, he could hear cheering welling up from the arena and realized that too much time had passed while he had been occupied with this problem. The formalities must be over, and Horace would be preparing to face the giant islander.
He looked at the two men.
“Come with me!” he ordered. He recovered his bow from behind the privy screen and gestured at the Genovesan, now stirring groggily. “And give me a hand with him!”
As he and the marshal dragged the bleary-eyed assassin to his feet, he heard the single note of a trumpet. The combat had started.
“You can’t do this,” Halt said out of the side of his mouth as he accompanied Horace to the center of the field. He was carrying Horace’s shield and sword, using the shield to keep a surreptitious pressure on the young man’s arm so he could guide his footsteps.
“That man! What is that man doing?” Tennyson’s voice rang out across the arena, rising above the cheers that rang out from both sides of the field. Halt looked and saw the white-robed figure had come out of his chair and was standing, pointing at him, shouting his protest.
“Just get me to the starting point, Halt. I’ll be fine,” Horace said. He could hear Sean Carrick replying to the priest’s protest, stating that Halt was acting as Horace’s shield bearer, which was allowed within the rules. Horace allowed himself a bitter smile. Arguing over such fine points of procedure was unimportant to him. He was wondering how he was going to fight when all he could see of Gerard was a mass
ive, blurred shape.
“His presence is a breach of the rules! He must remove himself from the field!” Tennyson shouted.
Sean drew breath to reply but stopped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he turned to see the King had left his throne and was standing behind him.
“Be silent, you posturing fake!” Ferris shouted. For a moment, the people of Dun Kilty were shocked to see their King taking such a positive stance. Then they roared their wholehearted approval. “Don’t quote rules unless you know them and understand them! The shield bearer is legitimate! Now sit and be silent!”
Again, his subjects yelled their approval. Ferris looked around, mildly surprised and pleased. He’d never heard that sound before. He drew strength from it and held himself a little taller. Opposite him, Tennyson pointed a threatening finger.
“You’ve crossed me once too often, Ferris. I’ll see you pay for this!”
But he retreated to his seat, contenting himself with glaring at the King. Ferris, after enjoying the plaudits of the crowd for a few more moments, also went back to his seat.
On the field, Halt pulled the arm strap tight on Horace’s shield.
“How’s that?” he said, and Horace nodded.
“Fine,” he said. The blurred figure of Gerard stood in front of him, and he concentrated on it, squinting as he tried to force his eyes to focus. With the distraction of his diminished vision, he had forgotten the sense of weariness that had settled over him after he had woken up. Now he was aware of it once more. His limbs felt leaden and clumsy as he tested the balance of his sword. He realized what poor condition he was in.
He decided that his best chance lay in making a sudden attack as soon as the trumpet sounded, lunging with the point for the mass of the body before him. Most combatants circled briefly at the start of a fight, looking to test their opponents’ reactions. He hoped Gerard would be expecting him to do that. He sensed Halt was still close by, but he didn’t want to take his attention away from his mighty opponent.
“ Thanks, Halt,” he said. “You’d better go now.”
“I’ll fight in your place,” Halt said, in one last desperate attempt. Horace smiled, without humor, his attention still on Gerard.
“Can’t be done. Against the rules. I have to finish it. Now go away.”
Reluctantly, Halt withdrew, backing away. He reached the single-rail fence, ducked under it and took his seat in the front row.
“Ready, combatants!” Sean called. Neither answered, and he took that for a positive reply. He nodded to the trumpeter.
“Sound,” he said quietly. The braying note rang over the field.
Horace didn’t wait for the sound to die away. The instant he heard it begin, he lunged forward, his right foot stamping out toward Gerard, the blade of his sword thrusting at the fuzzily seen mass before him.
It might have worked, had he not been slowed down by the effect of the drug. Gerard was expecting his smaller opponent to circle and weave, testing his own defenses and speed. He was surprised by the sudden attack. The sword point struck him in the center of his body, but he managed to twist so that his hard leather breastplate deflected it, sending it skating across his ribs.
It hurt and winded him. And it may well have cracked a rib. But it wasn’t the killing stroke Horace needed so desperately. He continued the forward rush, a little more clumsily than his normal sure-footed movement, spinning to his left so that he brought his shield up to ward off the counterstroke he expected from Gerard.
He was just in time; the backhand cut clanged heavily against his shield. It was a solid blow, but nowhere near as bad as the hammering mace strokes he had taken from Killeen.
He shuffled backward, straining to see. His eyes watered, and Gerard was a shapeless mass moving toward him. He saw the vague outline of a sword arm rising and threw up his shield again. Gerard’s sword slammed into it again, and Horace, acting purely on instinct, cut back at the giant with his own sword.
Gerard was big and strong. But he was no combat master. In addition, knowing that Horace had been drugged, he was expecting no opposition at all and was overconfident. His shield was poorly positioned and a fraction too low to take Horace’s counter. The long blade caught the top of the shield, deflected and clanged solidly off Gerard’s helmet, leaving a severe dent on the curved metal.
Horace felt the satisfying shock of solid contact up his right arm. The crowd on the western bleachers roared their approval. He saw the fuzzy lumbering shape that was Gerard move back, becoming more difficult to see as he merged into the background.
Gerard, for his part, shook his head to clear it and stood like a huge, angry bull, glaring at the young warrior before him. The padded lining to his helmet had absorbed some of the blow he had just taken, but even so, it had shaken him. He was furious now. He had been told he would face minimal resistance while he avenged his brother’s death. But he had only just avoided suffering a similar fate. He roared with fury and charged at Horace.
Horace heard the roar but, virtually blinded as he was, he was slow registering the fact that Gerard was coming at him. Too late, he realized what was happening and tried to retreat. At that moment, Gerard rammed his shield into Horace’s, with all the force of his charging body behind it. Horace, already beginning to move backward, was hurled off his feet and crashed onto his back on the grass, his sword flying from his hand.
There was a concerted gasp of horror from the western stands and a simultaneous shout of triumph from Tennyson’s followers. Horace, winded and almost blind, saw the out-of-focus figure towering over him. He sensed rather than saw that Gerard was raising his sword, point down, holding it in both hands to drive it into Horace’s body.
So this was how it was going to happen, he thought. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that he had let Halt down. He heard Tennyson’s section of the crowd shouting encouragement to Gerard and resolved to keep his eyes open as he died, in spite of the fact that he could see almost nothing of his killer. That was annoying, somehow. He wanted to see.
He wished he weren’t going to die while he was annoyed. It seemed such a petty emotion.
44
WILL HEARD THE FIRST CLASH OF SWORD ON SHIELD AS HE AND the marshal dragged the staggering Genovesan toward the field of combat. Curious spectators separated before the small group. The ice vendor followed behind him, puzzled but curious to see what was about to unfold.
Will heard the spectators roaring, heard shouts of triumph turn to a giant gasp of despair from the western stands. Then he pushed through the crowd at the southern end of the arena and his heart sank.
The huge sword in Gerard’s hand was being held like a dagger as he prepared to drive it down, plunging it into Horace’s helpless body. Acting entirely by instinct, Will shrugged his bow off his shoulder and into his left hand. As he raised it, an arrow seemed to nock itself to the string, and he drew and fired in a heartbeat.
Gerard’s snarl of triumph turned abruptly into a screech of agony as the arrow transfixed the muscle of his upper right arm.
He wheeled away from the body before him, the sword falling harmlessly from his nerveless hand, clasping with his left hand at the throbbing pain that had burst out in his arm, shooting blasts of agony down to his hand and fingers. The crowd, after an initial gasp of surprise, was shocked to silence.
Tennyson came to his feet, drawing breath to shout for the marshals. But another voice beat him to it. A young voice.
“ Treachery!” Will yelled at the top of his lungs. “ Treachery! The Sunrise Warrior has been poisoned by Tennyson! Treachery!”
Tennyson’s eyes swung toward the voice. His heart sank as he heard the accusation of poisoning and saw the bound, hobbling figure of the Genovesan. Somehow, his plot had been discovered.
Halt, on his feet now in the crowd, realized the need to maintain the momentum. He began echoing Will’s cry.
“Treachery! Treachery!” And, as he had hoped, those around him took it up, not knowing the how
or the why of it but caught up in the mass hysteria. The word rang around the arena.
Will, dragging the Genovesan with him, turned to the ice vendor and whispered a quick instruction to him. The man hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. Then, as Will urged him, he turned and ran back toward the pavilion.
Will was almost up to the central point of the arena now, where Horace had slowly regained his feet and where Gerard crouched, hunched over, still clasping his wounded arm. He shoved the Genovesan forward, sending him stumbling to his knees.
“I caught this man in the Sunrise Warrior’s pavilion, trying to destroy the evidence. Look beside Tennyson and you’ll see his cohorts!”
An angry murmur swept through the crowd. Will noted that it wasn’t confined to the King’s side of the arena. Some of Tennyson’s recent “converts” looked questioningly at the priest, flanked by two of the Genovesans. The foreigners were unpopular. Since joining Tennyson’s band, their arrogant manner had done little to endear them to their colleagues.
In the silence now, Will spoke up. “ The Warrior’s drinking water was drugged by this man.” He pointed to the Genovesan, who was on the ground before him. “And he was working for Tennyson! They’ve betrayed the sacred rules of trial by combat.”
Tennyson searched for a reply, knowing every eye was on him. He was close to panic. He was used to using the dynamics of mob opinion for his own benefit, not to having them turned against him. Then a lifeline was thrown to him, as Will’s Genovesan prisoner struggled to rise to his feet.
“Proof!” the Genovesan shouted, his voice thickly accented. “Where’s your proof? Where is this drugged water? Produce it now!”
He looked up at Tennyson and gave him a discreet nod. The priest’s spirits soared. His man had got to the tent in time to destroy the evidence. So now the situation could be reversed.
He echoed the man’s challenge.
“Proof! Show us proof if you accuse us! Bring the proof here now!”
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 30