" Yes," she replied simply. She was glad that Malcolm had instructed her not to try to appear as if she were in a trance. She had no way of knowing how she had behaved on the previous occasions when Keren had controlled her mind, but she had assumed she must have been in some kind of trancelike state. Apparently not.
"Good. There were lights in the forest last night," he said. She had been right. He knew about them.
" There were," she repeated, neither questioning the fact nor confirming it. So far, there had been no direct question, so there was no specific answer required.
"Did you see them?" he asked.
Suddenly, she felt the urge to answer truthfully. To say,"Yes. I saw them. They were signals." She stroked the stellatite, felt the compulsion recede as her resolve strengthened.
"No," she said, and her heart leapt. She had broken his hold over her. She could tell him anything, answer anything, as long as she kept her wits about her. Inside, she was exultant and she felt her heart pounding. But her diplomatic training helped her keep a totally neutral expression on her face.
Keren frowned. He was sure the lights had been some form of signal being sent to her. But he knew she couldn't lie to a direct question. He tried again.
"You're sure?" he said. "There were red, blue, yellow and white lights moving in the trees. Did you see them?"
Alyss, on the point of saying, "It was late. I was asleep," stopped herself just in time. If she hadn't seen the lights, she would have no way of knowing when they had appeared. She realized that her hold on control was a tenuous one. The effort of countering Keren's insistent assault on her mind was very distracting, and she must not let her guard slip.
"I didn't see them," she replied. Then she added, in a conversational tone, "I've seen them before."
Her eyes on the gem, she felt rather than saw Keren's head snap up at that revelation.
"When?" he asked her instantly. "When did you see them?"
" Ten days ago. Will and I went into the forest. There were lights."
She knew he had a pretty good idea that she had been into Grimsdell Wood with Will. His men had shadowed her on that occasion. At the time, of course, she and Will had assumed it was Orman having them followed. And while they hadn't actually seen her enter or leave the forest, Keren must suspect that was where they had gone. It would do no harm now to admit it. It might even divert him from the line of questions he was following.
He drummed the fingers of one hand on the table. As he became more distracted, Alyss noticed that it became easier for her to control her words and her thoughts.
He tried one more time. But she could feel his conviction was waning. "What do the lights mean?"
She shrugged. "I think Malkallam uses them," she said. " They frighten people away from the forest."
The fingers drummed again. "Yes. They do that all right. My men won't go near the place."
That was definitely worth knowing. Since Will had escaped into the forest with Orman, she had thought that Keren might have seen through Malkallam's ploy and convinced his men to follow them in and hunt for them.
Keren let go a long, pent-up breath. He was on edge. She sensed he was expecting something, some event to take place. His next words confirmed her suspicions.
"Well, I can't waste any more time with this. General MacHaddish is due in the next day or two." He was speaking to himself, secure in the knowledge that his words wouldn't register with her in her mesmerized state. He rolled the blue stone back toward him and removed it from the table.
"All right, Alyss. Until next time. You can wake up now."
She assumed that she should not make any pretense of coming out of a trance but simply continue with normal conversation. But her mind was racing. MacHaddish was a Scotti name. There was a Scotti general due here in the next few days. Will would have to be told.
"So," she said evenly, "what did you wish to talk about?" Keren smiled at her. "We've already talked," he said. "But of course, you don't remember it."
That's what you think, Alyss thought.
9
Will and Horace rode along the winding path through Grimsdell Wood, following the dog's unwavering lead. Horace shook his head at the impenetrable tangle of trees and foliage around them.
"No wonder Malcolm's been safe in here all these years," he said.
Will smiled. "It's been his best defense," he agreed. "Of course, he has a few other ways to discourage visitors."
"He'd hardly need them. You could lose an army in here, and they'd never find their way out… good grief!"
The last two words were drawn from him as they rounded a bend in the track and he saw the gruesome skull warning sign among the trees. He suspected that Will had intentionally neglected to tell him about it.
"Oh, that's Trevor. Pay him no mind. He's harmless," Will said.
Horace could hear him chuckling quietly to himself as they rode on.
"Hilarious," he muttered to himself.
They came to the clearing in the woods quite abruptly. One moment they were in the semidark tunnel formed by the track among the gloomy old trees. Next, they were in the sunlight, and Malcolm's pleasant little thatched cottage was before them, smoke curling from its chimney.
A table had been set up in the late-afternoon sunshine, and Will could see Malcolm, Xander and, to his surprise, Orman sitting around it. The sallow-faced castle lord appeared to have lost weight. His face, beneath the receding hairline, was even paler than normal and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The eyes themselves, however, were bright and alert.
There were two vacant chairs. Will guessed that Malcolm had delayed lunch until they arrived. In all probability, Will thought, he had been receiving constant updates on their progress.
After introductions all around, Will and Horace sat at the table with the others. The dog took off like an arrow, catching sight of Trobar on the far side of the clearing.
"Go ahead, then," Will said belatedly.
"We waited lunch for you," Malcolm told them.
Will made a disclaiming gesture. "We ate lunch at the inn," he began, but Horace interrupted before he got any further.
"Still, there's no harm in an early supper," he said. He was forever hungry, although his lean, muscular frame showed no evidence of the amount he could eat.
"It's good to see you up and around, my lord," Will told Orman. The castle lord allowed himself a wry grimace.
"Up, perhaps, Will Barton. But I'm definitely a long way from being around."
"We're very pleased with his progress," Malcolm put in.
Will indicated Horace, who had already begun demolishing a bread roll.
"And the good news continues, my lord. With Horace to help us, we'll soon have you back in your castle." Horace reddened slightly at Will's fulsome praise, and Will realized he might be laying it on a little thick, but he was inordinately pleased and relieved to have his old comrade by his side again. He sensed that the others hadn't realized the significance of Horace's identity, so he added, "You might know him better as the Oakleaf Knight."
The name meant nothing to Xander, who scowled and muttered, just loud enough to be heard,"And how much are we paying this one, I wonder?"
Horace reddened further, but said nothing.
Orman shot Xander a warning look. The little man subsided, mumbling. Then a thought struck Orman.
"The Oakleaf Knight?" he said thoughtfully. "Then surely you're the one who was involved in that business with Morgarath some years back? And with the Skandians, as I recall."
Horace shrugged. "A lot of that was exaggerated, my lord."
But now Orman's gaze had turned to Will as realization dawned.
"And I recall that he had a friend who was a Ranger," he said. " That was you, wasn't it? Will Barton, my foot! You're the one they now call Will Treaty?"
It was Will's turn to shrug.
"All of that was exaggerated," he said. He noticed that Malcolm was oblivious to the events that Orman was discuss
ing. Of course, Will thought, he'd been secluded in the forest for years. Xander, however, was looking disconcerted as he realized he had just insulted one of the Kingdom's most capable warriors. Will grinned. Served him right.
Horace coughed gently. He had more important matters on his mind than a surly insult from Orman's attendant.
" There was some mention of food?" he reminded them. Horace always did have a good grasp of priorities.
10
The meal was excellent, consisting of cold roast venison, some plump wood ducks and a salad of slightly bitter winter greens. There was warm, fresh, crusty bread as well. All in all, it more than lived up to Horace's expectations. He tipped his chair back contentedly and grinned at Will.
"Good food," he said. "What's for dessert?"
Will rolled his eyes to heaven.
Malcolm smiled indulgently. "He's a growing boy," he said. He had been impressed by Horace's self-effacing, cheerful demeanor. He gathered that the young man was something of a celebrity in the Kingdom and it was his experience that famous people usually behaved as if the rest of the world should step aside and be impressed by them. Nothing could be farther from the truth with Horace.
The young warrior reached across the table and poured himself another mug of black coffee. Like Will, he drank it generously laced with honey, a habit he had learned from the Ranger when they had traveled to Celtica years previously.
Malcolm winced slightly as he watched. Pleasant young man or not, if Horace and Will kept drinking coffee at this rate, he was going to run out. He made a mental note to send one of his people to the Cracked Flagon to trade for more beans.
There was a small commotion at the far side of the clearing, and they all looked up.
A file of roughly dressed, heavily armed men emerged from the forest, led by a smaller man with a withered right arm held close to his body. As Horace looked at him, he realized that the man also had a hunched right shoulder.
The new arrivals peered around the clearing uncertainly, shading their eyes from the sudden light after hours in the dimness of the woods. Some of Malcolm's people, alarmed at the sight of a group of armed men, had let out startled cries, then faded away into the forest. The Skandians, in turn, muttered among themselves at the sight of them. Each of Malcolm's followers suffered some significant form of disfigurement, and the superstitious sea wolves, who believed all forests were inhabited by spirits and ogres, closed ranks a little and made sure their weapons were free and ready for use.
Unlike the others, Trobar didn't attempt to hide. Instead, he moved to interpose himself between the new arrivals and his master. At the sight of the giant, the muttering and uncertainty among the Skandians increased. They were all big, burly men, but Trobar towered over the biggest of them.
By now, Will knew that, in spite of his terrifying appearance, Trobar was at heart a gentle person. Yet he had no doubt the giant would give his life if anyone attempted to harm the man who had taken him in and given him a home. The dog, Will noted, had gone with him. Sensing Trobar's concern, her hackles had risen, and the ruff of fur around her throat seemed to be twice its normal size.
The young Ranger rose hurriedly and stepped forward to prevent any unfortunate misunderstanding.
"It's all right, Trobar," he said quietly. "They're friends." Then, in a louder voice, he called across the clearing, "Gundar Hardstriker, welcome to Healer's Clearing."
He came up with the name on the spot, thinking that such an unthreatening name might serve to relax the situation. As he spoke and the Skandians recognized him, he could see the tension in them drop away a little. Trobar, for his part, stopped his advance across the clearing and stepped to one side. Will went forward to greet the Skandian crew. Horace followed, a pace or two behind him.
"I take it these are our men?" he said mildly.
Will glanced back over his shoulder. "Your men," he amended. "You'll command them, not me."
Horace grinned at him, not taken in for a second by that ploy. "I'll command them," he said, "as long as we do exactly what you tell us to do, right?"
He had experience with Rangers and how they operated. They claimed to be nothing more than advisers who stayed in the background. Yet he knew they were experts at manipulating any situation. He had seen Halt do it with the Skandians five years ago. Will's mentor was a master of the art of commanding while not seeming to. Horace had no doubt that his apprentice had learned the skill as well.
Will had the grace to smile at the comment."Yes. Something like that," he admitted.
Gundar had stepped forward a few paces as the two Araluens approached. He made the peace sign.
"Good pastnoon, Will Treaty," he said. "This is a strange place you've brought us to."
Will nodded."Strange, Gundar, but not unfriendly. Nobody here wishes you ill."
"Unless it's that idiot secretary," Horace put in, in an u ndertone.
"Shut up," Will told him in the same tone, then, speaking more loudly, he said, "Gundar, meet my friend, Sir Horace."
Horace and Gundar shook hands, each studying the other, each liking what he saw.
Horace was young, Gundar saw. But his face bore the signs of experience in combat – the scar and the slightly broken nose. Yet there weren't so many as to suggest that he was continually on the receiving end. Gundar subscribed to the view that a face covered in battle scars usually belonged to a man who didn't know how to duck.
Horace, for his part, saw a typical Skandian: powerful, fearless, experienced, a man who handled his massive battleax with practiced ease and who met your gaze frankly while giving you a handshake that could crack walnuts. With twenty-five men like this, he thought, he could probably just knock the castle down.
"Sir Horace is the commander for the assault?" Gundar asked, and Will nodded.
" That's right. Even a small army like ours needs a general, and Horace is trained for the job."
Gundar shrugged, content with the arrangement. "That's agreeable," he said.
In Gundar's view, a commander was really nothing more than an entrepreneur. He could worry about all the minor points like tactics and strategy. Skandians weren't interested in niceties like that. A commander's chief task, so far as Gundar was concerned, was to supply opportunities for Skandians to hit people.
Yet acceptance was not total. Inevitably, there was one Skandian who looked at Horace and saw only his youth. In typical Skandian fashion, he wasted no time making his views known.
"It may be agreeable to you, Gundar," he said in a loud voice, "but I'm not taking orders from a boy who's still wet behind the ears."
Will heard Horace give vent to a small sigh – there were equal amounts of exasperation and boredom in the sound. Quietly, Will hid a smile. Horace had plenty of experience in dealing with this particular situation.
A less confident man than Horace might have blustered and shouted and attempted to enforce his authority on the Skandian. Which, of course, would have been the wrong approach entirely. Skandians placed little value on words.
Instead, Horace smiled and stepped forward, gesturing for the Skandian to do likewise.
He was a big man, perhaps a few centimeters shorter than Horace, but broader in the shoulders and in the body. Horace noted with interest that he was the bearer of many scars. Horace shared Gundar's opinion about such men. His hair was long and gathered in two tarry pigtails, one on either side of his head. His long beard was a tangle of greasy whiskers and bore visible evidence of his last few meals. He carried a massive battleax and a large round oaken shield that looked more like a wagon wheel than a shield. Perhaps it had begun life that way, Horace thought.
The Skandian ignored Horace's smile, keeping his face set in a tight scowl of disapproval as he responded to Horace's gesture and stepped to meet him.
"And your name is?" Horace asked mildly.
"I'm Nils Ropehander," the man replied in a loud, aggressive voice. "And my life's too important to place it in the hands of a boy"
T
here was no doubt that the last word was intended as an insult. Horace, however, continued to smile.
"Of course it is," he said reasonably. "And may I say, that's a lovely hat you have."
Like most of the Skandians, Nils Ropehander wore a heavy iron helmet, adorned with two massive horns. As Horace mentioned it and gestured toward it, it was only natural for the Skandian's eyes to glance upward.
As he did so, he momentarily broke eye contact with Horace, which was what the knight intended. Horace stepped forward, grabbed a horn in each hand and lifted the helmet clear of his head. Before the man could properly protest, Horace had slammed the unpadded heavy iron headpiece back down, causing Nils's knees to buckle and his eyes to cross slightly under the impact. The Skandian staggered for a second, but that was long enough. He felt an iron grip seize hold of his beard, and he was jerked violently forward.
Horace stepped forward too, into the off-balance Skandian's path. The heel of his right hand, fingers spread upward, slammed forward into the Skandian's broad nose, making solid contact. At the exact moment that he struck, Horace released his left-handed grip on the beard so the Skandian was hurled backward, sprawling, on his back onto the hard ground.
One inevitable side effect of a solid blow to the nose, as Horace knew, was to fill the eyes with unavoidable tears. As Nils scrabbled on the ground, blinded by tears, he heard a slithering sound of metal on leather. Then he felt a strange prickling sensation in his throat. There had been something familiar about that sound, and instinct told him not to move. He froze and, as his vision cleared, he found himself staring up the glittering length of Horace's sword, its point held lightly just beneath his chin.
"Do we need to take this any further?" Horace said. The smile had gone. The young man was deadly serious, and Nils knew his situation was a very unhealthy one. Horace moved the sword slightly away from his throat to give him room to answer.
The Skandian shook his head and spoke thickly through the blood that was running down the back of his throat from his nose.
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