The siege of Macindaw ra-6

by John Flanagan

  "Nuh… no fur'der."

  "Good," said Horace. He rapidly sheathed the sword, then held his hand out to Nils, helping the burly sea wolf to his feet. The two stood, chest to chest, for a few seconds, and a look of understanding passed between them. Then Horace slapped the Skandian on the shoulder and turned to his shipmates.

  "I think that settles things?" he said. There was a chorus of approval and agreement from the others. They all knew Ropehander's propensity to complain and object to any change in routine, and they felt the young knight had handled the situation perfectly. They were impressed by his startling speed, his strength and his expert grasp of Skandian debating tactics. Skandians invariably preferred a good thumping to any amount of well-reasoned argument.

  Horace looked around the bearded, approving faces and grinned at them."Let's see what a bunch of bad bargains I've been given as an army. Step closer," he said.

  Grinning in turn, the Skandians moved around him in a half circle. Horace gestured for them to make room for Will.

  "He's not too big," he said, "but he can turn very nasty if he's excluded."

  The grins widened as they made room for the Ranger. Horace, hands on hips, paced around the circle, frowning as he studied them. They were a scruffy bunch, he thought, and none too clean. Their hair and beards were overlong and often gathered in rough and greasy plaits, like Nils's.

  There were scars and broken noses and cauliflower ears in abundance, as well as the widest assortment of rough tattoos, most of which looked as if they had been carved into the skin with the point of a dagger, after which dye was rubbed into the cut. There were grinning skulls, snakes, wolf heads and strange northern runes. All of the men were burly and thickset. Most had bellies on them that suggested they might be overfond of ale.

  All in all they were as untidy, rank-smelling and rough-tongued a bunch of pirates as one could be unlucky enough to run into. Horace turned to Will and his frown faded.

  " They're beautiful," he said.

  11

  The little space Will had christened Healer's Clearing was growing considerably more crowded. Malcolm's small cottage was already stretched by having to accommodate Lord Orman and Xander. As a consequence, Will and Horace chose to pitch their own one-man tents on one side of the clearing, close together, where they could talk in private.

  The Skandians had brought canvas and ropes from their ship and they set about building a large, communal shelter for themselves on the far side. At least, Will thought, there was no lack of timber available in Grimsdell Wood.

  A large fire pit was constructed in the middle of the clearing for heating and cooking purposes, and to provide an area for relaxation as well. On the first evening, Horace looked a little askance at the roaring blaze that the Skandians built. The northmen seemed to have a love for setting big fires, whether they were burning down villages or just sitting around having a drink.

  "It's a big fire," he said doubtfully to Will. "It could be visible for miles."

  The Ranger shrugged. "No harm in it," he replied. "It'll just add to the legend of Grimsdell – strange sounds, strange lights."

  At that moment, the Skandians, who had brought a few kegs of aquavit, the rough grain spirit that they flavored with caraway seeds, broke out into a sea chantey.

  "Strange sounds, indeed," Malcolm put in. "If I could have come up with something like that, I would have kept people away from my home for another ten years."

  One of the Skandians broke away from the circle around the fire and lurched toward the small group of onlookers. He thrust a beaker full of the spirit into Horace's hands.

  "Here you go, General," he said, "take a drink."

  Horace sniffed carefully. "My god. Do you drink this stuff, or strip paint with it?"

  The Skandian bellowed with laughter.

  "Both!" he replied. Horace handed him back the beaker.

  "I think I'd rather live through the night," he said. The Skandian beamed at him.

  "All the more for me, then!" he said, and weaved his way back to join his friends.

  Xander had come out onto the veranda of the cottage as the singing had started. He glared disdainfully at the Skandians and walked over to join the little group.

  "Is this going to continue for very long?" he asked. Malcolm, Horace and Will regarded him with distaste, then, deciding that he had asked no one in particular, they each decided to let someone else answer.

  Xander's scowl deepened.

  "Malcolm," he said, "how is my lord supposed to sleep through this infernal racket?"

  Malcolm regarded him thoughtfully. "In my experience," he said, "if one is tired enough, one can sleep through a little noise."

  "A little noise!" the secretary spluttered. "Do you call what those barbarians are doing – "

  He got no further. Will's hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, and the rest of his question was reduced to unintelligible mumbling. Eventually, he stopped, peering fearfully above the hand into the Ranger's eyes. Will's eyes, usually so warm and cheerful, were suddenly cold and threatening. It was as if a curtain had been pulled aside to reveal a previously unseen side of the Ranger's character.

  "Xander," Will said, when he was sure he had the man's full attention, "since we have been here, you have done nothing but moan and complain. Malcolm has saved your lord's life. He has given you shelter and food and a safe place to stay. These Skandians – the barbarians to whom you refer – are friends of mine. They are going to help you regain your castle. Some of them will probably die doing it. Sure, we're paying them, but the fact remains, we need them. Now we are all sick and tired of you, Xander. You'd better realize that, unlike the Skandians, we do not need you. So if I hear one more word of complaint, one more snide remark, I swear I will drag you back to Macindaw and hand you over to Keren. Is that clear?"

  Xander's eyes still bulged above Will's hand. The Ranger shook him roughly. "Is that clear?" he said very slowly and distinctly. Then he took the hand away.

  Xander breathed in, deeply and raggedly, his chest heaving. After a pause, he replied in a small voice.

  "Yes."

  Will took a deep breath in his turn and exhaled slowly.

  "Good," he said, and Horace and Malcolm both nodded agreement. Will started to turn away from Xander, but the little man could not resist trying to have the last word.

  "All the same – " he began in that pompous tone they knew so well.

  Will threw his hands to heaven in a gesture of despair, then swung back on the little man.

  "Right!" he said angrily. His hand shot out and grabbed a handful of Xander's collar, twisting it so that the secretary was thrown off balance and turned slightly side on. Then Will started toward the forest trail that led to the black mere and, eventually, out of Grimsdell Wood to the plain beside Macindaw.

  "I'll be back in an hour or so," he called over his shoulder to Horace and Malcolm.Tve got some garbage to take out." Neither of them moved to stop him.

  Xander squirmed and wailed, but Will's grip was like iron. He held the secretary off balance and continued to walk quickly away, keeping him that way. Xander could do nothing but totter precariously along in his wake. He sensed that if he stumbled and fell, Will would not stop but would simply drag him until he regained his feet.

  Horace wondered later if Will would have made good on his threat. He thought that perhaps he might have, except that Xander would have been able to provide Keren with a lot of useful information, including the whereabouts of Malcolm's clearing and the fact that Will now had a force of armed and eager Skandians at his disposal and was planning to attack the castle with them. Most likely, Horace thought, his friend would have thrown Xander into the mere. Whether he would have fished him out again was a moot point.

  But it was one they would have to wonder about. Because just as Will reached the beginning of the track through the woods, one of Malcolm's people dashed into the clearing, coming from the other direction.

  It was Poldaric, a young man
whose spine had been badly twisted in a childhood accident. He was permanently stooped to one side and could not look straight ahead, as his head was set crookedly on his shoulders. Yet Horace had noted how quickly the young man could move among the trees. Amazing how the body could adapt, he'd thought. Poldaric saw Will now and sidled up to him so he could look up at the young Ranger.

  "Your friend," he said, "she's signaling!"

  Two hours later, Malcolm's small living room was crowded with people. Horace, Malcolm, Orman, Gundar and Xander were grouped around the fireplace.

  Will finished deciphering the last few words of Alyss's message and sat back, frowning.

  "Bad news?" Horace prompted. His friend shrugged.

  "Could be. Apparently Keren is expecting a visit from a General MacHaddish in the next few days." He glanced at the faces around the table. "Does that name mean anything to anyone?"

  Gundar shrugged, as did Malcolm. Orman frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head.

  "Other than he's obviously a Scotti and the son of someone called Haddish, no. Have you heard the name, Xander?"

  The little man thought carefully and shook his head. After his recent confrontation with Will, he was grateful to be included in the discussion and wished he could provide more information.

  "I'm afraid not, my lord."

  "Well," said Horace, practical as ever, "at least it confirms your theory that Keren's in league with the Scotti."

  "True," Will said. "But I wish I knew a little more. For example, it'd be nice to know if this MacHaddish is bringing an army with him."

  Orman rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I shouldn't think he'd be bringing a large party at this stage," he said, and they all turned to him. "The main route through the border will be almost impassable at this time of year. The snows won't melt for at least another three weeks."

  He reached for Will's pen and a spare sheet of paper and drew a quick sketch of the surrounding countryside.

  " The mountains here form the natural border," he said. "As you can see, Castle Macindaw lies right across the road from the main pass into Araluen. But the pass is closed during the winter by snow. That's why we've never needed a large winter garrison at Macindaw. We've never had to contend with more than small raids."

  He quickly drew a series of thin slashes through the mountains on his chart."There are a lot of small side roads, but they're steep and tricky. You might get a small party through one of them, but not an army with its baggage train."

  Horace had leaned over his shoulder to study the chart. He nodded thoughtfully.

  "In addition," he said, "no general would move a large force into hostile territory without initial reconnaissance."

  Will nodded agreement. "So we can assume MacHaddish will have a small party with him. Which means they'll probably travel by night." He glanced around and saw the others nodding. Except Gundar, who was looking totally disinterested by now. Skandians hated planning, Will remembered.

  "So what do you have in mind?" Horace asked.

  "We keep watch on the castle so we know when he arrives," Will said. "Then, when he's heading back to Picta, we take him prisoner and ask him a few questions."

  Horace nodded agreement. "Not bad," he said. "But don't expect to get too much out of a Scotti. From what I've heard about them, you'll never get one to talk."

  It was Malcolm's turn to smile."Oh, I think I might know a way," he said.

  12

  It was snowing again. The heavy cloud cover masked the arrival of dawn, particularly in the forest where Will and Horace were camped. Consequently, there was no moment when Will knew the sun had risen, just a gradual brightening in the dull gray light that covered the countryside. Without noticing the transition from dark to light, Will realized he could see his hand clearly when he held it up, where, a few minutes previously, he had been conscious only of a dark blur.

  Their little camp, consisting of a low two-man tent and a canvas shelter strung between two trees, was in a clearing they had hacked out, twenty meters to the side of the track that led toward the border with Picta. They were far enough from the track to remain unseen by anyone passing by, close enough to hear if anyone did.

  Two days had passed since Will had read Alyss's message. The two companions had decided to keep watch over the track, in order to intercept and observe the mysterious Scotti general whenever he arrived. Once they knew the size of his party, they could organize an ambush for his return trip.

  In addition to their observation post, Malcolm had placed a screen of observers in the woods, keeping watch over the trails and paths that led down from the mountains that barred the way into Picta. His people were used to seeing without being seen, he told them. Their safety had depended for years on their ability to remain hidden.

  In the tent, Will heard Horace stir. Then the warrior's face, tangle haired and bleary eyed, appeared at the small triangular entrance. Will was sitting on his heels under the canvas shelter.

  "Morning," Horace said grumpily. Will nodded, saying nothing. Horace crawled out through the tent entrance. He reflected that it was impossible to exit from a small tent like this without ending up with two wet patches on the knees. He stood stiffly, stretching himself and groaning slightly.

  "Any sign of them yet?" he asked.

  Will looked at him. "Yes," he said. "A party of fifty Scotti came through just twenty minutes ago."

  "Really?" Horace looked startled. He wasn't fully awake yet.

  Will rolled his eyes to heaven. "Oh, my word, yes," he said."They were riding on oxen and playing bagpipes and drums. Of course not," he went on."If they had come past, I would have woken you – if only to stop your snoring."

  "I don't snore," Horace said, with dignity.

  Will raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he said. "Then in that case, you'd better chase out that colony of walruses who are in the tent with you."

  Horace reached for the canteen hanging from a tree nearby and took a long draft of the icy water. Then he rummaged in a pack for a piece of hard bread and some dried fruit. He frowned at it. "Breakfast," he said distastefully.

  Will shrugged unsympathetically. "I've had worse."

  Horace bit off a piece of bread and hunkered down beside the Ranger under the canvas awning. Already, there were snowflakes in his hair and dusting his shoulders from the few minutes he had spent in the open air.

  "So have I," he said. "But I don't have to like it."

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Horace shifted restlessly every so often. Will, trained to remain silent and unmoving for hours at a time, regarded his old friend sympathetically. Warriors were, by definition, men of action. It went against all their training to simply sit and wait for events to take place.

  More to take Horace's mind off the boredom of waiting than for any other reason, he asked, "Do you see much of Evanlyn these days?"

  Horace glanced at him quickly. Evanlyn was the Crown Princess Cassandra of Araluen. When Will and Horace had first met her, she had been traveling under the name Evanlyn. Horace knew there had been a special bond between Will and the Princess when they had both been captives of the Skandians. He wondered how strong that bond was these days. It was the first time Will had mentioned her since Horace had arrived. Not surprising, really, he thought. They'd had little opportunity to discuss personal matters since he'd arrived in the fief. The recruiting of the Skandians, Alyss's signals and now the imminent arrival of the mysterious Scotti general had taken up most of their attention.

  "I see her from time to time," he said briefly.

  Will nodded, giving nothing away. "Unavoidable, I suppose," he said."After all, you are based at the castle. I suppose you'd bump into her occasionally, wouldn't you?"

  "Well… a little more than occasionally," Horace said carefully. In fact, he and the Princess saw a good deal of each other socially, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to go into that with Will. In the past, he had sensed a slight tension between himself and his friend when it came to Evanlyn,
and he didn't want to re-create it now. He realized that Will was watching him and felt the need to add more.

  "I mean, there are balls and dances and such," he said. He didn't add that he was usually invited by Cassandra as her partner for these occasions. "And picnics, of course," he added, immediately wishing that he hadn't. Will arched an eyebrow.

  "Picnics?" he said. "How lovely. Sounds like life is one big picnic at the castle these days."

  Horace took a deep breath, then decided it might be better if he didn't respond. He stood up and rubbed the small of his back, where the muscles were still stiff.

  "I'm getting too old for this camping-out lark," he said. Will noticed the deliberate change of subject and had the grace to feel embarrassed at the way he had been acting. After all, it wasn't Horace's fault that he was based at Castle Araluen. And as an old friend of Evanlyn – Cassandra, rather – it was only logical that he should spend time with her.

  "Sorry, Horace," he said,"I spoke out of turn there. I suppose I'm a little edgy. I hate all this waiting around doing nothing."

  As a matter of fact, he was completely accustomed to it, and it didn't bother him. Horace looked at him, recognizing the gambit as a peace gesture. His face lit up with that easy grin of his, and Will knew that the awkward moment had passed.

  And of course, it was at that instant that Malcolm's man Ambrose slipped into the clearing, calling to them in a hoarse whisper,"Ranger! Sir Horace! The Scotti are coming!"

  There were nine of them all told: General MacHaddish and eight warriors forming his escort.

  MacHaddish marched at the head of the small column. He was a muscular man but quite stocky – few Scotti were tall. His head was shaven, apart from one long, tightly plaited pigtail that hung down on the left side of his crown. He was wrapped in a coarse woolen tartan upper garment that was nothing more than an elongated blanket. It wound around his shoulders and torso, leaving his arms bare, even in this freezing cold weather. He wore a long kilt of the same material and sheepskin boots. A two-handed broadsword was slung at his back, its massive hilt protruding above his head. The left side of his face was painted in thick stripes of blue, marking him as a general of the second, or lower, rank. On his right cheek and his bare arms, darker-toned tattoos were etched permanently into his skin.