It was a carefully rehearsed routine, one of many that Rangers and their horses practiced from their first days together. The noise, the movement, the apparent panic were all designed to provide a distraction. As Gilan left the saddle and dropped to the ground, it was almost impossible for an observer not to take his eyes off the Ranger and look instead at the plunging, rearing, neighing horse.
That gave Gilan time to roll over several times, wrapping himself in his cloak as he did so. He realized that his cowl had fallen back from his head as he jumped. There was no time to replace it, so as he rolled, he pulled a fold of the cloak up over his face as a mask. He came to rest lying flat on the ground, facing the direction from which the attack had come. Then he lay absolutely still, barely breathing, as Blaze apparently recovered from her sudden panic and stopped, head down, ten meters away from him.
Trust the cloak. It was a mantra drummed into all Rangers during their years as apprentices. Gilan followed the rule now, lying unmoving in the muddy grass, the gray-and-green pattern of the cloak rendering him, to all intents and purposes, invisible.
His attackers were barely thirty meters away, with the deep creek between him and them. He could hear them clearly. “Where’s he gone?”
“I got him. I know I got him.” The second voice was excited. The first, when he spoke again, was heavy with sarcasm.
“Then where is he? There’s no sign.”
“There must be. I know I . . .” The voice trailed off.
Eyes slitted above the cloak, Gilan watched as the two men moved out from behind the cover of the fallen log and advanced cautiously to the edge of the stream. The senior of the two men, the sarcastic one, looked doubtfully at the dark, swift-flowing water.
“Hop across and look for him then,” he ordered, but the other man snorted indignantly.
“Hop across? Not likely! That water must be three or four meters deep and I’m no swimmer! Hop across yourself.”
Belatedly, the two would-be assassins realized that they hadn’t reloaded their crossbows. They did so now, grunting with the strain as they heaved the heavy cords into place. Gilan looked to where his longbow lay, a few meters away. He’d released his grip on it during his fall, in case he landed on it and broke it. For a moment, he considered his next move. He could rise and move in seconds to retrieve it. Another two seconds to draw an arrow from his quiver and nock it. Then a half second to draw, aim and shoot. And that assumed that his cloak, wound around his body as it was, had left his quiver free. More likely, the quiver and its arrows would be hopelessly tangled in the folds of the cloak, adding precious seconds to the time it would take him to shoot.
No. He’d missed his opportunity while they stood with their bows unloaded. If there were one of them, he might chance it. But with two crossbowmen at such short range, the risk was too great. A second after he made this decision, he was glad that he had. A third voice joined the discussion.
“You two! What’s going on?”
The voice was cultured but the tone was sharp and demanding. Gilan’s eyes flicked in the direction that it came from. He daren’t move his head. He could see a dark figure right on the edge of his vision. Whoever it was, he appeared to be dressed in black. Then his identity was made clear as the first of the crossbowmen answered his query.
“Just checking, Lord Foldar.”
Gilan stiffened. So Foldar was here after all, he thought.
“Checking? Checking what? Did you get him?”
The two shooters exchanged a worried glance. Then the senior man called again.
“Yes. We got him, my lord. He’s down, well and truly.”
“Then make sure of him!” Foldar ordered angrily.
Again, the two men exchanged a worried glance. If they couldn’t see Gilan, how could they make sure he was dead? Then the senior man shrugged slightly. “Very well, my lord,” he called, and raised his bow. He aimed at a random spot three or four meters to Gilan’s left and squeezed the trigger lever on the bow. There was the usual ugly smack of the crossbow mechanism releasing, then a hiss-thud as the short quarrel buried itself in the ground.
Gilan decided that this had gone on long enough. Blaze was still standing some meters away. He whistled softly, a pulsing, three-note whistle that was another prepared signal. Quiet as it was, the bowmen across the stream heard it and looked up suddenly, not sure where the noise had come from.
“What was that?” the younger one asked. But then Blaze took a hand once more. She raised her head, ears pricked, and looked away from Gilan, into the nearby trees. She whinnied and began trotting in the direction she was looking.
“Someone’s coming!” said the senior bowman. “Let’s get out of here!”
Gilan watched as they crashed clumsily through the undergrowth on the far bank of the stream. He heard a brief, angry exchange between them and Foldar, in which they assured their leader that Gilan was dead. Then all three figures merged into the trees on the far side of the stream.
Gilan waited a few minutes, then slowly sat up. He whistled and Blaze came trotting back to him.
How was I?
“You were remarkable,” Gilan told her. “In fact, I’m wondering if you weren’t really panicking.”
Blaze snorted in derision. Me, panic? Over two ham-fisted crossbowmen? Why didn’t you shoot them?
“I dropped my bow,” Gilan said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Blaze turned her head sidelong to look at him.
Of course you did.
He remounted and rode off thoughtfully. After a few kilometers, he voiced his thoughts aloud. “Why would Foldar send men to ambush me? It’s hardly a good plan if he wants to remain unobtrusive. You don’t try to kill a Ranger and expect it to go unnoticed.”
Maybe he just doesn’t like Rangers.
“Possibly. It’s more likely he knows that I’m hunting him and he was trying to get in first.”
How could he know that? Unless someone told him about you. And only two people know what you’re doing here.
“Exactly,” said Gilan.
5
IT WAS SEVERAL HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN PHILIP EMERGED from the large house at the end of the village. He moved furtively, staying in the shadows cast by the houses. In his right hand, he carried a large white canvas sack.
Gilan watched from his vantage point in a side alley as the seneschal went past him, barely three meters away. Philip never noticed him, but he was close enough for Gilan to hear the unmistakable chink as Philip swapped the sack to his other hand. Money, he thought. And quite a lot of it.
As the seneschal moved away, Gilan ran lightly to the back of the alley. Staying parallel to the village high road, he continued to move at a run, his feet making barely any sound on the soft earth. By the time he reached the end of the village, he had already overtaken Philip and was now some ten meters ahead of him.
Philip was walking slowly, head down, burdened by the heavy sack. He was taking no interest in his surroundings. At this time of night, he expected to see nobody, and be seen by nobody. Nonetheless, Gilan branched off at an angle and found the cover of the trees. He continued to run, still staying parallel to the high road, heading back to the castle and moving farther and farther ahead of the plodding figure behind him.
After sunset, the outer guard post on the isthmus wasn’t manned. The guards withdrew inside the castle and the heavy portcullis was lowered to bar entry. But there were still sentries on the battlements, and the road across the isthmus was in plain view. However, when Gilan had followed Philip from the castle earlier that evening, he had watched the seneschal climb awkwardly down the rubble-strewn slope beside the road for several meters, where a rough and almost indiscernible track ran through the tumbled rocks. Here, he was hidden from the sight of the castle sentries. Gilan moved along the track now until he was only a few meters from the towering castle walls. Then he slipped quickly back up to level ground. Pressing himself against the rough stone, he moved to the left, rounding one of the corner tow
ers. A few meters on, he came to the small wicket gate Philip had used to leave the castle.
“There’s always a secret way in and out,” Gilan had mused when he had seen the seneschal unlock the gate earlier in the evening. This was the reason for his running ahead of Philip. When the other man reentered the castle, he would be sure to lock the gate. Gilan pushed it shut behind him and moved stealthily to the keep tower. Once inside, he concealed himself behind a high-backed chair, where he had a view of Philip’s office and the massive door to the strong room where the tax money was kept secure.
He’d been in place for several minutes when the outer door creaked open and Philip slid around it to enter the keep. He glanced around, making sure there was nobody watching, then hurried to the strong room door. Again, Gilan heard the chink of coins as he set the white sack down and fumbled with a key ring to unlock the strong room.
Several minutes later, he emerged once more and busied himself with the multiple locks on the strong room door. He tested the door to make sure it was secure. Then, with a weary sigh, he made his way to his office and went inside. Gilan knew that Philip’s private quarters were located behind the office. He also noticed that, when the seneschal had emerged from the strong room, he wasn’t carrying the sack of money.
“Fascinating,” Gilan said to himself.
“It’s a big risk,” Baron Douglas said, frowning, as Gilan laid out the first part of his plan. “You plan to send the tax money in one small cart, with no escort? I don’t like it.”
“It’s not exactly unescorted,” Gilan said. “After all, I’ll be traveling in the cart.”
Baron Douglas looked unconvinced. Ranger or not, one man would make little difference if Foldar’s band decided to attack.
“The point is,” Gilan continued,“Foldar will think the tax money is in the usual convoy. We’ll organize things so it leaves ten minutes after the small cart, with the usual escort.”
Baron Douglas leaned back in his chair, shaking his head doubtfully.
“If Foldar does decide to steal the tax money,” he said, “he’ll be watching the castle. And he’ll see the small cart leave, with you aboard it, a few minutes before the large wagon and its escort. He’ll know you wouldn’t let the money out of your sight and he’ll smell a rat. He’ll see through your plan. He’s no fool, you know.”
“I’m banking on it.” Gilan smiled. “Because I’m planning a double bluff. The money will actually be where it’s supposed to be—in the large wagon with the escort. So while Foldar’s busy attacking the small wagon—and giving me a chance to capture him—the real tax wagon will be miles away, and safe.”
For a moment, Douglas was speechless. His lips moved wordlessly as he pieced together the convoluted working of Gilan’s mind. “So the large wagon, which is supposed to be a decoy, will actually have the money on board all the time. While the small wagon, with you in it, will be the decoy?”
“That’s right,” Gilan said cheerfully. “Sometimes I’m so devious I confuse myself.”
“I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Foldar catches up with you and realizes you’ve tricked him,” Douglas said.
“That’s part of the plan. I want him to catch up with me. It’ll save me tracking him down.”
Douglas shook his head at the words. “Better you than me. I wouldn’t care to face him when he’s angry. Those eyes of his are enough to send shivers down your spine. They’re cold and lifeless, like a snake’s.”
“I’ve killed a few snakes in my time,” Gilan said, dropping his insouciant manner. Douglas rubbed his chin nervously as he saw the sudden steel in the young Ranger’s eyes. He let his own gaze slide away and quickly changed the subject.
“Of course, the men who load the wagons will know which one has the money inside. We’ll have to make sure they don’t talk.”
“Keep them locked up for a day,” Gilan said, and Douglas’s brows came together in a frown.
“Isn’t that a little drastic?” he asked.
Gilan shrugged the protest aside. “You don’t have to chain them up in a dungeon. Just keep them incommunicado for a day. We can’t risk word of the double bluff getting to Foldar. And we know there’s an informer somewhere in the castle. This way, you and I will be the only ones who know the real story.”
“And Philip, of course,” Douglas said.“He has to count the money and certify the tax forms. Do you want me to lock him up too?”
Gilan hesitated for just a moment, then said easily, “No. I’m sure we can trust Philip.”
“How many men in your troop?” Gilan asked the red-bearded plowman. His name was Bran Richards and he was the commander of the local troop of archers. Every fief in the kingdom was charged with maintaining a ready force of archers. The men trained year-round, in addition to their normal tasks of plowing, harvesting or milling. In the event of a war, they could be called up into the royal army and be ready to fight immediately.
“Fifteen,” the man replied. “It should be eighteen, but we lost three men in the war. I’ll have to recruit three new men and start training them soon.”
“Hmm. Well, six should be enough for my purposes. Pick your six best archers and wait for me the day after tomorrow three kilometers past the point where the coast road and the high road diverge. There’s a small copse of trees there where you can hide. Stay out of sight. In fact, it might be best if you moved into position before first light.”
Bran nodded. “Whatever you say.”
A new thought struck Gilan. “One thing,” he said. “Tell your men this is just a routine field exercise. Don’t mention that I’m involved, all right? In fact, don’t mention it to anybody.”
Bran nodded his understanding. He gestured to the flagon on the table between them. They were sitting in the comfortable parlor of his home. “More cider?” he offered. But Gilan shook his head.
“I need to keep a clear head,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of arrangements to make.”
6
THE OBSERVER ON THE HILL WATCHED AS THE PORTCULLIS SLOWLY rumbled open to emit a small covered cart drawn by a single horse. Trotting behind it, tethered by a lead rope to the rear of the cart, was a bay horse. Seated beside the driver was a tall figure wearing the unmistakable cloak of a Ranger. The observer watched as the cart slowly trundled to the point where the road forked. It bore to the left at the fork, following the coastal road.
Some ten minutes later, a second cart—larger than the first and drawn by a pair of horses—emerged from the gate. An escort of six mounted men-at-arms clattered out after it. This cart veered to the right at the fork, following the high road that led toward the forest.
“Just as Lord Foldar said,” the man on the hill muttered to himself. He hurried to where his horse was tethered, mounted and rode off at a gallop. He stayed off the road until he was far enough ahead of the slow-moving cart to be unobserved. Then he spurred up onto the road and increased his speed. At a point where a fallen tree lay by the roadside, he reined in. Foldar emerged from the trees, unmistakable in his high-collared black velvet cloak. Underneath his black surcoat, he wore a shirt of chain mail, also black. On his left arm, he bore a triangular shield. His long sword was in a scabbard attached to his saddle bow.
Foldar trotted his horse closer. “Report,” he said.
The rider hesitated. He was never particularly comfortable when he was under his leader’s direct gaze. The man rarely, if ever, seemed to blink.
“The small cart left twenty minutes ago,” he said. “The Ranger was with it.”
“That’s the same Ranger that you assured me you killed, is it?” Foldar asked quietly. His henchman shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.
“Yes, Lord Foldar. My apologies. I thought—”
But the bandit leader made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Stop babbling. Did the second cart leave?”
“Ten minutes later, Lord. It’s coming along the high road, through the forest, just as you expected,” he said.
F
oldar sneered dismissively at the man’s feeble effort to ingratiate himself. “And the decoy?” he asked.
“The small cart took the coastal road, lord.”
Foldar paused a moment. It was a clumsy attempt to deceive him, he thought, although he gave the Ranger credit for traveling with the decoy cart himself. That, at least, showed a degree of originality. But it would be all the more galling for the Ranger when he realized his stratagem had failed. He would be miles away from the point of the real attack, and helpless to intervene.
“Very well,” he said. “Now get off the road and out of sight.”
“Yes, Lord,” the observer said submissively. They rode back into the trees, where a group of a dozen heavily armed mounted men waited for Foldar’s orders.
“You, you and you,” he said, jerking a thumb at the messenger and two other men. “Take up a position on the far side of the road. When you hear my horn, attack immediately, making all the noise you can.”
The three men muttered their acknowledgment. As they were about to move off, he stopped them.
“Stay out of sight,” he said. It was a warning as much as a command. Then, as he dismissed them with a gesture, they rode to their positions. He glanced around the other men. “Once the escort is distracted, we’ll attack. But not before my order.”
Several of the riders nodded. They were grateful they hadn’t been selected for the first attack. They knew Foldar would hold back the main attack until the soldiers in the escort were fully engaged. The three men he had selected would be outnumbered two to one and it was unlikely that they’d all survive. They had all earned Foldar’s displeasure over the preceding days.
The Lost Stories Page 8