They heard the convoy coming before they saw it. The hooves of the escort’s horses clattered on the hard, compacted surface of the high road and the cart’s axle squeaked loudly in a teeth-grating rhythm. Then the cart and its escort came into sight around a bend. Two of the escort’s soldiers rode ahead of the car, two more to either side, with the remaining two men bringing up the rear. As well as the driver, there was another armed man on the cart’s seat.
The members of the escort were all alert, their eyes scanning the forest on either side of the road. The rear guard twisted in their saddles every thirty seconds or so to scan the road behind them. This early in the journey, Foldar had expected them to be on their guard, which was why he had dispatched the three men to the far side of the road to distract their attention from the main attack. He waited now as the cart drew level with the spot where he and his men waited, unseen, in the trees. The horse nearest him surged forward a pace or two before its rider could check it.
“Be still, blast you,” Foldar said, noting the man’s identity. The bandit paled. He knew his leader would remember him and punish him at a later date. It might be best to desert the band after this raid, he thought.
Foldar had a small ivory-and-brass hunting horn hanging from his belt. He raised it to his lips and hesitated, judging distances and the speed of the cart’s progress. When the moment was right, he blew a short blast from the horn.
The men of the escort heard it, of course, and they heard where it came from. As one, they swung around to face the trees on the left side of the road, hands dropping to sword hilts. Then they heard shouting and a sudden thunder of hoofbeats from their right and swung back in that direction. For a moment there was confusion and they milled around uncertainly. Then the senior man shouted orders and formed them up on the right side of the road, in time to face the onrushing riders.
In the first exchange, the attackers had the advantage, with the impetus of their charge behind them, and the element of surprise. The escort barely had time to form into a defensive line before the three bandits were upon them. One of the escort’s horses was hurled from his feet as a bandit drove his galloping horse into it at full speed. Another defender wheeled away, dropping his sword and clutching at his wounded upper arm, trying to stop the sudden flow of blood from a sword thrust.
But once the initial energy of the charge was dissipated, the bandits were in trouble. One fell quickly to a sword thrust as he stood in his stirrups to strike at the escort leader. Then there were two men facing five, and the members of the escort quickly encircled them.
In the trees on the left side of the road, Foldar watched, eyes slitted, waiting until the escort was fully engaged. He could have attacked earlier and possibly saved the remaining two men in the diversionary attack. But he cared little for their well-being and he knew his own chances of success would be greater if he waited. Now, seeing only one of his men left in the saddle, he judged the moment was right. He raised his sword, then swept it forward, leading his men out of the trees and charging toward the convoy.
As he had ordered beforehand, they made no sound. There were no battle cries, no shouted challenges, just the muted thud of the horses’ hooves on the soft grass.
Foldar saw the last of the three men from the initial attack slump suddenly in his saddle as a soldier from the escort drove a sword into his side. Then, as he had expected, the escort relaxed, thinking the fight was over. Several were in the act of sheathing their swords when one looked up and saw the group of galloping men barely twenty meters away. The man shouted a warning and the others turned in confusion once more, wondering where this new attack had come from.
Then, above their cries of alarm, Foldar heard another sound—a whirring, hissing sound as a flight of arrows arced down around him. Barely seconds later, he heard the dull thuds of contact as the arrows struck home. Four of his men tumbled from their saddles and lay still. Their horses continued to charge for a few more meters, then, with nobody to urge them on, they slowed and trotted aimlessly.
Another multiple whirring sound surrounded him, and two more of his men went down. The remainder hauled on their reins and swung away from the wagon and its escort. Foldar brought his own battlehorse to a sliding stop, searching for the source of those two deadly volleys.
And saw it. Sixty meters away, half a dozen archers had emerged from the trees. A tall figure on a bay horse was beside them, directing their shooting. Even without the distinctive mottled cloak, Foldar recognized the young Ranger. He cursed bitterly, wondering how the man had gotten here so quickly and how he had mustered the troop of archers.
But there was no time to think about it. His own force, initially nine men, was now reduced to three, and the members of the escort, heartened by this unexpected turn of fortune, were rallying to charge them.
“Run!” he yelled to the survivors. “Scatter! Rendezvous at the camp tomorrow!”
He didn’t wait to see if they heard him or acted on his orders. He wheeled the battlehorse and set his spurs to its flanks, sending it thundering away, building to a gallop as he continued to spur it and flail at it with the flat of his sword.
He swept into the trees at a full gallop, the massive horse smashing its way through the lighter undergrowth, swerving to avoid the larger trunks. The branches whizzed by his head and shoulders, occasionally slapping painfully at him as he was too slow to duck. Tears sprang into his eyes from the impact and he could barely see where he was going. But he trusted the horse to avoid any major obstacles and crouched low over its neck to avoid the whipping, slapping branches, tucking his head forward so that his helmet took the brunt of the continuous impacts. Blindly, he continued to rake the horse with his spurs each time he sensed it beginning to slow its mad, headlong rush through the trees.
Then they burst out of the shadows under the trees into the sunlight and he looked up to see clear farmland stretching for several kilometers ahead of him. A low stone wall was rushing to meet him and he forced the horse at it, sensing that it was about to balk at the obstacle. The massive animal gathered itself, then launched itself over the low wall. As they soared clear of the ground, the thud of its hoofbeats ceased for a few seconds. In that time, Foldar heard another set of rapid hoofbeats behind him.
The horse crashed back to earth and the impact threw him forward, over the horse’s neck. He clutched wildly at its mane to retain his balance, nearly losing his hold on his sword as he did so. When he had regained his seat, he twisted in the saddle, searching for the source of those other, pursuing hoofbeats.
As he looked, he saw the bay horse clear the wall he had just jumped, the Ranger on its back sitting easily in the saddle. The bay barely broke its stride, but was back at a gallop almost instantly, gaining on the lumbering battlehorse with ease.
Foldar glanced around. There was open ground all around him. The nearest trees were at least two kilometers away. He would never reach them in time. He glanced back at his pursuer. The Ranger was alone and armed with only a sword. There was no sign of the longbow that Rangers habitually carried. Foldar’s lips curled back from his teeth in an expression that was half smile, half snarl. He knew that the sword was not a primary weapon for Rangers. And Foldar himself was a well-trained, experienced swordsman who had fought in a score of combats over the years. His shield was hanging from a retaining strap, banging uncomfortably against the horse’s flanks as it galloped. He had relinquished his grip on it when he turned to escape. Now, he hauled it back into position, slipping his left arm through the straps and seizing the handgrip.
Then he checked his battlehorse, dragged it around in a half circle and clapped his spurs to its flanks again as he charged back to attack his pursuer.
Gilan nodded to himself as he saw the bandit leader’s change of direction. He had tossed his bow to Bran, the archer troop leader, when he set out in pursuit of Foldar. He could see that the black-cloaked figure was heading for the thick trees and the bow would have been an encumbrance as Blaze weaved her wa
y between the massive trunks and under low, overhanging branches. In addition, Crowley’s instructions had been to capture Foldar if possible and bring him back for trial. That meant he would have to face him in close combat, not shoot him down from a distance. As the thundering battlehorse drew closer, Gilan slid his own sword from its scabbard. He felt Blaze tense under him.
“Not yet,” he muttered, and the horse flicked her ears in acknowledgment.
Foldar was angling at him so that they would meet right side to right side. He had his kite-shaped shield held horizontally across the saddle bow to protect his body, and his long sword was raised, ready to strike. It was a matter of seconds . . .
“Now!” shouted Gilan, although the shout was unnecessary. The sudden pressure of his knees and the twitch of the reins told Blaze exactly what he wanted her to do.
The bay mare leapt sideways to the right, crossing quickly in front of the battlehorse before Foldar had a chance to react. Foldar tried to twist in the saddle but the shield, held at an angle, impeded the movement; and Gilan and Blaze slipped by on his left. Foldar wrenched at the reins, held in his left hand, but once more the shield was an impediment. The battlehorse lurched awkwardly and began a clumsy turn to the left.
There was nothing clumsy or slow about Blaze’s movements. Under Gilan’s direction, she had risen to her hind legs, pirouetting like a dancer to reverse her direction with barely a pause. As her foreleg hooves hit the ground again, she was already galloping full tilt after the battlehorse.
They came in at an angle from behind Foldar and to his left. His horse was still trying to swing around in a circle to the left, as he dragged at the reins and raked cruelly with his right spur. As a result, the big horse was unsteady and off balance as Blaze, at full speed, drove her shoulder into the battlehorse’s side, between the saddle and its front left shoulder.
Blaze was ready and braced for the thundering impact. Foldar’s horse wasn’t. Already unbalanced, it was hurled sideways, then lost its footing and crashed over on its side. Foldar had an instant to decide whether the horse could recover or whether he would be trapped under it. He kicked his feet from the stirrups and leapt clear, landing on the shield and rolling to absorb the impact. The horse slid several meters on the damp ground, its hooves thrashing the air dangerously. Then, with a startled grunt, it rolled clumsily to its feet and cantered away.
As Foldar slowly regained his feet, Gilan slipped from Blaze’s saddle. He stood several meters from the bandit leader, his sword held lightly, tip angled slightly down.
“I suggest you surrender now,” Gilan said quietly. “Just lay your sword down.”
Foldar laughed harshly. “You suggest that, do you?” he said. “Well, I suggest that you turn around and walk away. If you do that, I might spare your life. You’re out of your league here, Ranger. You don’t have your bow to hide behind now.”
Foldar was making a serious mistake. He had a limited knowledge of Rangers, and limited knowledge can be a dangerous thing. He knew that Rangers were master bowmen. He’d never heard of any that were trained with the sword. As far as he was concerned, the odds were stacked in his favor in this encounter. He decided that he would enjoy killing this interfering young man who had spoiled his plans. He waited to see if Gilan would respond. But the tall Ranger remained silent.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Foldar asked suddenly. “You were seen on the decoy cart. Your horse was tied behind it. So how did you get here so quickly?”
Now Gilan smiled. “The decoy cart?” he said. “Oh, you mean the small cart that left earlier? That’s no decoy. That’s the real tax cart. It’s miles away by now. And I was never on it. That’s just a young soldier wearing my cloak.”
“But your horse—”
“Funny, isn’t it. I left Blaze outside the castle last night. There was a bay horse in the stables. I borrowed him and tethered him behind the cart. They’re very similar, although you probably should have noticed that he’s a gelding, while my horse is a mare. But then, you probably never got that close.”
Foldar hesitated as he realized that he’d been tricked. “I was told . . .” He cut the statement off abruptly. But Gilan had heard it.
“Yes, I’m sure you were. You were told the money was loaded on the larger wagon. And it was. But last night, I switched it all around again. Made for quite a late night, I can tell you. But nobody else knew about it. Certainly not your informant. Who is that, by the way?”
“You’ll never know,” Foldar told him. “And even if you did, it’d do you no good . . .”
He was still talking as he launched his attack. It was an old trick, designed to catch an opponent off guard. But Gilan was an experienced fighter. He parried Foldar’s three quick sword strokes easily as the man charged, giving ground before him. After the first violent, high-speed attack, they circled warily, each taking stock of the other. Gilan could see that Foldar was a capable swordsman. And he had the advantage of the tall shield on his left arm. As he blocked Gilan’s strokes with it, and forced Gilan’s sword away to the right, he could follow through with his own sword, forcing the Ranger to recover hastily in order to parry the stroke. And if he parried Gilan’s stroke with his sword, he could then use his shield as an offensive weapon, driving it forward into the young Ranger, buffeting him and sending him off balance. The shield gave the bandit an advantage and Gilan decided he should do something about that.
He switched hands.
He saw the momentary look of surprise on Foldar’s face. Then the black-clad swordsman drove forward again, swinging his sword at Gilan’s head. But now the situation had changed. Now that Gilan was wielding his sword in his left hand, Foldar was forced to parry mainly with his own sword. To use his shield, he would have to bring it right around his body, taking his sword arm away from his opponent. In addition, Gilan’s attack now came from Foldar’s right—the side unprotected by the large shield.
Foldar retreated hastily, trying to adjust to this new situation, and not managing to do so very well. Gilan now slipped his saxe knife from its scabbard, holding it in his right hand. As he blocked Foldar’s sword away to his own left, he could follow through and move in close, stabbing with the heavy saxe.
The second time he did this, he opened a wide cut across Foldar’s ribs, the saxe slicing easily through the chain mail beneath Foldar’s surcoat. Foldar gasped in pain and immediately covered up, with his shield protecting his body.
This was Gilan’s opportunity to launch an overhead attack, aimed at Foldar’s helmet. He gave the bandit no time to bring his own sword into play but hammered a lightning-fast series of overhead strikes, forcing Foldar to raise his shield to protect himself.
One of the blows broke through, glancing from the rim of the shield and catching the bandit full on the helmet. He stumbled backward and dropped to one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“I’ll give you one chance to surrender,” Gilan said quietly. “One only.”
Gilan had been trained in a hard school. He knew he was more skillful than Foldar, even with his left hand. But he also knew that a duel like this was a chancy affair. One slip, one missed step on the damp grass, could spell disaster for him. He had been trained to offer an opponent one chance to surrender. But only one.
“Surrender yourself!” Foldar snarled. He thrust forward from his semi-kneeling position, using his rear leg to propel himself at Gilan, his sword seeking for the tall figure. Gilan had sensed the move coming, a fraction of a second before Foldar moved. He saw it in the man’s eyes. He caught the sword with his saxe knife, flicking his wrist and deflecting it to his right, so that Foldar spun awkwardly, exposing his unprotected back to Gilan’s sword.
Foldar, trying to recover, felt a terrible impact between his shoulder blades. Then a burning pain.
“Aaah . . . aaah,” he cried, his voice weak, his mind still wondering what had just happened to him. He felt his sword drop from his fingers, which were suddenly lacking the strength to support
it. Then he saw the grass rushing up to meet him.
Gilan withdrew his sword and stepped back. Foldar was facedown on the grass, blood staining the black surcoat. Gilan shrugged. Crowley had asked him to capture the man if possible. As far as Gilan was concerned, “if possible” didn’t involve risking his own life.
“Perhaps it’s better this way,” he told the dead bandit. “Snakes have a way of escaping.”
7
“SO FOLDAR’S DEAD. THAT’S A RELIEF.” DOUGLAS WAS PACING THE floor of his office as he listened to Gilan’s account of the attack on the convoy.“Mind you, you took a big risk, swapping the money back to the smaller cart and sending it unprotected.”
Gilan made a dismissive gesture. “Not really. I was confident that Foldar’s informant would tell him the money was in the large wagon.”
Baron Douglas’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he met Gilan’s steady gaze. Then, as always, they slid away from direct contact.
“Hmm. Yes. The informer. Any idea who that might be?”
“Well,” said Gilan deliberately, “aside from you and me, only one other person knew that the money was supposed to be in the large wagon.”
“Philip?”
Gilan nodded. “Exactly.”
Now the Baron shook his head sadly. “I never would have thought it! The man’s been with me for years. Still, I suppose if the temptation is great enough, anyone can go bad.” He sighed deeply, obviously finding the whole matter distasteful. “I suppose we’d better have him in here, then.”
“If you would,” Gilan said.
They waited in silence for the few minutes it took for Philip to be summoned. The seneschal entered the Baron’s office warily. He looked at the Ranger and at the Baron. Of course, he knew about the events that had taken place earlier in the day. He was intelligent enough to sense that he was under suspicion, as one of the few people who had known the intended whereabouts of the tax money.
The Lost Stories Page 9