“What’s he up to?” Will asked. Even though they were over a kilometer away, he kept his voice to a whisper.
“I’d say he’s got a plan of Hambley there—how it looks from the seaward side. He probably put that together sometime in the past few days. Now he’s setting up fires and lanterns on the tripods so that they’ll form the same general pattern as the town itself.”
Will shook his head in reluctant admiration.“ They’re thorough, I’ll say that for them.”
Halt nodded. “Yes. They know what they’re doing, all right. They’re not beginners, more’s the pity. Hullo,” he said, “that last cart’s on the move. My guess is it’s bound for the headland.”
Four of the men, having completed setting up a section of the town of lights, had clambered aboard the final cart, which was still laden with timber. One of them took the reins and slapped them on the horse’s back. Reluctantly, the animal threw its weight against the collar holding the traces and began to move toward the headland. It was a heavy load for one small horse and they moved slowly. As they reached the slope leading to the headland, the horse made harder work of it and the urging increased.
“They’d move faster if a few of them walked,” Will commented.
Halt shook his head. “They’re thieves and criminals. They always tend to look for the easy way—not the most efficient way.”
Slowly, the cart lumbered up the grassy slope to the end of the headland, until the man at the reins hauled on them to stop. The horse needed no second urging. It stopped virtually in mid-stride and stood, head hanging, turning back to stare vindictively at the men who were putting it to such hard work.
“If I were them,” Halt said, “I’d stay well out of kicking distance with that horse.”
The men dismounted from the cart and began unloading it. Most of the load was in the form of cut timber—firewood, Will guessed, judging by the regular length of the pieces. But there were several small casks and more iron rods. Finally, three of them lifted down a heavy metal basket, almost a meter across and a meter and a half high.
“That’ll hold the fire for the false beacon,” Halt told him. “They’ll make another tripod with those rods, then sit the fire basket on top. Load it with firewood and they’re almost ready.”
“What are the casks?” Will asked, although he thought he already knew.
“Oil,” Halt told him. “When the time gets closer, they’ll pour that over the firewood to make sure it lights quickly. If they do it too soon, it might dry out or evaporate. They’ll probably soak the wood thoroughly sometime around sundown.”
Instinctively, Will glanced up to see where the sun lay. It was just past its zenith.
“When do you think they’ll light the beacon and the fires?” he asked.
“They’ve missed the full dark of the moon,” Halt replied. “Although there’s only a small sickle moon due tonight. My guess is they’ll wait till it sets over the hills. That’ll be sometime around ten o’clock. I’ll head into Hambley and rouse the watch around nine thirty. There’ll be no time for them to get a message to the moondarkers, even if they were so inclined.”
“More waiting and watching,” Will commented.
“That’s what we do,” Halt agreed. “But don’t wait for me to get back with reinforcements. If they light the beacon and you see a ship out there, get down immediately and throw that dye in the fire. I’d rather lose a chance to catch this bunch than have a ship driven ashore and its crew put in danger.”
As the afternoon passed, they watched the moondarkers make their final adjustments to the pattern of fires and lanterns that they had set up. The four men on the headland stacked their firewood into the metal basket, which was suspended some two meters above ground level on the tripod they had assembled. Then they boarded the cart once more and headed back down to the beach. This time, heading downhill with a reduced load, the horse made better time. Will noted that the two small casks were left on the ground by the tripod.
Finally, the tall, bearded leader of the group seemed satisfied with their arrangements. He called a rest break and they lit a small cook fire and prepared a meal. The men lounged around on the long grass inland from the beach. They ate their meal, then sat talking. Some of them stretched out and slept.
“Going to be a busy night,” Halt noted. The fact that they hadn’t bothered to return to their camp was proof that this was going to be the night when they struck. Will felt the familiar tightening in his stomach that always came when he was awaiting action. Halt smiled at him, noting that Will’s replies to any comments that he made were becoming shorter and more clipped.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“No,” Will said promptly. Then he reconsidered. “Well, maybe a little. I’m a bit keyed up, and just sitting around waiting doesn’t help.”
“It’s a good thing to be on edge,” Halt told him. “Only fools don’t feel that way. Feeling like this will keep you on your toes, and that means you won’t get overconfident.”
Will looked at his old teacher curiously. He seemed calm and unperturbed. But then, he always seemed that way when something important was due to happen.
“What about you, Halt? Are you nervous?”
The gray beard was split by a slow smile. “I feel like there’s a stone in my stomach and I’m trying to digest it,” he said.
Will was amazed. Halt had just described his own feeling perfectly. “I’d never have guessed,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“I’ve learned to hide it,” Halt told him.
6
“THEY’RE ON THE MOVE,” HALT SAID.
Flashes of light were beginning to show on the flat plain below them—specks that quickly flared up as the moondarkers lit their fires and the flames took hold. Will and Halt could see dark shadows moving among the pools of light as more and more fires added their glow to the night.
Will glanced up. The thin sickle moon was directly overhead and was beginning its descent. In fifteen minutes’ time, it would be hidden behind the tall ridge.
Halt moved forward to a spot where he had a clear view to the north. He gazed steadily out to sea in that direction, searching the darkness. Then he gave a small grunt and pointed.
“There’s a ship,” he said.
Will moved to join him, screwing up his eyes to search for the light that would tell them a ship was approaching. He shook his head. “Can’t see it,” he muttered.
Halt held his right hand up at arm’s length, palm out, his fingers pointing upward. Slowly, he folded down his little finger. “See that long, low headland—the second-to-last one? Go three fingers out from that and you’ll see it.”
Will held up his own arm and hand. With one eye closed, he extended three fingers, setting his ring finger against the headland Halt had indicated. Then he looked to the left of his index finger and, sure enough, saw a dim pinpoint of light on the dark ocean.
“Got it,” he said. The finger system was a piece of Ranger field craft. Given a reference point, like the end of the headland, one person could tell another how far to look to the left or right simply by extending or retracting his fingers. As a young apprentice, Will had been surprised at how effective the system was, in spite of the difference in hand size and finger width.
Halt was assessing the wind strength and direction. “He’s going to have to sail against the wind to get here,” he said. “It’s blowing from the south. I figure he’ll take at least two hours to get level with the beacon.”
“Time for you to get going then,” Will said.
His old teacher nodded. “Yes. I’d better not leave it any longer. We might as well head down together. Get yourself set up at the landward end of the headland. Then, once you see the ship is offshore, sling that dye into the fire.”
“Hullo,” Will said, pointing the headland. “They’re lighting the beacon.”
There was a small glow visible beside the tripod. Then long tongues of yellow flame began to stream up into the night. The southerly wind blew
the flames sideways. As the fire grew, it dragged more oxygen in, creating its own draft of air.
“Makes sense,” Halt said. “If we can see the ship’s masthead light from up here, they’ll soon be able to see the beacon. You wouldn’t want it suddenly flaring up out of nowhere. Might make them suspicious.”
They slipped back over the ridge to where the horses were waiting. Knowing that this was going to be the night, they had saddled the horses shortly after dark. They led them over the ridge and down the first, steep part of the slope. Then, as the slope became less precipitous, they mounted and rode down a winding, switchback track.
They were almost at the bottom when Halt found a trail branching off to the south. He reined in and Will drew up beside him.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I should be back within an hour. If not, remember what you have to do.”
“Toss the dye into the fire,” Will said.
“That’s right. Don’t do it too soon. I’d like a chance to round up these moondarkers. But don’t leave it too late either. We don’t want a ship aground on those sandbanks out there. Sure you’ve got the dye?”
Will touched the lid of the satchel slung over his shoulder. “It’s here,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
“All right then. I’ll be off. See you in an hour or so.”
With that, he wheeled Abelard away to the south and trotted slowly down the narrow trail. After several seconds, a bend in the trail hid him from sight. Will twitched the reins on Tug’s neck.
“Come on, boy,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
He followed the trail to the bottom of the ridge, emerging onto the flat ground beyond the trees. Slightly to his left and further toward the sea, he could see the glow and flare of the fires that marked the fake town. To his right, the fake beacon blazed fiercely. A strange, fuzzy halo circled the flame, formed by the sea salt that saturated the air. Staying close to the dark background of the tree line, he urged Tug toward the headland at a slow trot.
They reached the point where the headland jutted out, rising in a gradual slope from the edge of the trees to the cliff, where it dropped away into the sea. Will checked Tug and eased down from the saddle. He stroked the shaggy horse’s muzzle fondly.
“You stay here, boy,” he said. The deep, almost inaudible rumble from Tug’s sturdy frame told him that his horse wasn’t happy with that idea.
“I know. I know,” he said. “You’d rather come along and protect me. But we’ll be a bit obvious if I ride out there. It’s two hundred meters of open ground and I can’t risk being seen by the moondarkers on the beach.”
I can be very unobtrusive when I choose.
“I admit that. But just humor me, all right?”
I always do.
Tug sounded huffy, he thought. But he usually sounded that way when Will went off without him. Tug was convinced that Will was unable to look after himself unless he, Tug, was around to keep an eye open for him.
As he was talking softly to his horse, Will had been scanning the open ground of the headland. There were rock outcrops, clumps of bushes and two or three trees. Not a lot of cover, he thought. But enough for him.
He scanned the headland more carefully, searching for any sign of the moondarker who had lit the beacon. He assumed the man had gone back to join his companions. There was no sign of him, and there was no need for him to remain on the headland. Will had seen the amount of firewood that had been piled into the iron fire basket. There was fuel there to keep the beacon burning for at least two hours, he reckoned. And by that time, it would be all over.
One way or the other.
“Stay here,” he told Tug. “I need to move up so I can see the ship when it arrives.”
I’ll be here. Yell if you need me.
“I’ll do that.” Will grinned, then he slipped away across the windswept grass of the headland, crouched low and moving smoothly from shadow to shadow. A normal observer would have lost sight of him within ten meters. Tug, with his heightened senses and knowledge of his master’s movement skills, kept track of him easily. But he nodded his head approvingly.
I can see you. But I doubt if anyone else could.
There was a stunted tree some seventy meters from the beacon. It had become gnarled and twisted by the constant sea winds over the past twenty years of its life. Will slid quietly into its shadow and sat at its base, his back against the weathered old trunk. He sat without movement, his cowl pulled up, and willed himself to meld into the background of the dark wood.
“Trust the cloak,” he muttered to himself. From this point, he could see the beach and the pattern of fires and lanterns there, the flaring yellow beacon and the dark sea beyond. Earlier in the night, with the sickle moon behind it, the sea had taken on a silvery sheen. Now that the moon was long gone, it was a featureless black mass. When he strained his ears, he could hear the gentle sound of waves breaking on the shore.
Even the conditions were playing into the moondarkers’ hands, he thought. If there had been a big sea running, there would have been breakers and telltale flashes of white foam to mark the position of the beach. As it was, these small rollers barely raised a ripple on the shore.
He stood quietly and set his gaze to the north, scanning slowly, dividing the ocean into segments and searching each one thoroughly, as he tried to catch sight of the ship once more.
Finally, he spotted it. It was farther down the coast than he had expected, but also farther out to sea. It was obviously near the end of a long tack. The skipper was probably trying to make as much distance down the coast as he could before turning into the wind and swinging back toward the shore—and the false beacon that he could probably see by now.
Will watched the dim point of light moving southwest for a further ten minutes. Then it appeared to stop where it was and he frowned, wondering what was going on. Then he perceived motion again, although this time the light was moving back toward him, at a shallow angle. It was the angle that had made it appear to have stopped.
He looked anxiously toward the beach. The fires and lanterns that marked the false town were still burning clearly. But there was no sign of the moondarkers. Or of Halt.
He looked out to sea once more and was startled by the distance the ship had covered since he looked away. It seemed to be awfully close to the shore—close enough that Will could now see the fuzzy halo of salt air around the masthead light. He shifted anxiously from one foot to another. It was nearly time for him to act. Once more he looked toward the beach. But there was no sign of Halt, no sound of any conflict there.
Maybe the people of Hambley had refused to help Halt. Maybe they had overpowered him and were holding him prisoner. If that were the case, Will realized, Halt’s life was in grave danger. The townsfolk, if they had refused to help him, couldn’t allow him to live and report them. For a moment, he wanted to run back to where Tug waited and ride desperately to the village, intent on rescuing his old mentor.
But he had a duty to perform, and time was running out.
Hitching his longbow into a secure position over his shoulder, he set out toward the beacon.
He moved in a crouch, keeping close to the ground. But now he moved with deceptive speed, gliding silently up the shallow slope toward the beacon. As he came closer, he could hear the crack and snap of the wood burning, overlaid with the wind-fanned roar of the flames themselves. Out on the open ground of the headland, exposed to the brisk sea breeze, the flames streamed sideways like long, flickering ribbons of fire, and showers of orange sparks flew away, disappearing into the dark night sky. Even though he was still some meters away, he could feel the heat on his cheeks.
Now that he was closer to the beacon, all he could see was the circle of flaring light that surrounded it. Outside of that there was only blackness. He shielded his eyes from the direct glare of the flames and peered out to sea. The ship was there, even closer now. His hand went to the cover of his satchel, where the oilskin-wrapped block of dye was ready
. He began to unbuckle the retaining strap when he became conscious of movement in the darkness to his right.
“What the blazes are you up to?”
Instinctively, he threw himself sideways. He felt the wind of the battleax as it whipped past him, missing him by centimeters.
7
HE REGAINED HIS BALANCE AND THE SAXE KNIFE SEEMED TO leap from its scabbard into his hand. He circled so that his back was to the fire and took stock of his attacker.
Big, powerful, and unexpectedly light on his feet. The man matched Will’s shuffling movements quickly, never getting off balance. And between them, its head wavering from side to side, was a long-handled, single-bladed battleax.
Without warning, the man swung the ax in a whistling, deadly arc. Will leapt backward, only just avoiding the massive blade. Then, as he tried to close in and get inside the ax’s reach, his attacker reversed the blow with incredible speed, swinging the blunt back of the ax at him like a heavy metal club or war hammer, causing him to leap out of the way once more.
The second leap had taken him away from the beacon fire. He contemplated throwing the saxe knife, but he’d seen how fast his assailant was. Chances were he might deflect the knife and Will would be left without a weapon, other than his small throwing knife. Throwing the saxe was very much a last option, he decided.
He backed away, eyes on the ax head as it caught the light of the flames, glittering yellow. He had to get back to the beacon and drop the dye in it. But their constant circling meant that the man was now between him and the fire.
He thought about drawing his throwing knife and using the two knives together. Then he had a sudden memory of a time in Celtica, many years before, when Horace had queried Gilan over the right tactics to use against a man armed with an ax.
“I wouldn’t advise anyone to face a battleax with just two knives,” Gilan had told him. As Will recalled, that particular training session had ended with Gilan suggesting that the best tactic might be to jump off a cliff.
At least there’s one of them close by, he thought.
The Lost Stories Page 18