She shivered. The faceless threat of the Stealer, the horror of the very name, made her blood run cold. The door closed quietly and the presence, whoever it was, was gone.
For at least twenty seconds, she lay motionless, paralysed by fear. Then, slowly, fear began to be replaced by anger. She wasn’t a helpless child, to be frightened by a voice in the dark. She was an apprentice Ranger! She had been trained to use her saxe, her throwing knife, her bow and her sling. She had been trained to fight without weapons if necessary. She was a member of a proud and highly skilled Corps. And she was its first female member! If she were to lie here now, quaking under the blankets at the sound of a croaky-voiced foreigner who didn’t dare show his face, and who threatened her with some vague character out of a horror story, she would be letting down the Corps. And she would be proving that all those doubters (and she knew there were many) who said a girl didn’t have what it took to make it as a Ranger were right!
It was the last thought that galvanised her into action. She swung her legs off the bed, bringing the saxe out from under the pillow. She was already dressed. The cold night air had seen to that. She started for the door, then hesitated. Her sling and the saxe’s scabbard belt were looped over the bedhead. Along with the scabbard, the belt held her shot pouch, with twenty lead shot nestled inside. She scooped both up, putting the belt over her shoulder and sheathing the saxe as she did so. The sling remained in her right hand, ready for action. As she opened the door, her left hand was scrabbling in the shot pouch for one of the smooth, heavy lead projectiles.
She loaded the shot into the sling and made her way softly down the stairs, placing her weight to the sides, close to the walls, to minimise movement and creaking. In the tap room she glanced round quickly. The window was gaping open, its simple lock bent and distorted. That was how the intruder had entered, she realised. The front door was also slightly ajar. She hurried across to it now, went to throw it open, then hesitated.
Her heart was racing and she realised that it would be foolish to plunge headlong out the door. The intruder could be watching and waiting to see if she had followed him. Instead, she opened it a crack and slipped through the opening, staying close to the wall, in the dark shadow of the low-hanging eaves.
She glanced around the street, eyes straining for some sign of movement. Nothing. She cursed quietly. Had he escaped in the time that she was lying, quaking in fear, under the blankets? She didn’t see how he could have. She hadn’t taken that long to gather the resolve to come after him. Her eyes raked the shadows of the street and she thought she saw a blur of movement forty metres away, in the narrow alley between two houses.
As she did, she felt a stabbing pain in her stockinged foot as she trod on a sharp stone.
Gasping in pain, she bent over to seize her foot in a reflex action – and saved her life by doing so.
Something heavy whirred over her head and thudded into the wood of the door frame behind her. Now she could see her attacker more clearly. He was a dark shape in a gap between two houses and as she watched, his arm went back, preparing to throw another projectile.
Her training clicked into place. She straightened up and reacted to the threat without thinking. Arm back, step forward, then whip the sling over and through. The lead shot flashed away on its journey and, a fraction of a second later, she saw the man’s arm jerk forward as he threw in his turn. Instinctively, she dropped flat to the ground.
The shot, with the extra impetus of the sling to propel it, hit its target first. She heard an ugly, meaty smack and a muted cry of pain from her attacker as it struck home. Then the dark figure staggered, threw out his arms and crashed over on his back. A second later, the projectile he’d thrown slammed into the door behind her, a metre and a half above where she lay prone.
She rose, her eyes intent on the dark shape on the ground. Automatically, she loaded another shot into the sling and moved towards him, placing her feet carefully, making as little noise as possible. She felt horribly exposed as she moved into the open street, where the pale moonlight suddenly seemed to be as bright as day. She followed a curving path as she approached him, looping out to the right, then coming back in. That way, if he was foxing and suddenly sat up, she wouldn’t be where he expected her to be.
A part of her mind wondered at the effortless way she had carried out the sequence of actions. Responding to the attack, dropping flat, now moving in a half circle to approach him, the sling dangling, ready for use, from her right hand and slightly behind her. They were all things that had been dinned into her head over and over again in her lessons with Will.
The man didn’t move as she got closer. She paused a few metres away. She could see no sign of movement, no sign that he was still breathing. She realised that at close range, the sling would be useless. She stuffed it quickly into a pocket and drew the saxe. The soft whisper of steel on leather and wool was strangely comforting.
She circled round him, staying out of reach of his arms and legs, and moved closer. She knelt by him and she could see the wound on his forehead. His eyes were wide open and staring and she knew he was dead.
For a moment, she was numb with horror. Then her stomach lurched as she realised that she had killed a man. She wanted to be ill but she controlled herself with an effort, and sat back on her haunches to study him. She had reacted instinctively when she hurled the shot at him. It was an automatic reaction – and one of self-preservation and self-defence. She hadn’t had time to think of the possible result. The man had already tried to kill her with the first missile he had thrown. He was about to throw a second. If she hadn’t retaliated, it was she who would be lying dead now. She remembered how his second missile had whizzed overhead, remembered the vicious thuds as both missiles had slammed into the inn doorway.
It had been him or her. As she considered the fact, remembering how he had threatened her and tried to terrify her to gain her silence, and then twice tried to murder her, she found she couldn’t regret her actions. She had done what she had to do.
He was dressed all in black. A black woollen skull cap. Black trousers tucked into black felt boots, and a black woollen shirt under a short, waist-length cloak with a high collar. A black leather belt around his waist held a long, curved-bladed dagger in a sheath. He had dark hair and a dark, drooping moustache – uncommon among Araluan men – and his skin was swarthy.
Under the cloak, she could see a leather strap crossing his chest diagonally. She moved the cloak aside with the point of her saxe and revealed a flat leather satchel hanging by his left side. It was impossible to remove it easily, encumbered as it was by the cloak and the fact that he was lying on the strap where it crossed his back.
She slipped the saxe under the strap and sliced easily through it, then tugged the satchel clear.
Inside were a few personal effects: a few coins and a small, short-bladed knife that might be used for eating, an iron spoon, a flint and steel. Her interest was piqued by two cross-shaped items. She took one out carefully and examined it. It consisted of a heavy brass disk, with four blades set around its circumference at right angles to each other. The blades were approximately eight centimetres long. Their edges were smooth but the points were razor-sharp.
‘A quattro,’ she muttered. She had seen one once before, in the armoury at Castle Araluen. They were an Iberian weapon – an assassin’s weapon – designed for throwing. With four blades spinning rapidly through the air, it was almost certain that one would strike and penetrate the target. She realised that this was what had whizzed over her head and thudded into the tavern door. She shook her head slowly. Thank providence for that sharp stone in her foot, she thought.
As she replaced the quattro, she heard the rustle of paper and discovered a second compartment at the rear of the satchel. She pulled it open and looked inside. There was a single folded sheet there.
‘We’ll look at that later,’ she said softly, then stood, considering what she should do about the dead man.
In
the end, she decided to leave him where he lay.
If she roused the village now, there would be questions asked. How had she managed to overcome a grown man – and one armed with a long dagger and a pouch full of quattros? What was she really doing here? What was in the papers she’d found on him?
Inevitably, her real identity, and Will’s, would be discovered. It would become obvious that he was not a harmless itinerant worker but a King’s Ranger. And that would give a warning to the Stealer and his gang that they were being pursued.
If that were the case, they might slip away to another fief and Will and Maddie would lose track of them.
If she left him here, his friends might well wonder what had become of him. They might hear that he was found dead in the village high street. But they would have no idea how it had come about. They might suspect. But they wouldn’t know.
Coming to a decision, she scanned the surrounding ground, finally catching a dull gleam of metal in the moonlight. It was the lead shot she had hurled at him. She retrieved it, then turned and walked quickly back to the inn, pausing to prise the two quattros from the timber of the door frame. Then she slipped back upstairs to the attic, after locking the front door.
She was awoken early the following morning by a hubbub in the street. Peering out her narrow window, she saw a small crowd gathered round the black-clad figure on the ground. He had been discovered by a dairyman, on his way to bring his cows in from the village green for milking. He had raised the alarm and now eight or nine villagers clustered round the mysterious dead man. They wondered aloud where he had come from and what had happened to him. His black clothing and weapons indicated that he had been up to no good.
Eventually, he was placed on a litter and carried to one of the houses. They would arrange a burial later.
His presence, his purpose and his death were a mystery. And in a small village where extraordinary events rarely happened, it would be a topic of conversation and speculation for months, perhaps years, to come.
But among all the theories that were discussed, nobody ever associated him with the young girl in the attic of the inn.
BY THE TIME Will returned Tug to the little clearing outside Esseldon and resumed his farm worker’s garb, it was well after dark.
He hurried back along the road to the village. Unlike Maddie, he wasn’t nervous about the dark shadows under the trees that lined the road. But he was no fool and he knew that dark forces were at work in this part of the world. As a result, he kept his hand near his saxe knife as he strode along. His bow was unstrung and, along with the quiver, concealed inside a canvas wrapping.
The lights blazed in the inn and there was a babble of conversation coming from the crowded tap room. It was the end of the week, and the villagers were relaxing after six days of hard work.
He stowed his bow and quiver in the bottom of the handcart. The stable was dark, the lanterns unlit. Maddie, of course, had slept in the inn the previous evening. It was logical to assume that she was there now.
He made his way to the main building, pushed the door open and was greeted by the noisy babble of voices and the smell of good cooking, woodsmoke and spilt ale. A few people looked up, recognised the itinerant farm worker who had been in the village for several days and lost interest in him. By now, they all knew his story, prosaic as it was. Jerome was behind the bar, passing two full tankards to a customer. He caught sight of Will, smiled and beckoned him over, drawing another foaming tankard of ale as Will crossed the crowded room, threading his way between tables and chairs and their noisy occupants.
Jerome placed the tankard on the bar in front of Will.
‘You’re back!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Any luck?’
Will grimaced. ‘Not a skerrick. No work at any of the farms for an honest man.’
‘How about a dishonest one?’ Jerome grinned.
Will shook his head, managing a faint smile in return. He took a deep draught of the ale before he replied. As he’d told Maddie, he didn’t make a habit of drinking ale but it would be out of character for a farm worker to refuse a drink.
‘None for one of them either,’ he said. ‘It’s hard pickings these days.’
‘It’s a bad time of year to be looking for casual work,’ Jerome agreed. ‘And you missed all the excitement here.’
Will cocked his head curiously. ‘Excitement? What’s been going on?’
‘Man found dead in the street – just a little way down the road.’
‘Who was it?’ Will asked.
But Jerome shrugged. ‘That’s just it. Nobody knows. Nobody’d seen him before until Neville Malton found him yesterday morning, sprawled in the middle of the road with a huge wound on his forehead.’
That detail definitely got Will’s attention. There were several weapons that could leave a mark like that on a man, but the one that sprang to his mind was a sling. He glanced round the room for some sign of Maddie. Then he turned back to Jerome.
‘What did he look like?’ he asked.
‘Big feller. Dark looking. I’d say he was a foreigner. Had one of those long, droopy moustaches that foreigners wear. And he was all in black. Up to no good, I’ll be bound, and someone went and settled his hash for him.’
At that moment, the door to the kitchen banged open and Maddie appeared, laden with four platters of steaming roast meat and vegetables. She wended her way through the crowd to the table that had ordered the food. The four men sitting there cheered as she set the platters down, joking with her and thanking her for saving them from death by starvation.
They were cheerful and friendly and meant no harm. Maddie smiled at them, a little wanly. She seemed bothered by something, Will thought. Then she looked up and noticed him at the bar, and he saw relief flood across her face.
‘That’s a good girl you’ve got there,’ Jerome said, noticing the byplay between them. ‘A hard worker and good with the customers. I won’t be charging you for that room she’s been in. And I’ll toss a few coins into her purse as well. Matter of fact,’ he added, ‘you can use the room tonight if you choose.’
‘Thanks. We may do that,’ Will said.
Maddie was looking meaningfully at him, and now she jerked her head towards the door that led to the stableyard. The message was obvious.
He drained the last of his ale. ‘I’ll just go and say hullo,’ he said, and turned to follow Maddie out of the stableyard door.
‘Tell her to take a good long break,’ Jerome called after him. ‘She’s been working hard all evening. Best waitress I ever had,’ he added, thinking to himself that it was a pity that Maddie and her father wouldn’t be staying long in the village.
As he followed Maddie into the cool air outside, Will smiled wryly to himself. Maddie, the royal princess, the superior, snobbish young lady of Castle Araluen, had found her vocation as a serving maid.
Might be a new career for her if Evanlyn and Horace don’t reinstate her as a princess, he thought, and gave a short bark of laughter. He paused, surprised. It was the second time recently that he’d laughed out loud, he realised. He shook his head and strode quickly to where his apprentice was waiting for him.
He stopped a few paces from her. Her face was pale and her lip was trembling. As she looked at him, her eyes welled with tears.
‘Uncle Will, I killed someone,’ she said.
Her shoulders began to shake and she began to sob uncontrollably. He gathered her in, wrapping his arms around her and muttering soothing noises as he did so. The fact that she had called him ‘Uncle Will’ spoke volumes for her state of mind. She was still a child, he realised, in spite of all her self-confidence and bravado. And she had been forced to do the most terrible thing a person could do – take the life of another. He had no doubt that circumstances had forced her to do it. He also had no doubt that she was talking about the mysterious black-clad stranger who had been found in the street.
‘Hush now, my girl,’ he crooned softly to her. ‘Hush now. I’m here and everything’s goi
ng to be all right. Can you tell me what happened?’
Gradually, between the vast, gulping sobs that were shaking her, she described how she had woken in terror to the presence of an intruder in her room. How he had threatened her, and then how the terror had been gradually replaced by anger and indignation.
‘You followed him?’ Will said, as she described how she had gone down the stairs, her sling ready. She snuffled back a tear and nodded.
‘Yes. I thought I should.’
He had released her when he asked the question, but now he pulled her into his embrace once more.
‘My god but you’re a brave girl,’ he said, marvelling at her courage.
She continued with her tale, describing how the sheer chance of the stone under her bare foot had saved her life, as the quattro whirred over her head. Then she told him how she saw the man preparing another cast and let fly with her sling, a fraction of a second before he could release his missile.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Will said. ‘He threw a quattro at you. He was about to throw a second, and you retaliated, just in time.’
She nodded tearfully. ‘I didn’t think what would happen. I just let fly. Then I fell flat,’ she said.
Will nodded sympathetically. ‘Of course you didn’t think. You acted as you’ve been trained to act. You reacted to a threat. There’s no blame here attached to you, my sweet.’
‘But he –’
‘He was obviously working with that filthy Stealer. He tried once to kill you as you came out the door. And he was trying to kill you again when you threw. And you say he had another two of those weapons in his satchel?’
She nodded, not saying anything. Will made a dismissing gesture with one hand.
‘Then you acted in self-defence and there’s no blame in that. None at all. If you hadn’t, I have no doubt he would have tried again to kill you with those remaining quattros.’
‘I suppose so.’ She had told herself this over and over since the event. To have someone else say it, and particularly Will, was enormously comforting.
The Royal Ranger: A New Beginning Page 25