Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  Halt nodded thoughtfully. He glanced at the sun.

  'They've been travelling hard all day,' he said. 'They're probably going to rest up for an hour or two before they attack. Did you see any sign of a farm further on?'

  Will shook his head. 'I didn't go past them, Halt. I thought I'd better let you know what was happening first,' he said apologetically. Halt made a small hand gesture, dismissing the need for apology.

  'No matter,' he said. 'There'll be a farm close by. That's what they'll be heading for. They'll attack in late afternoon, when the sun's almost down.'

  'How can you be sure?' Horace asked. Halt turned to look at him.

  'Standard procedure,' he said. 'They'll have enough light to attack, but the farmers won't be able to see them clearly. So they'll be surprised and confused. And once they've run off the cattle, the darkness will cover their tracks from any pursuit. They'll have the whole night to make their getaway.'

  'That makes sense,' Horace observed.

  'They've got it down to a fine art, believe me,' Halt told him. 'They've been practising for hundreds of years.'

  'So what will we do, Halt?' Will asked.

  The grey-bearded Ranger considered his answer for a few moments then said, speaking almost to himself, 'Can't pick them off from a distance in this wooded country, the way we did at Craikennis.' In Hibernia, he and Will had decimated an attack with their rapid, long-range shooting. 'And the last thing I want is to get tied down in a defensive fight with them.' He looked up at Will. 'How many did you count?'

  'Seventeen,' the young Ranger replied promptly. It was one of the questions he knew Halt would want answered.

  Halt stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Seventeen. And chances are there'll be only three or four able-bodied men at the farm.'

  'If we get inside the farm buildings, the three of us could hold them off easily enough,' Horace suggested.

  Halt glanced at him, conceding the point. 'That's true, Horace. But if they're stubborn, and the Scotti tend to be that way, we could be tied up for a day or more. And all that time, Tennyson will be slipping further away. No,' he said, coming to a decision. 'I don't want to just hold them off. I want to send them packing.'

  The two young men watched him expectantly, waiting to hear what he had in mind. After a short silence, he spoke.

  'Let's bypass the Scotti camp and get in front of them. I want to see where they're heading. Can you lead us past them, Will?'

  Will nodded and turned Tug around, heading into the trees again. Halt stopped him.

  'Just a moment.' He turned in the saddle and rummaged in his saddle bags for a few moments, producing a folded garment in brown and grey. He passed it across to Horace. 'You might as well put this on, Horace. It'll help conceal you.'

  Horace took the garment and shook it out, revealing a camouflage cloak similar to those worn by the Rangers.

  'It might be a tight fit. It's a spare one of mine,' Halt explained.

  Horace swung the cloak around him delightedly. Even though it was made for Halt's smaller frame, the Ranger cloaks were of such a capacious design that it fitted him reasonably well. It would be far too short, of course, but on horseback that didn't matter too much.

  'I've always wanted one of these,' Horace said, grinning at the cloak. He pulled the deep cowl up over his head, hiding his face in its shadows, and gathered the grey-brown folds around him.

  'Can you still see me?' he asked.

  Thirteen

  They swung in a wide arc to skirt around the Scotti camp. Then, when Will judged they were well clear of it, they returned to their original path. The trees began to thin out for the last few hundred metres, until they rode into a small cleared field. There was a farmhouse and a larger barn on the far side, nestled into a thicker grove of trees. Smoke rose in a thin wisp from the farmhouse chimney.

  Between the house and the barn was a fenced-off enclosure where they could see dark brown shapes moving slowly.

  'That's what they came for,' Halt said. 'Cattle. There must be twenty or more in that paddock.'

  Horace sniffed the pleasant smell of wood smoke from the chimney. 'Hope they're cooking something,' he said. 'I'm starved.'

  'Who said that?' Will asked, feigning surprise and looking around in all directions. Then he pretended to relax. 'Oh, it's only you, Horace. I didn't see you there in that cloak.'

  Horace favoured him with a long-suffering look. 'Will, if it wasn't funny the first half-dozen times you said it, why do you think it would be funny now?'

  And to Will's chagrin, Halt gave a short bark of laughter at Horace's question. Then he was all business again. 'Where is everybody?'

  At this time of day – in the midafternoon – they would expect to see people working around the farm yard. But there was nobody in sight.

  'Maybe they're napping,' Horace suggested. Halt glanced sidelong at him.

  'Farmers don't nap,' he said. 'Knights nap.'

  'That's where we get the expression "a good knight's sleep",' Will said, smiling at his own wit. Halt turned a baleful eye on him.

  'Horace is right. You're not funny. Come on.'

  He led the way across the small field. Horace noted that both his companions now had their longbows unslung and resting across their saddle bows. And the flaps in their cloaks that protected their quivers from damp weather were folded back. He touched his right hand to his sword hilt. For a moment, he considered unslinging his round shield from where it hung behind him, on the left side of the saddle. Then he shrugged. They were nearly at the house now.

  The thatch roof slanted down to form a shallow porch along the side of the house that faced them. Halt drew rein and leaned down in the saddle to peer under the edge of the roof.

  'Hullo the house,' he called experimentally. But there was no reply.

  He looked round at his companions and signalled for them to dismount. Normally, a rider arriving at a farmhouse wouldn't do this without invitation but it seemed there would be none forthcoming.

  Horace and Will followed him as he walked to the door. He rapped with his knuckles on the painted wood and it swung half open under the impact, the leather hinges creaking.

  'Anyone home?' he called.

  'Apparently not,' Will said, after a few seconds' silence.

  'Nobody home and the door unlatched,' Halt said. 'How curious.'

  He led the way into the little farmhouse. They found themselves standing in a small kitchen-cum-living room. It was furnished with a wooden table and several rough-carved wooden chairs – obviously home-made. A cooking pot hung on a swivelling arm beside the fireplace. The fire was still burning, although it was almost down to coals. It was some time since fresh wood had been added to it.

  Two other rooms led off from the large central room and a short ladder on one side led to a loft set under the thatch. Will mounted the ladder and peered around, while Horace checked the other rooms.

  'Nothing,' Will reported.

  Horace nodded agreement. 'Nothing anywhere. Where can they have gone?'

  It was obvious from the condition of the room, the fire and a few eating and drinking implements on the table that the house had been inhabited quite recently. There was no sign of a fight or a struggle. The floor had been swept and the broom replaced beside the door. Halt ran a finger over a shelf beside the fireplace, where cooking implements were stored. He inspected his fingertip for signs of dust and found none.

  'They've run off,' Halt said. 'They must have got wind that the Scotti are coming and ran off.'

  'And left everything here?' Horace questioned, sweeping an arm around the room.

  Halt shrugged. 'There actually isn't much. And if you'll notice, there are no cloaks or coats beside the door – just a set of empty pegs where they might have hung.'

  He indicated a row of hanging pegs set into the wall beside the door – the spot where someone entering the room would hang an outer garment. Or, Will realised, where they would don it as they were leaving.

  'But
why leave the cattle behind for the Scotti?' Horace asked.

  'They couldn't take them along, could they?' Halt replied. He crossed to the door and went outside again. Horace and Will followed as he made his way to the fenced cattle yard.

  'They tried to drive them off,' he said, indicating the yard gate, where it stood wide open. 'But there's feed in the troughs there, and water. I guess once the people were gone, the cattle simply wandered back.'

  The cattle looked up at him peacefully. Most of them were busy chewing and they seemed completely unalarmed by the sight of a stranger. They were stocky and solid, with shaggy coats to protect them from the northern winter months. And above all, they were placid beasts.

  'Maybe they hoped if the Scotti got the cattle, they wouldn't bother to burn the house and barn,' Will suggested.

  Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe. But they'd bother, all right. Burning a house and barn is part of the fun for a Scotti.'

  'So what should we do?' Horace asked. 'Simply fade away? After all, the farmer and his family will be safe from the raiders now.'

  'True,' Halt said. 'But with the cattle gone and their home and barn and crops burned, they'll probably starve in the winter.'

  'So what do you suggest we do, Halt?' Will asked.

  Halt hesitated. He seemed to be considering a plan of action. Then he said, 'I think we should give them the cattle.'

  Will regarded his mentor as if he had taken leave of his senses.

  'If we're going to do that, why did we bother detouring here in the first place?' he asked. 'We might as well have continued on after Tennyson.' But then he noticed Halt was smiling grimly.

  'When I say give them the cattle, I don't mean as a gift. Let's give them the cattle right in their faces.'

  Understanding began to dawn on Will and Horace. Will was about to say something further when Halt stopped him and gestured to the far side of the clearing.

  'Get back over there and keep watch. I want to know when they're coming. When they're clear of the thick trees, we'll stampede the cattle at them.'

  Will nodded, a grin forming on his face as the thought of the surprise that was in store for the raiding Scotti. He swung up into Tug's saddle and galloped away across the field, riding on until he was some thirty or forty metres inside the thinning tree line. The trees here were more widely spaced than in the forest proper, he noted. And the trunks were thinner and lighter. It was probably an area that had been progressively thinned out over the years, providing the homestead with building materials and firewood. The widely spaced saplings would provide little shelter for the Scotti against a herd of charging cattle.

  He found a leafy bush growing between two saplings, positioned Tug behind it and dismounted. He glanced back quickly at the farmhouse, where he could see the distant figures of his two friends standing by the cattle yard. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to stampede a herd of cattle. But he shrugged that fact away, comfortable in the knowledge that Halt would know. There was nothing that Halt didn't know, after all.

  'How do you stampede cattle?' Horace asked.

  'You startle them. You alarm them. We'll get them running, then mount up and drive them at the Scotti when they hit open ground,' Halt told him. He was walking among the herd of cattle, who watched him incuriously. He shoved at one of them. It was like shoving the side of a house, he thought. He waved his arms experimentally.

  'Shoo!' he said. The cow broke wind noisily but made no other movement.

  'You certainly scared that out of him,' Horace said, grinning.

  Halt glared at him. 'Perhaps if you whipped off your cloak, they might be startled by your sudden appearance,' he suggested acidly.

  Horace's grin broadened. He was, in fact, taking off his cloak but its removal seemed to have no effect on the herd. One or two of them rolled an eye at him. Several others broke wind.

  'They do a lot of that, don't they?' he remarked. 'Maybe if we got them all pointed the same way, they could blow the Scotti back down the pass?'

  Halt made an impatient gesture. 'Get on with it. You were raised on a farm, after all.'

  Horace shook his head. 'I wasn't raised on a farm. I was raised in the Ward at Redmont,' he said. 'You were a Hibernian prince. Didn't you have herds of cattle?'

  'We did. But we also had great oafs like you to take care of them.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'The bull is the key. If we get the bull running, the cows will follow him.'

  Horace looked around the small herd. 'Which one's the bull?'

  Halt's eyebrows both went up – a rare expression of emotion for the Ranger.

  'You really did grow up in the Ward, didn't you?' Then he pointed. 'That one would appear to be the bull.'

  Horace looked at the animal he was indicating. His eyes widened a little.

  'He certainly would,' he agreed. 'So what do we do with him?'

  'Startle him. Annoy him. Frighten him,' Halt said.

  Horace looked doubtful. 'I'm not completely sure I want to do that.'

  Halt snorted in disgust. 'Don't be such a ninny!' he said. 'After all, what can he do to you?'

  Horace regarded the bull suspiciously. He wasn't as big as some bulls he had seen in the meadows around Redmont. But he was solidly built and well muscled. And, unlike the cows, he wasn't regarding the two strangers with a placid, docile gaze. Horace thought he could see a light of challenge in those little eyes.

  'You mean aside from gore me?' he asked and Halt waved the protest aside dismissively.

  'With those little horns? They're barely bumps on his forehead.'

  In fact, the horns, while not being the wide-spreading ones that some northern cattle owned, were substantial. The ends were rounded and blunt, rather than pointed. But they still looked capable of inflicting damage.

  'Come on!' Halt urged him. 'All you have to do is roll up your cloak and whack him over the face with it. That'll get him upset.'

  'I already said, I don't want to get him upset,' Horace protested.

  'For pity's sake! You're the famous Oakleaf Warrior! You're the slayer of the evil Morgarath! The victor of a dozen duels!' Halt told him.

  'None of which were against bulls,' Horace reminded him. He definitely didn't like the look in that bull's eyes, he thought.

  'What north country bull is going to stand and face you?' Halt said. 'Hit him with your cloak and he'll run away. And the cows will go with him.'

  But before Horace could reply, they heard a piercing whistle. Looking across the cleared field, they could see Will running towards them, with Tug trotting behind him. Further back among the thinly spaced trees, they could see signs of movement.

  The Scotti were coming.

  Fourteen

  Halt sprang into Abelard's saddle as Horace still hesitated, uncertain what to do.

  'Get on with it!' Halt yelled. 'They're coming!'

  At the same moment, Will arrived back at the cattle yard.

  'They're coming, Halt!' he said, unnecessarily. There was a note of tension in his voice and it was pitched a little higher than normal.

  'Get mounted. Once they're running, we'll keep driving them,' Halt told him. Then he turned back to Horace. 'Get them moving, Horace!'

  Horace was finally galvanised into action. He stepped forward and swung the folded cloak, smacking it right between the bull's horns and across his face.

  Then everything seemed to happen in a rush.

  The bull squealed with rage, blinked three or four times, then lowered his head and charged, stiff legged, at his tormentor. He butted Horace in the midriff and, jerking his head upright, sent the unfortunate warrior sailing several metres, to land heavily on his back with a dull thud and an 'Ooooof!' of escaping breath.

  For a second, it seemed the bull might follow up its advantage. But then Kicker intervened. Trained for years to protect his master against attack in combat, the massive battlehorse interposed himself between Horace and the bull. The bull squealed a challenge, pawing the ground in front of him, tearing up the g
rass and dirt and tossing his head in fury.

  It was too much for Kicker. In the Araluan animal world there was a certain order of precedence, and a carefully bred and trained battlehorse ranked far above a shaggy country bull of indeterminate lineage. The mighty horse reared onto his hind legs and danced forward, shrilling a challenge, his forehooves slashing the air in front of him.

  Those ironshod hooves flashed past the bull's face and he realised he was overmatched. Bellowing with frustration, he turned away, taking a few uncertain paces as he prepared to retreat.

  But he had defied Kicker, challenged him even, and in the horse's mind, that insult must be erased. He dashed forward and gnashed his big blunt teeth at the bull, catching him on the rump and removing a painful piece of flesh and hide.

  The bull howled in pain and outrage and fear. He kicked his hind legs up in a vain attempt to catch his attacker. But Kicker was trained in a hard school and he had already pulled back. As the bull's rear hooves hit the ground again, Kicker pirouetted and lashed out in his own turn, slamming his rear hooves into the bull's already damaged backside.

  That was the final straw. Fear, pain and now the thundering impact of a double kick. The bull bellowed and took off, running across the field. Alarmed by his cries, the herd went with him, their panicked mooing and the dull thunder of their hooves filling the air.