Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  Horace noted the phrase they could give you the slip. Obviously, Halt had ruled himself out of further action against the Outsiders. He hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about the Genovesan who had been keeping watch on them. If the Genovesan was reporting back to Tennyson, the Outsiders couldn't be too far away, he thought. But he decided, on balance, it might be better not to trouble Halt with the news that they were being observed. Instead, he replied:

  'Would you have done that in his place? Would you have left him and gone on?'

  'Of course I would!' Halt replied immediately. But something in his voice rang false and Horace looked at him, raising one eyebrow. He'd waited a long time for an opportunity to use that expression of disbelief to Halt.

  After a pause, the Ranger's anger subsided.

  'All right. Perhaps I wouldn't,' he admitted. Then he glared at Horace. 'And stop raising that eyebrow at me. You can't even do it properly. Your other eyebrow moves with it!'

  'Yes, Halt,' said Horace, in a mock-subservient tone. He felt an indescribable tide of relief sweeping over him now that Halt seemed to be getting back to normal. Perhaps they wouldn't need Malcolm after all, he thought.

  He fixed Halt a light meal of broth and damper. At first, he tried to feed the grey-bearded Ranger. Halt's indignant refusal lightened his spirits even more.

  'I'm not an invalid! Give me that damned spoon!' the Ranger said and Horace turned away to hide his grin. That was more like the loveable Halt of old, he thought.

  Late in the afternoon, with Halt sleeping calmly, he became aware of a strange sensation. Or, more correctly, a lack of sensation. Since the morning, he had felt the constant scrutiny of the Genovesan's eyes. Now, suddenly, the feeling was gone.

  With apparent casualness, he scanned the horizon around the camp. He knew where the Genovesan had lain up during the day. Several times, without appearing to look, he had seen a brief flicker of movement from the ridge as the man changed position or eased his cramped muscles.

  'You'd never make a Ranger,' he muttered. Time and again he'd seen Halt and Will's uncanny ability to maintain a position without moving for hours on end. 'Then again,' he'd continued, grinning, 'neither would I.' He knew he didn't have the patience or the self-discipline that the Rangers seemed to possess in large amounts.

  As the shadows began to lengthen and the sun dropped inexorably towards the horizon, he came to a decision. It would be logical for him to make a quick patrol of the area before dark. Such a move shouldn't rouse the Genovesan's suspicions, if he were still there.

  Accordingly, Horace donned his mail shirt and helmet, buckled on his sword and picked up his shield and set out from the camp. He started towards a point on the ridge some two hundred metres to the left of the Genovesan's last position. From there, he would patrol in an arc along the ridge, checking the land to the south.

  He felt a little more secure now that he had the shield on his left arm. It would stop a crossbow bolt easily and he had confidence in his own reactions. If the Genovesan were still in position, and if he rose to shoot, Horace would have ample time to take the bolt on his shield. And then, with the crossbow unloaded, he might just get within sword's length of the treacherous assassin. He'd quite enjoy that.

  He trudged up to the ridge line, made a show of scanning the ground out to his left, then turned right and began to work his way along the ridge. He reached the spot where he had seen movement and looked carefully around. The grass had been depressed by the shape of something, or someone, lying there for an extended period. It was an ideal observation point. The ridge here was a little higher and gave a wider view of the land before it. He glanced back at the camp, seeing the smudge of smoke from the fire, blowing sideways and lying low to the ground in the freshening evening breeze, and the still form, wrapped in blankets, sleeping beside it.

  On an impulse, he strode down the far side of the ridge and scanned left and right. It only took a few minutes to find what he had been looking for. There was a pile of fresh horse dung in the grass, and evidence of where a picket stake had been driven into the ground, then removed. The Genovesan had tethered his horse here – back from the ridge and hidden from the camp site, but close enough if he needed to make a hurried escape.

  'He was here all right,' he said. 'And now he's gone. Question is, will he come back? And if so, when?'

  He trudged back to the camp, turning the problem over in his mind. As darkness fell, he prepared a meal. He shook Halt gently and was surprised and relieved when the Ranger's eyes opened almost immediately.

  'Dinner,' Horace told him.

  Halt gave a small snort. 'About time. Service around here is very slow.'

  But he accepted the plate of food eagerly and ate quickly. After he had satisfied his immediate hunger, he held up a piece of the damper that Horace had cooked in the coals.

  'Did you make this?' he asked.

  Horace, with some pleasure in his new skill, assured him that he had. It didn't take long for Halt to burst his bubble.

  'What is it?' he asked.

  Horace eyed him for a long second. 'I think I preferred you when you were sick.'

  Later, when Halt was sleeping again, Horace banked the fire, then slowly withdrew from the uneven, flickering circle of light that it threw. There was a fallen tree some fifteen metres away and he sat with his back against it, a blanket wrapped round his shoulders and his drawn sword resting ready across his knees. He spent a sleepless night, watching for an enemy who never appeared.

  In the morning the Genovesan was back.

  Thirty-four

  The two horsemen, leading a third, larger horse behind them, appeared over the horizon from the north.

  Horace felt an overwhelming sense of relief as they drew closer and he could make them out more clearly. There was little likelihood that any other two horsemen might be approaching, of course, but the whole time he had been alone, he had worried over the possibility that Will had arrived at Healer's Clearing to find that Malcolm had been called away to another part of the fief, or was incapacitated in some way. Or had simply refused to come.

  'I should have known better,' he told himself, as he began to walk out from the camp site to greet them. They saw him coming and lifted the horses from a slow trot to a canter. The horses, like their riders, looked travel-stained and weary. But Tug still had the energy to raise his head and send a nicker of greeting to Horace. It was as if he were reminding Kicker of his duties as the big battlehorse looked up at the sound, recognised his master and whinnied briefly.

  They slowed as they came level with him and he held up his hand in greeting, engulfing the bird-like healer's thin hand in his own as he gripped it.

  'It's good to see you,' he said. 'Thanks for coming, Malcolm.'

  Malcolm reclaimed his hand, wincing slightly at the pressure of Horace's grip.

  'How could I refuse? Do you always try to crush your friends' hands in that massive paw of yours?'

  'Sorry. Just relief at seeing you, I suppose.' Horace grinned.

  'How's Halt?' Will asked anxiously. It was the question that had been plaguing him the whole time he had been away. Horace's easy manner was reassuring. Will knew he wouldn't be so cheerful if Halt had deteriorated further. But he needed to hear it said.

  'As a matter of fact, I think he's improving,' Horace told them. He saw Will's shoulders lift in relief. But he was puzzled by Malcolm's reaction. The healer frowned slightly.

  'Improving?' he asked quickly. 'In what way?'

  'Well, two days ago he was rambling and raving. Had no idea where he was, what was happening. He thought it was some time twenty years ago. And he thought I was someone else as well.'

  Malcolm nodded. 'I see. And what makes you think he's getting better?'

  Horace made a vague gesture with his hands. 'Well, yesterday, he came out of it. He woke up and was totally aware of where he was, what had happened and who I was.' He grinned at Will. 'He was annoyed at you for going to fetch a healer. Said you shoul
d have kept on after Tennyson and left him.'

  Will snorted. 'I'm sure that's just what he'd do if I were poisoned.'

  Horace grinned. 'I said much the same thing to him. He wiffled and waffled a bit but he admitted I was right. Then he complained about my cooking.'

  'Sounds as if he is on the mend,' Will agreed. They had reached the camp site and Malcolm dismounted from Abelard. He wasn't a skilled rider and he accomplished the feat by swinging one foot over the pommel and sliding down on the wrong side. Horace caught him as he stumbled, his stiff legs giving way under him.

  'Thanks,' said the healer. 'I'd better take a look at him straight away. Has he been asleep long?'

  Horace thought before he answered. 'A couple of hours. He woke this morning. Then went back to sleep. Then he woke again around noon. He's sleeping much more peacefully,' he added. He wondered why there was a vague expression of concern on Malcolm's face. Maybe he was annoyed that he'd travelled so far and so fast only to find he wasn't needed after all, he thought. He dismissed the matter and turned to Will.

  'Why don't you take a break?' he said. 'I'll look after the horses.'

  But Will had been trained in a strict school. He always felt vaguely delinquent if he allowed someone else to look after his horse.

  'I'll do Tug,' he said. 'You can do the others.'

  They led the horses a little way from the fireplace and gave them water from the bucket Horace had refilled only a short while ago. Then they unsaddled the horses and began to rub them down. Kicker seemed inordinately pleased to see his master. In fact, he had had the easiest time of all three horses on the journey. Malcolm had looked at him in horror when he first saw him.

  'You expect me to ride on that?' he had asked. 'He's the size of a house!'

  Consequently, he had spent most of the journey on Abelard's back. The sturdy little horse barely noticed his weight. Malcolm was small and thin, to the point of being scrawny.

  'Anything happen while I was gone?' Will asked. 'Aside from Halt improving?'

  'Actually, yes,' Horace told him. He looked quickly around to where Malcolm was crouched beside Halt, leaning over him and ministering to him. He decided that he was out of earshot, although why that mattered he wasn't totally sure. In a low voice, he quickly told Will about the watcher on the southern ridge.

  Will, experienced in such matters, didn't make the novice's mistake of looking towards the ridge. He kept his eyes down.

  'You're sure it's the Genovesan?'

  Horace hesitated. 'No. I'm not sure. I think it's him. I'm sure it's someone. I found the spot where he was hiding.'

  'And you say he left at nightfall?' Will continued. This was becoming more and more difficult to fathom.

  'That's right. And came back this morning,' Horace told him. Will pursed his lips, finished rubbing Tug down and patted him absently on the neck several times.

  'Show me where,' he said.

  Horace was no novice either. The tall warrior moved around to pick up a dry cloth, then faced towards Will, his back to the southern ridgeline.

  'Should be just over my right shoulder,' he said. And Will, pretending to look at him as they talked, let his eyes scan past Horace's shoulder, probing the horizon. Horace, watching his face, saw his eyes stop moving and the skin around them tighten suddenly.

  'I see him,' Will said. 'Just his head and shoulders. Now he's ducked down. If he hadn't done that, I mightn't have spotted him.'

  'He's getting cocky,' Horace told him. 'He's not trying too hard to hide himself. And he moves a lot, as well.'

  'Hmm,' Will said. 'What the devil is he up to? Why hasn't he just ridden away?'

  'I've been thinking about that,' Horace said. 'Maybe Tennyson has been delayed, and our friend here is making sure we don't follow on too soon.'

  'Delayed by what?' Will asked and Horace shrugged.

  'Could be he's sick or injured. Maybe he's waiting for someone. I don't know. But he must be holed up somewhere close at hand, because his spy up there heads off at night and then is back here by daylight.'

  'He's waiting to see what we'll do,' Will said, as it became clear to him. 'He knows Halt is poisoned. He heard him cry out when the bolt hit him. So he assumes he's going to die. He can't know who Malcolm is, or how skilled he is.'

  Funny, he thought, how he simply assumed that Malcolm would be able to save Halt.

  Horace was nodding. 'That could be it. If they've had to stop, it only makes sense that he should keep tabs on us. He might well assume that if Halt dies, we'll give up and head back home. And obviously, he has no way of knowing that Halt is getting better.'

  'Don't be too quick with that assumption,' Malcolm said from behind him. They turned to face him and his expression was grave.

  'But he must be!' Horace protested. 'I could see it myself and I'm certainly no healer. He was much better this morning and yesterday afternoon. Totally lucid.'

  But Malcolm was shaking his head and Horace stopped his protesting.

  'I'm not sure what the poison is yet. But if I'm right, those are the symptoms.'

  'Of what?' Will asked. His mouth was a tight line.

  Malcolm looked at him apologetically. As a healer, he hated times like this, when all he had to offer was bad news.

  'It starts with delirium and fever. One minute he's in the present, next he's in the past. Then he's totally in the past and hallucinating. That's the second stage. That's when you said he mistook you for someone else. Then there's the final stage: clarity and awareness once again and an apparent recovery.'

  'An apparent recovery?' Will repeated. He didn't like the sound of that phrase.

  Malcolm shrugged. 'I'm afraid so. He's a long way gone. I'm not sure how much time he might have left.'

  'But . . . you can treat him?' Horace asked. 'There is an antidote to this poison, isn't there? You said you know what it is.'

  'I think I know what it is,' Malcolm said. 'And there is an antidote.'

  'Then I don't see the problem,' Horace said.

  Malcolm took a deep breath. 'The poison looks like one of two possible types – both of the genus aracoina,' he said. 'One is derived from the aracoina plant that grows blue flowers. The other comes from the white-flowered variety. The two cause virtually the same symptoms – the ones I've just described here.'

  'Then . . .' Will began, but Malcolm stopped him.

  'There are two antidotes. They're quite common. They're effective almost immediately and I have the ingredients for both. But if I treat him for white aracoina and he's been poisoned with the blue variety, it will almost certainly kill him. And vice versa.'

  Horace and Will stood in stunned silence as Malcolm spoke. Then he continued.

  'That's why murdering swine like these Genovesans favour aracoina poison. Even if a healer can prepare an antidote, there's still an even chance that the victim will die.'

  'And if we don't know which one was used?' Will asked. Malcolm had known the question was coming and now he had to present this young man he admired so much with a truly terrible dilemma.

  'If we don't treat him, he'll certainly die. If it comes down to it, I'll prepare both remedies, then we'll flip a coin and decide which one to use.'

  Will straightened his slumped shoulders and looked Malcolm in the eye.

  'No,' he said. 'There'll be no coin tossing. If a decision has to be made, I'll make it. I won't have Halt's life decided by tossing a coin. I could never go back and tell Lady Pauline that was how we did it. I want it done by someone who loves him. And that's me.'

  Malcolm nodded acknowledgement of the statement.

  'I hope I'd have your courage in such a moment,' he said. Once again, as he had done many months previously, he regarded the Ranger before him and wondered at the strength and depth of character in one so young. Horace stepped closer to his friend and put his big hand on Will's shoulder. Malcolm saw the knuckles whiten with the pressure of his grip as he squeezed, letting Will know he was not alone.

  With a sad li
ttle smile, Will put his hand up and covered his friend's hand. They didn't need to speak in this moment.

  And that night, around midnight, after hours spent staring wordlessly into the dying coals of the fire, Will made his decision.

  Thirty-five

  The sun had risen over an hour ago. It was going to be a fine day, but the group stood around the low mound of fresh-turned earth with their heads lowered in sorrow. They had no eyes for the fine weather or the promise of a clear day to come.

  Head bowed, Will drove a wooden marker into the newly dug earth at the head of the shallow grave, then stepped away to give Horace room to smooth the last few shovelfuls of dirt into place. Horace stood back as well, leaning on the shovel.

  'Should someone say a few words?' he asked tentatively. Malcolm looked to Will for an answer but the young Ranger shook his head.

  'I don't think I'm ready for that.'

  'Perhaps it would be appropriate if we just stand here quietly for a few moments?' Malcolm suggested. The other two exchanged glances and nodded agreement.

  'I think that would be best,' Will said.

  Horace straightened to a position of attention and the three stood, heads bowed, by the grave site. Finally, Will broke the silence.

  'All right. Let's go.'