Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  'Will!'

  The shout rang through the trees. For a moment, Bacari was taken by surprise and the pressure on Horace's windpipe relaxed. Horace gasped and shuddered, managing to drag in one short breath before the noose tightened again. Who had called? It was a familiar voice. He tried to place it, then, as he blacked out, he realised who it had been.

  It was Halt.

  Years of training and experience had asserted themselves with Halt. Something had alerted him. Some slight noise, perhaps. Or maybe it was something less definable: some sixth sense of danger, developed over the years, that sent a warning to his brain that all was not well. He raised himself on one elbow and saw the dim figures struggling, just outside the circle of firelight. He tried to stand, realised he was too weak to help and forced all his remaining strength into one agonised shout to his apprentice.

  Then fell back, defeated by the effort.

  Exhausted, depleted, in the deepest possible sleep as he might be, Will's own training came to the fore. The call penetrated through the fog of sleep and, before he was fully awake, he rolled out of the blankets, springing to his feet, his saxe knife sliding free of the scabbard at his side.

  He too saw the figures on the ground and he started towards them. But now Bacari released his grip on the garrotte and shoved Horace's limp body aside, reaching down to pluck the broad-bladed dagger from Horace's scabbard as he did so.

  Dagger forward, held low in a classic knife fighter's stance, he moved towards Will. He assessed the situation quickly. Malcolm was no danger. So far, the healer hadn't even stirred. Horace was dead or unconscious, Bacari wasn't sure which. But either way, he would take no hand in this fight.

  There was only Will, facing him with that large knife he wore at his side. While Bacari was armed with Horace's broad-bladed dagger. The Genovesan smiled. He was an expert knife fighter. Will's weapon might be a little longer, but the Genovesan could see from his stance that the Ranger was no expert at knife fighting and his knife skills would be no match for Bacari's own lightning sweeps, thrusts and reverse slashes – techniques that he had practised for years and perfected in the cut-throat, crowded towns of Genovese.

  He shuffled forward, watching the Ranger's eyes. There was a light of uncertainty in them. Roused suddenly from sleep, Will was still slightly confused and unready for combat. His system would be flooding with adrenalin, his pulse racing. This was why Bacari had waited, breathing deeply, before he had launched his attack on Horace. He wanted to make sure that he was ready. That his nerves were settled and his reactions sharp.

  Will, for his part, backed away. He saw the confidence in Bacari's eyes and realised he was facing an expert. The assassin had trained and practised with the dagger for years, just as Will had trained with the bow. And he knew his own limitations in this sort of fight.

  The thought remained unfinished as Bacari suddenly slid forward with amazing speed. He feinted high with the dagger, and as Will went to parry the knife, he flicked it to his other hand and slashed low, opening a tear in Will's jacket, just scraping the skin as Will leapt desperately back out of reach.

  Will felt warm blood trickling down his ribs. His reactions and speed had saved him that time. Just.

  But the switch of hands had nearly caught him. Bacari was incredibly fast. It was like trying to parry a striking snake with his saxe – a snake that could switch direction in a heartbeat. He could try a throw, of course. But he had seen the Genovesan's speed and he knew he would probably be able to avoid a thrown saxe knife.

  Bacari slid forward again, this time slashing with the knife in his left hand, and again Will was forced to leap back to avoid him. The movement gave Bacari time to switch back to his right hand and he attacked once more, thrusting first, then describing a bewildering series of high and low slashes and thrusts, lightning fast and perfectly controlled, so that he never left himself exposed to a return strike from Will.

  Will remembered the last time he had faced this man, on the grassland, knowing that he couldn't afford to kill him. Then as that thought came, a strange sense of resolve followed it.

  Bacari was before him now, on the balls of his feet, poised and ready to strike again. He began a dazzling succession of movements, switching the knife from one hand to the other, tossing and catching it like a juggler, forcing Will's attention to switch constantly from left to right, distracting him from the moment when the final attack would come.

  Will switched the saxe to his left hand. The moment he did, Bacari tossed the dagger back to his right. And laughed.

  'You're not very good at this,' he said.

  'I used to watch a man who . . .' Will began and then, without warning or hesitating in his speech, he threw the saxe left-handed, an underarm spinning throw.

  It was an old trick Halt had taught him years ago. When you're overmatched, deception and distraction are your best friends. Begin to speak. Say anything. Your opponent will expect you to finish the statement, but act before you do. Chances are, you'll catch him napping.

  But Bacari knew the trick too. He had used it himself, many times. And now he simply stepped to one side and the saxe went spinning past him. He laughed.

  He was still laughing when Will's throwing knife, drawn and thrown the moment the saxe had left his hand, buried itself in his heart. He looked down and saw it for a fraction of a second before his sight went black and his legs collapsed underneath him.

  'I don't need you alive any more,' Will said coldly.

  Forty-one

  The small red deer bent its head to the grass to eat. Then some instinct warned it and the head came up again, the large ears twitching to catch any faint sound, the nose quivering for any scent of danger. Its senses told it that danger lay to the left, downwind, and it began to turn its head in that direction.

  It was the last move it would make. The arrow came out of nowhere, hissing through the air and burying its razor-sharp broadhead in the animal's heart. With a low grunt of surprise, it tried to gather its hind legs under it to spring away. But there was no strength left in them and the little animal buckled to the grass.

  Will rose from concealment, pushing back the cowl of his cloak. After so long on the road, they were short of food. The deer would give them fresh meat and strips to dry over the fire as well. He felt a faint sense of regret at having to kill the beautiful animal, but knew it was necessary.

  Quickly, he field-dressed the deer where it lay. He whistled and Tug appeared from a clump of trees a hundred metres away, trotting towards him. He looked at the deer, which they had been stalking for over two hours.

  It's not very big. Is that the best you could do?

  'No sense killing more meat than we need,' Will told him. But he could see the little horse was unconvinced. He tied the deer's carcass behind the saddle and mounted up for the ride back to their camp in the trees.

  Two days had passed since his final confrontation with Bacari. In that time, he had been amazed by the speed of Halt's recovery. The grey-bearded Ranger was still weak, of course. That was a result of the after-effects of the strain the poison had placed upon his body, and the fact that for several days he had eaten little but a few mouthfuls of broth.

  But the fever, the disorientation, the morbid swelling and discolouration of his arm were all long gone. He was his old self again, and chafing to be back on the road.

  In this matter, Malcolm had objected.

  'You need rest. Complete rest for at least four days. Otherwise, you're likely to have a relapse,' he told Halt, in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

  Of course, Will knew, Halt would have argued in any other situation, regardless of Malcolm's tone of voice. But he seemed to be deferring to Malcolm's judgement, at least for the time being.

  There was another problem that had been weighing on Will's mind. He felt he should escort Malcolm back to Grimsdell. The healer's work was finished here and Will knew he had other responsibilities back in the dark forest that he called home. The road to Macindaw
was an uncertain one, through wild, potentially dangerous territory, and Will felt an obligation to see Malcolm safely home. After all, he thought, the little healer had no weapons skills and his field craft was virtually nonexistent. But to do so would only delay their pursuit of Tennyson even longer.

  It was Malcolm who solved the problem when Will had tentatively raised the subject with him.

  'I'm coming with you,' he said simply.

  That possibility hadn't occurred to Will. He stopped, a little surprised. Then he saw several problems with the idea.

  'But Malcolm, it's going to be dangerous . . .'

  The healer's lip curled. 'Oh deary, deary me,' he said, in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice. 'I'm so frightened. Perhaps I should throw my apron over my head and burst into tears.'

  Will made a placating gesture, realising that his remark could have been taken as insulting. Realising, in fact, that it had been taken as insulting.

  'That's not what I meant,' he began and Malcolm seized on his words.

  'Oh? So you mean it's not going to be dangerous? Then there's no problem if I come along, is there?'

  'No. I meant . . . I mean, I'm not questioning your courage . . .'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' Malcolm said coldly. 'Exactly what are you questioning then?'

  'Look, it's just . . .' Will paused, aware that he should choose his words carefully. He hadn't seen this acerbic side of Malcolm's nature before. He didn't want to make him angry again. Malcolm gestured for him to continue. 'I mean, we'll probably have to fight them and you're not . . .' Malcolm's brows drew together. Will had always thought of the little man as bird-like. Now, with those drawn brows, balding head and beaked nose, he looked positively vulturine.

  'What, precisely, am I not?' he asked. Will was beginning to wish he had never begun this conversation but it was too late now to go back.

  'I mean to say . . . you're not a warrior, are you?' It was weak, he knew. But Malcolm could hardly dispute the fact.

  'So you're worried that I'll be a burden to you?' Malcolm asked. 'You'll have to look after me when the fighting starts?'

  'No!' Will said. But he said it too quickly. In fact, that was exactly what he was worried about. Malcolm said nothing for a few seconds, simply raised one eyebrow in disbelief. Will found himself wishing that people would stop using that facial expression. It was becoming overdone.

  'May I remind you,' Malcolm said finally, ' that I have been known to reduce a big, brave, famous Ranger to a state of near-gibbering terror?'

  'Well, that's a bit rich,' Will said hotly. 'I certainly wasn't gibbering!'

  'You weren't far from it,' Malcolm pointed out and Will's mind flashed back to that night in Grimsdell Wood, where voices spoke to him out of the dark, threatening and warning him. And where a gigantic figure suddenly towered over him in the mist. He had to admit Malcolm was right. He hadn't been far from it.

  'Look, Will,' Malcolm continued, in a more conciliatory tone, 'I'm not a warrior, that's true. But I've survived in a hostile world for quite a few years. I have methods of my own. And there's another point. There's Halt.'

  He saw that got Will's attention. The young Ranger's head came up, a worried look on his face, as if he suddenly feared that Malcolm had been hiding something about Halt's condition.

  'Halt? What about him? He's all right now, isn't he?'

  Malcolm raised his hand to allay Will's concern.

  'He's fine. He's doing very well. But he is weak still. And from what I've seen of him, he's going to want to start out after this Tennyson person much sooner than he should. Am I right?'

  Will hesitated. He didn't want to be disloyal to Halt, but he sensed that Malcolm was spot on.

  'Yes. Probably,' he admitted.

  Malcolm nodded several times. 'Just so. Well, he's a patient of mine. And I feel a sense of responsibility to him. I'm not going to ride off and let him undo all my good work. I need to be with you to keep an eye on him.'

  Will considered what he had said for some time. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Finally, he nodded.

  'All right,' he said. Then he smiled. 'I'll be glad to have you along.'

  Malcolm smiled in return. 'I promise you, Will, I can look after myself. And who knows? I might even surprise you and make myself useful.'

  For the past few days, when he wasn't checking on Halt, Malcolm had taken himself away from the camp site and built a small fire. He busied himself mixing and boiling potions and drying them out in the sun and over hot rocks to form a brownish powdery residue. As he worked, an acrid smell rose from the chemicals. Whenever Will asked him what he was doing, the little man had smiled enigmatically.

  'Just making myself useful, that's all,' he would reply.

  From time to time, the others would be startled by the sound of small explosions from the fireplace where Malcolm worked. The first time this happened, they rushed to see if he was all right. He waved them away cheerfully.

  'Nothing to worry about,' he said to them. 'I'm just working with a new compound based on iodine powder. It's a little volatile and I have to get the mixture just right.'

  Eventually, they had become used to these interruptions in their day, and the explosions grew less and less frequent as Malcolm apparently refined his formula.

  Now, riding back to the camp, Will heard a more familiar sound and he frowned slightly.

  It was the deep-throated thrum of a powerful longbow being released. And not just any longbow. He followed the sound, diverting slightly from the path to the copse of trees where they had sited their camp. Again he heard the thrumming sound, followed a few seconds later by a solid SMACK!

  There was a slight depression in the ground, lined by alder trees, and the sound seemed to be coming from that direction. He rode towards it and, as he crested the slight rise above the depression, saw Halt. He had his massive longbow in his hand and as Will watched he nocked an arrow, drew and released almost immediately, without even seeming to take aim. Will followed the black streak of the arrow through the air and heard it smack into a small pine log, standing upright, about eighty metres away. There were three other arrows jutting from the soft wood, grouped so closely together that a man's hand could have covered them all.

  'You're dropping the bow hand as you release,' he called, although Halt certainly wasn't.

  His mentor looked around, saw him and replied pithily, 'I believe your grandmother needs lessons in sucking eggs.'

  He turned back to his practice and dispatched another three arrows in the blink of an eye, all of them thudding into that same small section of pine log.

  'Not bad,' Will was forced to concede.

  Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Not bad? You should do so well.' He gestured at the deer slung behind Tug's saddle. 'Been hunting?'

  Will nodded. 'We need meat.'

  Halt snorted softly. 'Won't get much off that. Couldn't you find something bigger? It's barely the size of a large squirrel.'

  Will frowned and glanced back at the carcass behind him.

  'It's big enough,' he said. 'Why shoot anything bigger?'

  Halt considered that, leaning on his bow and nodding several times. Then he asked:

  'Did you see anything bigger?'

  'Well, no. I didn't,' Will admittedly. 'But there's plenty of meat here for four people.'

  Halt smiled. 'Three people and Horace?'

  Will pursed his lips thoughtfully. Halt had a definite point, he realised. 'I hadn't thought of that.' And, of course, Tug chose that moment to toss his head and shake his mane. I told you so.

  Everyone seemed to be conspiring to belittle his efforts, so he decided to change the subject. He nodded towards the pine log, now bristling with arrows.

  'Any reason for all this practice?' he asked.

  Halt shrugged. 'Wanted to make sure I had the strength to draw my bow,' he said. 'Apparently, I do.'

  Halt's bow was one of the heaviest Will had seen. Years of practice had built up the bearded Ranger's arm
and back muscles to the point where he could draw it without any seeming effort. Yet Will had seen strong men who, lacking the correct technique and specific muscle development, were unable to bring it past half draw. Seeing the speed and accuracy with which Halt had been sending his shafts thudding into the log, Will realised that Halt was right. His strength was back.

  'Are we moving out?' he asked.

  Halt nodded. 'Tomorrow at first light. Time we saw what Tennyson is up to.'

  'Malcolm thinks you need another two days' rest,' Will said.

  Halt's eyebrows lowered into a glare. He and Malcolm had already had words on this matter. In fact, it was the reason why Halt had come out here to test himself. He had been worried that perhaps Malcolm might have been right.

  'Malcolm doesn't know everything,' he said shortly.

  Will couldn't help grinning. 'And you do?'

  'Of course I do,' Halt replied shortly. 'That's a well-known fact.'

  Forty-two

  Tennyson looked around the camp site and nodded contentedly. For several days, converts to the Outsiders cult had been coming into the camp. Now that they were gathered, he was ready to move in and whip them into a state of religious frenzy so that they would be ready to hand over their gold and valuables to him – just as they had done in Hibernia. It was a task in which he excelled.