Farrel nodded his head deferentially and raised a knuckle to touch his forehead. Berwick mirrored the action.
“We’re honest foresters, my lord, looking for work with the local squire. My name is Farrel Molloy and this is Berwick of Gladstone.”
He glanced around the room as he spoke, feigning nervousness but using the opportunity to study the room and its occupants. There were at least a dozen men in the room in addition to the fake Duncan. All of them were armed with an assortment of swords and maces, and they all had heavy war daggers in their belts. Most of them were drinking and several had their heads resting on the table—in one instance in a pool of ale. The room was redolent with the smell of stale ale, cheap wine and too many unwashed bodies. The gaze they turned on Berwick and Farrel was decidedly hostile. This was a group that didn’t welcome strangers, Farrel thought.
Tiller snorted scornfully. “I’ve yet to meet an honest forester. In any case, there’ll be no work for you here. Now get out.”
Farrel bowed his head in an obsequious movement. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but we’ve traveled long and hard to get here—”
“Not my problem,” Tiller interrupted, but Farrel persisted, head still bowed.
“We thought we could find lodging here in the inn, my lord,” he said.
Tiller made an imperious gesture. “The inn is full!” he snapped. “My men and I have all the rooms.”
Farrel allowed his glance to slide sideways to the innkeeper, who was watching the byplay with an anxious expression. He shook his head warningly at Farrel.
It was a small movement, but Tiller noticed it. “Don’t look at him! I’m telling you the inn is full.”
“Yes, sir,” Farrel replied, rubbing his hands together nervously. “But perhaps we could bed down in the barn—”
Again, Tiller cut him off. “My men are in the barn. They don’t want you in there with them, waiting for a chance to steal their purses!”
“My lord, we’re not thieves—” Farrel began.
“You’re foresters,” Tiller said scornfully. “It’s much the same thing.”
Farrel tried one more time, looking hesitantly around the crowded taproom. “Perhaps we could bed down here, by the fire, sir?” he suggested. “It’s bitter cold of a night in these parts.”
“Did you hear me?” Tiller said, his voice rising in anger. There was a petulant ring to it now. He was accustomed to ordering people about, but he had no natural authority. Any authority he had came from fear, and the fact that he had twenty armed men to back him up. “There’s no room here. Get out. You’re foresters. You can sleep in the forest.”
Several of his men chuckled at that sally but he ignored them. His eyes, burning with anger, held Farrel’s.
“But, my lord,” Farrel whined.
“I said get out. Do you know who I am?” The counterfeit prince stood abruptly, knocking his bench over backward and jabbing a thumb at the hawk crest on his chest.
“I . . . er . . . no, my lord,” Farrel admitted.
“I am Prince Duncan of Araluen, son of King Oswald and heir to the throne. And I will not sit here and bandy words with a thieving forester. Now get out!” He turned to four of his men sitting nearby. “Throw them out!” he ordered.
As the soldiers began to rise clumsily to their feet, Farrel and Berwick turned and beat a hasty retreat from the inn. Behind them, as the door closed, they heard a burst of rough laughter.
The two Rangers, maintaining their charade of fear, half ran back down the high street until they had put a safe distance between them and the inn. Berwick glanced back. There was no sign of any pursuit.
“We’re clear,” he said softly and they slowed to walking pace.
Farrel glanced down one of the side alleys and caught a brief glimpse of several hooded and cowled figures keeping pace with them.
“Well, he’s a charmer, isn’t he?” he said.
Berwick shrugged. “Not what I’d call courtly manners,” he replied. “Pity a few of them didn’t come after us. I would have enjoyed seeing the lads use them for target practice.”
But Farrel shook his head. “We could have cut their numbers down, I suppose. But that would have put them on the alert and made our job tougher tonight.”
“True,” Berwick agreed. “But I hope friend Tiller, heir to throne of Araluen as he is, shows a little resistance tonight. I’d enjoy smacking him in the chops.”
Midnight had come and gone. The moon had slid in a low trajectory across the sky before slipping below the western horizon.
Farrel, hunched beside a tree in the small copse, pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The night was chilly, as he’d told Tiller it would be.
“Time to go,” he said softly. There was an almost imperceptible rustle of movement from the darkness around him as the assembled Rangers rose to their feet and began to move toward the road leading downhill to Haller’s Rill.
Nine dark figures, swathed in their cloaks, emerged from the tree line and flowed down the hill, staying either side of the road and moving through waist-high grass. To an observer, they would have appeared like a small, dark stain spreading across the ground—dim and indistinct and difficult to focus upon. But there was no observer. Tiller and his men, having drunk themselves insensible, were lying snoring in their beds. The two sentries Tiller had detailed sat on a bench, leaning against the wall of the inn, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
As the Rangers reached the first buildings of the village, they slipped quietly into the side alleys between the houses and disappeared from view. Berwick and Farrel made their way along the high street, staying in the shadows under the eaves of the houses. The other seven men moved to the back lanes parallel to the high street and kept pace with them. They stopped several buildings short of the inn and made their way to the high street to rejoin their leader.
They had discussed their tactics earlier, so there was no need for talk now. Farrel made a few peremptory gestures and the seven Rangers spread out in a line, bows ready, cloaks pulled clear of their quivers. They crouched, ready to shoot on a moment’s notice. Silently, each of them selected an arrow from his quiver and nocked it ready to the bowstring. Farrel glanced along the line of dark figures. He wouldn’t care to come charging out of the inn looking for trouble, he thought. With seven archers of this caliber, trouble would be exactly what Tiller’s men would find.
Farrel started across the empty main street. There was no point crouching to avoid being seen. If anyone were watching, he’d be all too visible. Better to move as quickly as possible to get across the open space. Berwick shadowed him and the two of them slid silently across the street, disappearing into the shadows under the eaves of the house next to the tavern. They paused there, listening, every sense alert.
They heard a strange, low-pitched droning sound. The two Rangers exchanged a puzzled glance and moved silently to the end of the house, peering round it to view the entrance to the tavern.
The droning continued, then was broken by a sudden snuffle and coughing sound. As he heard that, Farrel recognized the droning for what it was. He turned to Berwick, put his mouth close to the other man’s ear and breathed the word:
“Snoring.”
Berwick nodded. He had recognized the sound in the same moment Farrel had. The two men reached inside their cloaks and each produced a short, heavy wooden club. The heads of the clubs were wrapped in rags. They had no wish to split the sentries’ skulls—they simply wanted to knock them out.
Silent as a pair of wraiths, they slipped round the end of the house and crossed the narrow alley to the tavern. The two sentries were sprawled on a bench by the front door. Their weapons were on the ground beside them and they leaned in on each other, snoring heavily.
Berwick wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn’t care to smell that breath from close to,” he murmured. Farrel frowned at him and put
a finger to his lips. They stood by the two sleeping men, clubs ready, and hesitated.
Somehow, it seemed unsporting to knock two sleeping men over the head. Berwick looked at Farrel and shrugged uncertainly.
Farrel frowned, then leaned forward and placed his hand on the nearest man’s shoulder, and shook him. “Oy!” he said softly. “Wake up!”
The sentry’s eyes flicked open. His mouth hung open as well and he looked up at the two dark figures standing over him. He had no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.
“Wassa matter . . . ,” he began.
Farrel, seeing he was awake and so fair game, brought his club down on his head with a muffled thump. The man let out a little groan and slid sideways on the bench, jostling his companion, who opened his eyes in turn, staring owlishly around him.
Farrel made a permissive gesture to Berwick. “Be my guest,” he said.
“Who’re you?” the sentry said blearily, and with a dull THUD! Berwick laid him out in his turn. He lowered the man off the bench onto the ground, looking up at Farrel.
“Do we need to tie them up?”
Farrel shook his head. “They’ll be out for hours. Let’s go.”
He tried the door handle and wasn’t surprised to find it was unlocked. After all, why lock a door when you have two sentries outside it? The hinges creaked softly as he pushed the door inward and they stepped into the darkened taproom.
Berwick took the lead. While Farrel had been pleading with Tiller earlier that day, the second Ranger had used the time to fix the layout of the room in his mind. He pointed to the right-hand corner, beyond the fireplace where remnants of the day’s fire still glowed, casting an uncertain half light over the empty room.
“Over there,” he said, and led the way to the staircase. The stairs went up eight risers to a landing. Then another eight steps went off to the left. They moved carefully upward, setting their feet on the very edge of the stairs, where there was less movement that might cause the boards to creak.
They took the second set of eight steps in the same manner and found themselves in a low-ceilinged hallway. Berwick glanced around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom. There was a small, dirty window to their right, which let in a little starlight. On either side of the hallway were doors to two bedrooms. And the end of the hall was a third door, to a room that seemed as though it took up the entire width of the upper story. That would be the main bedroom and that’s where they expected to find Tiller.
The air was full of the rasping sound of half a dozen men snoring. Occasionally someone coughed, then resumed the snoring again. As they listened, someone let go a long and resounding fart.
“Delightful people,” murmured Berwick.
They soft-footed down the hall and paused outside the door, listening. From inside came the sound of one man snoring. They exchanged a look, nodded to each other, and Berwick eased the door open for Farrel to slip inside.
The window was uncurtained, and even without a moon, there was enough ambient light for Farrel to make out the tall form of Tiller spread-eagled on the bed. He was wearing a nightshirt. His surcoat and trousers were tossed over the end of the bed. His boots were lying on the floor where he had discarded them. Although the two Rangers moved noiselessly, something must have penetrated his dulled, drunken senses. His eyes flicked open and he sat up, staring at the two dark figures standing over him.
“Who are you?” he said, his voice thick and slurring.
“Prince Duncan says hello,” Farrel said softly, then hit the fake prince with a short, hard right hook to the point of the jaw.
Tiller’s eyes rolled up in his head and he went back down onto the bed, stone-cold unconscious.
Farrell dropped his brass striker, which he had held in his right fist, back into an inner pocket. He shook his hand once or twice to relieve the pain. Even with the striker to support his fist, the punch had been a painful one—albeit more painful for Tiller.
Berwick watched him curiously. “Why didn’t you use your club?”
Farrel gave him a fierce grin. “It was more fun this way,” he said.
34
FARREL BENT OVER AND SEIZED HOLD OF THE UNCONSCIOUS impostor’s hands, pulling him upright in the bed and forward from the waist.
“Give me a hand to get him up,” he said quietly.
Berwick leaned in, dragging Tiller over his companion’s shoulder. Farrel got both his hands around the back of Tiller’s thighs. He paused a moment, then heaved up with his legs and lifted the unconscious figure off the bed.
Tiller was heavier than he expected, and he staggered for a pace or two, then regained his balance. He glanced around the room.
“Grab his pants and boots,” he said and Berwick moved quickly to comply. Then Farrel nodded toward the door and Berwick slipped past him to open it, clearing the way to the hallway.
Farrel grunted softly as he stepped slowly out into the hallway. The floorboards creaked under the additional weight he was carrying. He paused, but then figured that the slight noise they made would be hidden by the thunderous snoring from the other two rooms.
He shrugged Tiller’s limp body into a more secure position and continued toward the stairs. Berwick brought up the rear, his saxe drawn and glittering in the dull light of the hallway. They passed the doors to the two bedrooms. Berwick half turned, shuffling sideways so that he could keep an eye on the source of possible trouble.
Farrel reached the top of the first flight of stairs and paused, getting his balance and his breath back. He stepped cautiously down onto the first stair, settled himself again and brought his back foot down to match the front one. Burdened as he was, he wouldn’t be striding down the steps. He’d need to take them carefully, stepping down one at a time with both feet.
He took the second stair. One foot, then two. He swayed, leaning against the wall for balance, then stepped down to the third stair.
Which was loose, and turned slightly under his foot.
He hadn’t noticed the loose board on the way up. They had been putting their weight on the very edges of each step, and there had been no sign of movement. Now, he didn’t have that luxury. He had to step down onto the middle of each riser, where there was more movement. He hastily brought his second foot down to try to regain his balance, but it simply exacerbated the problem. The extra load made the step tilt even farther and he felt himself losing his balance. Berwick, behind him and facing back up the staircase, didn’t notice his companion’s predicament. Farrel threw out his left arm to grab at the wall, trying to prevent himself from falling, but he had already tipped too far past his balance point and he couldn’t recover.
It seemed to happen in slow motion and that gave him time to consider his two options: to fall with Tiller, or to get rid of the unconscious man and let him fall by himself down the staircase.
He chose the latter, slipping Tiller’s body free of his shoulder and letting him go, while he threw himself backward, bending his knees to regain balance.
Tiller crashed down the stairs, a tangle of arms and legs. He hit on his left shoulder, more by luck than good management, and rolled, his feet cannoning off the walls. Then he somersaulted, so that his feet went over his head, crashed into the stairs below and dragged him, crashing and banging, after them.
“What are you doing?” Berwick hissed. He hadn’t seen Farrel lose his balance, and turning quickly, it seemed to him that his companion had simply hurled their prisoner headlong down the staircase.
“Shut up!” Farrel replied, rising to his feet and taking the stairs two at a time to get to the fallen man.
Strangely, the series of violent impacts, which might have rendered Tiller even more deeply unconscious, served to rouse him. He lay sprawled halfway down the stairs, head jammed against the wall where the stairs made a right-angle turn, and bellowed in pain and shock.
Above them, they heard a scramble of movement as his men were wakened by the row. Bare feet hit the floor and it seemed everyone was shouting at once. There was a crash as two of them, still half drunk from the night before, collided with each other in the hallway and went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Reaching Tiller, Farrel grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, hauled him to his feet and dragged him down the next flight of stairs. As they reached the taproom, Berwick caught up with them and seized hold of Tiller’s arm from the other side. Between them, they half dragged, half carried the dazed man to the door.
Above, they heard doors banging and feet pounding on the stairs. Someone was trying to blow a blast on a horn, to alert the troops in the barn. But his mouth and lips were dry and the first few efforts emitted only a strangled squawk. Then he got it under control and a shattering blast sounded through the inn.
“That’s torn it,” Berwick said as he shouldered the door open and dragged Tiller through it, Farrel following behind them. The impostor, now more fully aware of what was happening, began to struggle, resisting their efforts. Berwick glared at him.
“My turn,” he said, and hit him with a savage left hook. Tiller’s knees sagged once more and his head lolled. He was a dead weight again but it was easier for the two Rangers to drag him out into the street. Farrel stepped on one of the unconscious sentries and stumbled, throwing more weight onto Berwick, who staggered, then recovered.
“Watch your clumsy great feet!” Berwick hissed.
“I’m not doing this on purpose!” Farrel replied, then he called in a louder voice, “Rangers! Alert!”
There was no need for the command. The noise they had made exiting the inn was enough to wake the dead. The seven Rangers were ready and waiting in a long line, bows raised, arrows nocked and ready.
“Clear our shot!” Jurgen called urgently. Berwick and Farrel realized that they were directly in line with the waiting Rangers and the inn itself. Hastily, they altered their direction, crabbing to one side to leave Jurgen and the others with an unimpeded shot.
The Tournament at Gorlan Page 22
