“I’ll think of you all,” Alun said, smiling around the circle of familiar faces. “I’ll think of you when I’m tucked up in a warm bed at Castle Araluen and you’re all out sleeping in muddy ditches and drafty barns.”
A chorus of cheerful abuse met this comment, and his smile widened. Yet Will could see a hint of wistfulness behind the smile. Alun would miss the freedom of the hills and forests and the excitement of facing the unknown with every sunrise.
But his retirement meant there was a vacancy for one of the graduating Rangers to fill. Not Whitby, of course—it was one of the more important fiefs in the kingdom, set almost exactly in the geographic center of the country, where all the major highways intersected and several important trading routes met.
Briefly, Will entertained the hope that he might be appointed to Whitby. He had proven himself over the past two years, he thought, and he knew that Crowley respected his abilities.
“Which leaves a place for us to fill at Whitby,” Crowley was saying. “And the new Ranger for Whitby Fief will be . . .”
Crowley couldn’t help himself. He paused dramatically to ensure he had the attention of all those present.
“Gilan.”
Will felt an instant shaft of disappointment, followed almost immediately by a sense of happiness and pride for his friend. Gilan was rising from his seat, his face flushed with pleasure, as he moved forward to accept the written commission from Crowley and shake the Commandant’s hand. Gilan deserved the recognition and Will felt guilty about that moment of jealousy that had gripped him when Gilan’s name was announced.
“Well done, Gilan. You deserve this,” Crowley was saying.
There was a murmur of agreement from the audience. Gilan was highly skilled, responsible and very intelligent. He was generally regarded as one of the brightest of the younger Rangers. In addition, his family connections would stand him in good stead at Whitby. His father was the kingdom’s supreme army commander.
As Gilan moved to resume his seat, Will rose and embraced his friend.
“Congratulations. Couldn’t have gone to a better man,” he said. He was pleased to realize that he meant it. And he knew that he had been unrealistic in hoping for the appointment himself. He was definitely too young. Gilan smiled at him, still a little overcome with this unexpected promotion.
“Well, at least we’ll be a lot closer to each other now,” he said. “That’s good news.”
His words raised a nagging doubt in Will’s mind. Whitby and Seacliff were almost neighbors, with only one other fief separating them. But now that Gilan was moving from Norgate, someone would have to replace him. Will faced that prospect with some misgivings. After all, with his knowledge of the fief and its people, he was the logical choice.
Yet, eager as he was for a greater challenge, the prospect of moving to Norgate was one that filled Will with dismay.
At Seacliff, he was only a few days’ ride from Redmont—and Alyss. In the past months, he had been able to make regular trips to visit the tall, beautiful girl. And she had found several occasions to bring messages to Seacliff—doubtless engineered by her benevolent mentor, Lady Pauline, who thoroughly approved of the growing relationship between her protégée and the young Ranger.
But Norgate! Norgate was several weeks away from Redmont. And the roads were often difficult and dangerous. To visit Alyss for one day would mean taking a leave of absence of almost a month from his post. And Norgate wasn’t the sort of fief that a Ranger could leave to its own devices for long periods. He might manage it once a year, certainly no more than that.
His heart was in his mouth as he watched Crowley pick up the next commission from the table.
“Norgate Fief will be the new posting for one of our most respected Rangers. . . .” Again he paused for dramatic effect. Will could have cheerfully leapt up and throttled him. Get on with it, he wanted to yell. But he forced himself to continue to breathe deeply, to relax.
“Harrison,” Crowley announced, and Will felt an enormous tide of relief sweep over him.
Harrison was in his late thirties. Dependable and trustworthy rather than brilliant, he had been badly injured in a battle with Iberian pirates some years previously and appointed to the small, sleepy fief of Coledale while he recuperated. Now fully recovered, he was an ideal choice for Norgate.
“Time we put you back to work, Harrison,” Crowley said.
“I’ll be glad of the chance, Crowley,” the short, powerfully built Ranger replied.
Will nodded to himself. Norgate could use a steady, dependable hand on the reins. And Harrison would cope well with the Baron and his Battlemaster—both of whom were inclined to be a little pompous at times.
The final appointment was to replace Harrison at Coledale and that commission went to the new graduate, Skinner. He flushed with pride as he received his commission scroll from Crowley. The Commandant then turned to the other graduate, Clarke.
“Clarke, I’m afraid there are no other vacancies at the moment. It was a tough choice between you and Skinner, but his Assessment marks shaded yours just a little. I’m sure that one of the old fogies out there”—he swept his arm around the assembled Rangers and there was a ripple of laughter—“will be retiring within the next six months or so . . . once Alun tells them about the advantages of a warm bed. Then you’ll have your appointment. In the meantime, you’ll move to Castle Araluen and work as my personal assistant. How’s that?”
Clarke nodded his thanks. Crowley’s duties as Commandant sometimes conflicted with his work as Ranger of Araluen Fief. Clarke could fill in for him as acting Ranger in his absences. It was a good solution to the problem. The boy would gain experience in the field, and Crowley could shed some of his workload.
Crowley folded up the sheet of notes he had been using for re ference.
“And that just about winds us up. There are no other assignments to discuss. It’s been a good Gathering, and I thank you all for your efforts. So now let’s have a glass of wine and call it a night.”
As the assembled Rangers broke up and moved off, forming smaller groups, Will sat quietly for a few moments. He was relieved that he hadn’t been sent to Norgate. But he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at being overlooked. He knew Crowley didn’t move people around merely for the sake of it—a Ranger formed a special bond with the fief he was assigned to. But still, very little happened in Seacliff these days.
He shook himself irritably. You worry they’ll send you to Norgate and then when they don’t, you feel slighted, he thought to himself. And he was honest enough to grin at his contrariness. Then he felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Crowley beside him.
“Give me a minute, please, Will?” Crowley said. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
8
HALT WAS TRAPPED. HE CURSED HIMSELF FOR TAKING THE ENEMY so lightly.
Once he’d reached Abelard, he had easily outstripped his pursuers. Gradually, their shouts died away to silence and, confident that he had shaken them off, he eased Abelard down to a trot. He had no idea that another group of enemies was on horseback and had been riding to flank him and cut him off from the main highway that led back to Redmont Fief.
Worse still, this second party had dogs. Abelard sensed them long before Halt did. He saw the little horse’s ears prick up and heard the nervous, warning whinny. A tremor ran through the sturdy horse’s body. Halt could feel it and knew something was wrong. He urged Abelard into a canter once more as the sun showed itself above the rim of the trees.
Then he heard the baying and realized that his pursuers had managed to get between him and the highway. He angled Abelard back, hoping to outdistance them and loop around the end of their picket line.
That was when the first of the dogs burst from the trees.
This was no tracking dog. It ran silently, wasting none of its energy on the baying and howling of the others. This dog was a killer. A war dog, trained to chase silently, then attack without warning and wi
thout pity.
It was huge, its short coat mottled gray and black and its eyes blazing red with hate. It saw its quarry now and leapt at Abelard, aiming for the horse’s throat with its massive fangs.
Any normal horse might have frozen in terror or shied violently at the sudden attack. But Abelard was a Ranger horse, well trained, intelligent and courageous. He spun on his rear legs and skipped sideways, avoiding the headlong rush of the monster with a minimum of panic and with just the amount of movement necessary. Abelard’s instinct, borne of long years of experience, told him that his best defense lay with the figure seated astride him. And a violent, sudden reaction could unseat his rider.
The dog’s jaws snapped shut on empty air, missing the horse’s throat by centimeters.
It hit the ground, spun and tensed, ready to spring again. Now, for the first time, it uttered a sound . . . a deep rumbling snarl.
Which was cut off almost instantly by Halt’s first arrow.
Faced with a head-on target, the Ranger waited until the dog had lifted its head to sound that snarling challenge. Abelard stood rock steady, giving Halt a stable platform. Then Halt shot for the throat, the impact of the heavy arrow, with the eighty pounds of draw weight from his bow behind it, sending the dog staggering backward and sideways.
The second arrow, coming within seconds of the first, struck the snarling killer in the heart, dropping it stone dead.
Halt patted his horse’s neck. He knew the strength of will it had taken for Abelard to stand steadily, allowing him to shoot. He understood the depth of trust the little horse had just placed in him and was glad he hadn’t let his old friend down.
“Good boy,” he said quietly. “Now let’s get out of here.”
They wheeled, running at a tangent to the way they had come. The country was unfamiliar to Halt, and for the moment all he could do was try to put distance between himself and the baying hounds—as well as any other war dogs that might be loping silently through the woods after them.
The baying was still close behind them as they broke clear of the heavy tree cover and began moving up a slope. The ground was covered in waist-high gorse and shrubs, dotted with rocky outcrops and occasional groves of trees. But as he neared the top, Halt saw, too late, that he had made a mistake. What he had taken to be a hill was a bluff—a sloping piece of ground that gradually narrowed and led to a sheer cliff overlooking a deep, wide river.
He wheeled Abelard and began to race back down the slope. But they hadn’t gone far before he saw mounted figures moving in the fringes of the trees at the base of the hill. It was too late to head back down. They were trapped halfway up. As he watched, another massive gray-and-black shape detached itself from the group and came arrowing up the slope after them, belly close to the ground, huge fangs bared in a murderous snarl.
Abelard rumbled a warning.
“I see him,” Halt said quietly, and the horse relaxed, his faith in Halt absolute.
Ordinarily, Halt was fond of dogs. But this was no dog. This was a pitiless killing machine, perverted by its cruel training so that it sought only to kill and kill again. He would destroy these beasts without a qualm.
The dog was fifty meters away when Halt slid from the saddle, nocking an arrow as he did so. He let the ravening animal draw closer. Thirty meters. Twenty-five.
Abelard whinnied in mild consternation. What are you waiting for?
“Settle down,” Halt told him, and released.
It was an instant killing shot. The running dog simply collapsed in mid-stride, its legs buckling under it, head dropping so that it rolled several times, momentum carrying it forward, before it came to a stop. A dead stop, Halt thought grimly.
Abelard whinnied again. Halt thought he could detect a note of satisfaction in the sound, but he may have imagined it.
“I told you I know what I’m doing,” he said. But then he frowned. Because he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. He could see men emerging from the trees, gesturing upward as they saw him and Abelard halfway up the slope. Several were carrying bows and one of them began to raise his, an arrow on the string.
He’d barely begun to draw when a black-shafted arrow hissed downhill and sent him tumbling back into the trees. His companions looked at his lifeless body, looked again at the indistinct figure above them and saw he was nocking another arrow.
As one, they broke back for the cover of the trees, stumbling over the excited hounds as they beat them out of the way. The second arrow slammed, quivering, into the trunk of a tree at chest height. The message was clear. Don’t show yourself if you wish to remain healthy.
In the confusion, none of them saw the gray-cloaked figure lead his horse into a jumble of rocks. When they looked back up the slope, there was no sign of man or horse.
The day wore on. The sun rose to its zenith and began to descend toward the western horizon. But still the Outsiders could see no sign of the figure up the hill. They knew he was there—somewhere. But exactly where, they had no idea—there were at least half a dozen piles of tumbled rock that could be sheltering the stranger and his horse. And they knew if they tried to rush blindly up the hill, they would pay for it with their lives.
In the mid-afternoon, they released another war dog to see if it might flush the Ranger out. The dog swung back and forth, sniffing the air for some trace of its prey. Then, catching a faint scent on the breeze, it began to run—the remorseless, belly-to-the-ground lope of its kind.
All eyes were on the dog as it settled into its stride. That was a mistake, for no one saw where the arrow came from as it struck the dog down and sent it rolling back down the slope, eyes glazed, tongue lolling.
Up the slope, behind a tumble of large boulders, Halt glanced to where Abelard lay, legs folded underneath him so that he was completely concealed from view.
“In Gallic,” the Ranger said conversationally, “this might be called an impasse. But you should know that. You speak Gallic, after all.”
He expected no answer from the horse, of course. But Abelard tilted his head at Halt, liking the sound of his voice.
“The question is, what do we do next?”
Again, Abelard had no answer. And for once, neither did Halt. He knew that when darkness came, he could make his way down the bluff and slip through the line of watchers. Even the dogs would pose no real problem for him. The wind had shifted so that it was blowing from them to him. They wouldn’t pick up his scent until he was past them.
But the problem was Abelard. He couldn’t hope to take the horse with him and avoid detection. Even if the men didn’t see him, the dogs would certainly hear some slight noise from the horse’s hooves on the ground. Ranger horses were trained to move quietly. But even they had their limits.
And Halt wasn’t going to leave Abelard behind. That was unthinkable. He had no idea whether there were any more of the killer dogs waiting down there in the tree line. If there were, Abelard on his own wouldn’t stand a chance.
He considered moving back up the slope to the cliff. He’d seen the river winding below the bluff, some ten to twelve meters below. If the water were deep enough, he could survive a jump into it. But Abelard wouldn’t. They would fall at the same speed, but the horse’s extra mass meant he would hit the water with far greater force than Halt would. And unlike his master, Abelard couldn’t streamline his body to reduce the impact when he hit the surface of the water. He would land on his belly.
“So we can’t go up, and we can’t go down,” Halt said.
Abelard snorted. You’ll think of something.
Halt raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Don’t be too sure of it,” he said. “If you get any ideas, I’d like to hear them.”
The sun was well below the treetops in the west now. The light on the slope was becoming uncertain. Halt peered through a small gap in the rocks. There was no sign of movement below.
“Not yet,” he muttered. “We’ll see what happens when it’s full dark.”
Sometimes, he tho
ught, all you could do was wait.
As night fell, he unpacked a folding canvas bucket from his saddlebag and half filled it with water from one of his canteens so that Abelard could drink. He was a little thirsty himself, but he felt he could wait a while longer.
He listened carefully to the night sounds that began to fill the still air. Frogs, and a persistent cricket somewhere. The occasional cry of a hunting owl. From time to time, small animals scuttled through the gorse and the long grass. Each time he heard such a sound, he’d look inquiringly at Abelard. But the horse showed no sign of interest, so Halt knew they were all naturally made.
He fully expected the Outsiders to make some sort of probe during the night. That was one reason why he listened so carefully to the sounds of animals and birds. He was attuning himself to the spectrum of natural sounds around him, absorbing the pattern so that anything foreign or different would stand out like a splash of paint on a blank canvas.
There was another reason. He wanted to find a sound that wasn’t there so that he could use it as a signal for Abelard. He listened carefully for some minutes, then decided.
“A kingfisher,” he said softly. Strictly speaking, they weren’t nocturnal birds. But occasionally they would take advantage of the fact that mice and small animals felt free to scurry around in the darkness. If his enemies heard the sound, they might be suspicious. But they couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t a real kingfisher stirring.
He moved toward Abelard and gestured with his palm upward. The bent-kneed reclining position wasn’t the most comfortable for the horse, and he responded gratefully, coming to his feet. In the dark, there was little chance of his being seen above the rocks.
Abelard stood still as Halt moved toward him. The Ranger reached out and smoothed the soft texture of the horse’s nose, stroking him three times. Then he placed both hands on either side of the muzzle and looked into the horse’s eyes. He squeezed his hands together twice and saw Abelard’s ears prick. It was a long-established training routine, one of many shared by Rangers and their horses. Abelard knew that Halt was about to teach him a sound. And the next time Abelard heard that sound repeated, he would be expected to respond to it.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 5
