Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8

by John Flanagan

  “Don’t try that again,” he said. There was no anger in his voice. Just a calm certainty that he could handle anything Colly attempted. While the Outsider clambered shakily to his feet, Halt slid on the thick woolen jacket he had discarded. His nose twitched again at the combined smells of grease, sweat and dirt.

  “This is nearly as bad as your socks,” he muttered.

  Stooping, he picked up Colly’s narrow-brimmed felt hat and placed it on his own head.

  “Move around a little,” he told his prisoner.“Shake your arms and legs to get the blood flowing. I want you in top form when you start up the hill.”

  Colly’s jaw set in a stubborn line as he tried once more for defiance. “I ain’t running up that hill,” he said.

  Halt shrugged. “ Then die here. They’re the only two choices you have.”

  For the second time, Colly looked into those dark eyes and saw no sign of pity or compromise. And for the second time, his gaze dropped from the other man’s. He began to shake his arms and legs, grimacing with pain as blood flowed back into his muscles. While he did so, Halt retrieved his longbow and quiver, slinging the latter around his shoulders with one easy movement.

  After a few minutes, when he judged that the man’s movements had become easier, Halt motioned for him to stop. He beckoned him toward the uphill side of the rock outcrop that sheltered them from sight.

  “All right, here’s what’s going to happen. When I give you the word, you’re going to start running up the hill.” He saw a momentary gleam of cunning in Colly’s eyes, which the outlaw tried unsuccessfully to conceal.

  “If you try anything else, I’ll put an arrow through the fleshy part of your calf. Not enough to stop you running, but enough to cause a great amount of pain. Are we clear?”

  Colly nodded, his brief moment of defiance fading away.

  “Good. Now I’m going to stand here waving and yelling. When you hear me start, run harder.”

  “They’ll think I’m you,” Colly said, indicating the tree line at the bottom of the hill where his companions lay in wait. Halt nodded.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “So they’ll chase me up the hill,” Colly said.

  This time, Halt shook his head. “Not if you jump off into the river. They’ll go down and around the base of the hill to the riverbank to go after you. Which will leave the way clear for me.”

  “What if I don’t jump?” Colly asked.

  “But you will jump. You’ll notice there’s no worthwhile cover at the top of the bluff.”

  Colly looked again. The stranger was right. There were no trees or rocks at the top of the bluff, just long grass, but not long enough to cover him. He swallowed nervously.

  “If you stop at the top of the bluff, I’ll put an arrow ten centimeters above your head. Just to show you I can.”

  Colly frowned, a little puzzled. Then Halt continued.

  “Then, five seconds after that, I’ll put an arrow twenty centimeters below your head. Got that?”

  Colly glanced down nervously. He nodded his understanding.

  “Got it,” he said. His throat was dry, and the words came out as a hoarse whisper. He watched as Halt drew an arrow from the quiver and, in one movement, nocked it to the string of his massive longbow.

  “So, let’s get ready. I’m told a nice morning run is good for the health.” He paused, then added with a hard edge, “And a nice swim is even better.”

  Colly’s eyes flicked from Halt to the open ground above them, then down to the tree line where his companions were still concealed.

  “I meant what I said,” Halt told him.“And just so you know I can hit what I aim at, do you see that rotten tree stump, about forty meters up the hill?”

  Colly peered in the direction Halt had indicated and made out an old blackened tree stump about a meter high. It was the only standing remnant of a tree that had been struck by lightning some years ago. The rest of the tree, gradually being devoured by rot, lay angled down the hill below it. He nodded.

  “I see it. What about it?”

  “When you draw level with it, I’m going to put an arrow in it. See where there’s the beginning of an old branch jutting out to the right?”

  Again Colly nodded. The remains of the branch were only just visible at this distance.

  “That’s where the arrow’s going to hit. If I miss the mark, you might think you have a chance to start running back downhill.”

  Colly opened his mouth to say something when Halt forestalled him.

  “But I won’t miss. And remember, you’re a lot bigger than that branch.”

  Colly swallowed again. His throat was very dry. “Can I have some water?” he asked. Anything to put off the moment when he started uphill. He knew what Halt had said he was going to do. But he couldn’t help wondering if the Ranger wouldn’t simply shoot him down once he reached the top of the bluff. After all, that would cause his companions to come running uphill after him, leaving the way clear for Halt to make his escape downhill.

  Halt gave him that cold little smile again.“Of course,” he said.“All you want. Just as soon as you hit the river. Now get going.”

  Still Colly hesitated. Halt flexed the bowstring experimentally. There was no practical purpose in the movement, other than to draw Colly’s attention to the broad-headed arrow nocked on the string. Halt frowned as the Outsider still hesitated. The sun had lifted above the edge of the bluff now, and it was at its most dazzling for the men below.

  “GO!” he shouted suddenly, making a lunging motion toward Colly at the same time.

  The loud noise and sudden threatening movement galvanized his prisoner into action. Colly broke from cover and began to run up the hill, his legs pumping, the camouflage cloak billowing out behind him. Halt let him get twenty meters away, then stepped out of cover himself, waving and shouting to the unseen men he knew would be watching from below.

  “He’s getting away!” he yelled. “He’s getting away! After him!”

  He heard shouting from the trees and the sudden surprised yelping of the dogs as they were roused by their handlers. A few men appeared from the shadows of the trees and hesitated uncertainly, watching the man in the Ranger’s cloak as he ran. Then more of the watchers broke cover.

  “He’s getting away! Get after him!” Halt yelled. He turned and glanced uphill. Colly was almost at the tree stump. Halt stepped back behind a rock to conceal his actions from the men below. Casually, he brought the bow to full draw and released, in one smooth motion. At a forty-meter range, even shooting uphill, he had to allow only a minimum amount for drop. The arrow hissed away from the bow.

  Almost at the tree stump, Colly heard the arrow split the air to his left, then smack into the rotten branch of the stump, which disintegrated into a shower of splinters under the impact. Even though the Ranger had warned him what would happen, Colly couldn’t believe that anyone could manage the shot that he’d just seen. He shied sideways, away from the stump, in a reflex action and redoubled his efforts, driving his legs as hard as he could.

  Now the Outsiders were moving out of the trees in greater numbers. Some of them were starting up the hill after Colly. But there was no real urgency in them so far. They knew there was nowhere for the running man to go. The tracking dogs were yelping furiously, restrained on their long leashes by their handlers. Halt counted about a dozen men. At least, he thought gratefully, they hadn’t loosed another of the war dogs.

  He glanced back at Colly, now laboring against the steep slope of the last few meters of the hill. He knew the man would hesitate at the bluff. It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t. He had another arrow on the string and his eyes narrowed as he judged speed and distance and estimated his arrow’s flight time. Colly was a few paces from the edge of the bluff when Halt drew the arrow back until he felt his right forefinger touch lightly against the corner of his mouth, sighted and released.

  The arrow sped uphill in a shallow arc.

  Colly was sta
ggering, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as he reached the bluff. Below him, still in shadow, the water of the river was a black sheet. There was no way he could tell if it was deep enough for him to jump, and, as Halt had predicted, he hesitated, looking back down the hill to the figure by the rocks.

  A second after he had stopped, he heard a whistling sound and actually felt the passage of the arrow as it passed a few centimeters above his head. Just as the Ranger had said it would.

  His sides were aching with the effort of the mad uphill run. His chest was heaving, and he doubled over, trying for breath. He saw the Ranger’s right arm go up as he drew another arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. Very deliberately, the Ranger nocked the arrow and raised the bow again, bringing the string back to full draw.

  Colly could feel a burning sensation in his chest. The point where Halt had said the next arrow would go. He remembered the smashing impact of the first arrow on the tree stump and the sudden lurch of terror as the second arrow had passed within a handbreadth of his head. All this flashed through his mind in a second as he watched the figure below him, and he knew that he had only one chance to survive.

  He jumped. He howled with fear all the way down, then smashed into the surface of the river in an enormous explosion of spray. He sank deep under the surface but there was no sign of the bottom. In fact, the river at this point was at least fifteen meters deep. Then, with an enormous sense of relief that he had survived the drop, he began to claw his way back up. His left knee had been twisted and wrenched by the impact with the water, and a lance of pain shot through him as he kicked for the surface. He cried out, swallowed water and remembered too late to keep his mouth shut. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air, coughing and spluttering, swimming sideways to ease the pain in his knee as he stroked weakly for the bank.

  On the hillside, the pursuers had stopped as the cloaked figure hurled himself off the bluff. They were familiar with the territory and knew the river lay below. Now they paused, but a voice from above directed them.

  “He’s in the river! Cut round the bottom of the hill and head him off!”

  Several of the quicker-witted among them saw the gesticulating figure, whom they took to be the scout sent out during the night. He was waving them back and to one side, and they realized the sense of what he was saying. There was no point continuing to the top unless they wanted to jump after their quarry. Back down the hill and round to the riverbank was the quickest way.

  “Come on!” shouted a burly dog handler. “Get to the riverbank!”

  He gestured for his dogs to lead, and he ran, following them. All it took was one man to start the movement and the others followed. Halt watched with satisfaction as the knot of men plunged back downhill, angling off to the left to reach the riverbank below the bluff.

  As the last of them disappeared from view, Halt clicked his fingers twice. Abelard stepped clear of the rocks where they had sheltered through the night. He swung easily up onto his horse’s back. Abelard twisted his head to look accusingly at his master, taking in the greasy woolen jacket that had belonged to Colly.

  “I know,” Halt said resignedly. “But his socks were even worse.”

  He set Abelard to a lope and they moved quickly down the hill. As they reached the cover of the trees, Halt did a strange thing. Instead of turning east, toward Redmont, he swung Abelard’s head northwest, back to the fishing village. Again, Abelard turned his head to look inquiringly at his master. Halt patted the shaggy mane reassuringly.

  “I know. There’s something I need to attend to,” he said, and Abelard tossed his head. So long as his master knew what he was doing, he was content.

  Farrell, the leader of the Outsiders group, was having an uncomfortable time trying to calm the villagers. They were openly suspicious that he and his people had played a hand in the unsuccessful raid on the boats. As Farrell tried to reassure them that he knew nothing about the raiders, he could sense their disbelief growing.

  Might be time to move on, he thought. He could allay their suspicions for a short time, but in the long run, it would be safer to take what they had gained so far and try their luck elsewhere.

  “Wilfred,” he was saying now to the village head man, “I assure you that my people are innocent of any wrongdoing. You know us. We’re just simple religious folk.”

  “Funny how all these troubles have started since you ‘simple religious folk’ have turned up, though, isn’t it?” Wilfred said accusingly.

  Farrell spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Coincidence, my friend. My people and I will pray for you and your village to be protected from further misfortune. I assure you—”

  There was the sound of a scuffle outside the entrance to the pavilion that Farrell was using as a headquarters and main center of worship. Then a bearded stranger burst through the entrance. At least, Farrell thought he was a stranger. Then he realized there was something familiar about him.

  The newcomer was shorter than average height, dressed in simple brown leggings and boots and a dull green jacket. A massive longbow was in his hand, and a quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder. Then something in Farrell’s memory clicked.

  “You!” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Halt ignored him. He addressed his remarks to Wilfred.

  “You’ve been robbed,” he said briefly. “ This man and his band are about to run out on you. And they’ll be taking the gold and jewelry you’ve given them.”

  Wilfred’s gaze, which had been drawn to Halt at his sudden entrance, now switched back to Farrell. His eyes were narrow with suspicion. Farrell forced a nervous laugh, indicating the massive golden altar that dominated the far end of the marquee.

  “I told you, we used the gold to build our altar—so we could pray for your people! D’you think we’re going to just walk away with that? It’s solid gold! It must weigh tons!”

  “Not quite,” Halt said. He strode quickly toward the altar, the villagers following him uncertainly, Wilfred making sure that Farrell came along with them.

  Halt drew his saxe knife with a soft hiss and sliced its razor edge along one gleaming side of the golden altar. The thin veneer of gold leaf that had covered it peeled away, revealing the plain wood beneath it.

  “Not as solid as it looks,” Halt said, and he heard an angry growl from the villagers as they moved to encircle Farrell. The Outsider’s eyes flicked from Halt to the circle of hostile faces around him. His mouth opened as he instinctively tried to think of some plausible explanation for the deception, then closed as he realized there was none.

  “They used a small amount of gold to coat the wooden altar. The rest of it is probably in sacks underneath, ready to be taken away tonight.”

  Wilfred gestured and one of the younger men moved forward, roughly tearing the altar covering away. Under the altar was a neat pile of sacks. The villager toed one, and it emitted a metallic jingle. The head man glared at Farrell, who was standing white-faced with fear. He tried to move behind Halt, as if hoping that the Ranger might protect him.

  “You’re a dead man, Farrell,” Wilfred said in an ominously quiet voice.

  But Halt shook his head. “You’ve got your gold back. Be grateful for that. But you’re not taking him. I need him to answer some questions.”

  “And who do you think you are, telling us what to do?” said the young man who had removed the altar cloth. Halt turned his unwavering gaze on him.

  “I’m the man who just saved you a fortune,” he said. “And the other night, I saved your boats from burning.

  “Be grateful you still have your money and your livelihood. You can keep the others. Do what you like with them. But I’m taking this one with me.”

  The young man started to reply, but a curt gesture from Wilfred stopped him. The head man stepped forward to face Halt.

  “I assume you have some kind of authority to make these demands,” he said.

  Halt nodded. “I’m an Araluen Ranger
,” he replied.

  There was a murmur of recognition around the pavilion. The villagers might not be part of any fief, but they knew the reputation of the Ranger Corps. Taking advantage of the villagers’ moment of uncertainty, Halt gripped Farrell by the elbow and started toward the entrance to the pavilion. After a moment’s hesitation, the group parted to allow them through.

  As he emerged with his prisoner into the warm morning sunlight, past the unconscious form of the Outsider guard who had tried to stop him, Halt was frowning slightly. He was remembering Farrell’s words.

  You? What are you doing here? The Outsider priest had recognized Halt. And that was why the Ranger frowned now.

  Because they had never met before.

  13

  THE DINING ROOM AT THE INN WAS CRAMMED FULL OF CUSTOMERS, almost every table filled with noisy, happy diners from the village and the castle. Will and Alyss sat at the table of honor, right in the middle of the room, underneath a wheel-shaped chandelier that held two dozen candles.

  Will had grimaced at the table when they were shown to it. Typically, he would have preferred to be tucked away in a corner, out of sight—to see and not be seen. Alyss smiled at him.

  “Get used to it,” she said.“You’re a celebrity. Some people actually enjoy that, you know.”

  He frowned. “How could anyone enjoy having every eye in the room on them?” he asked. He was still casting around for a table in a less prominent position.

  “Nevertheless, people do. I’m surprised there aren’t crowds of sketch artists outside the entrance, waiting to draw our pictures as we leave.”

  “Does that really happen?” he asked incredulously. Alyss shrugged.

  “So I’m told.” She shoved him gently toward the table. “Come on, Jenny will be disappointed if she can’t show you off.”

  And here was Jenny herself, threading her way through the crowded room, with a delighted smile lighting up her pretty face. A large wooden ladle, symbol of her office, dangled loosely from her right hand.