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

by John Flanagan

  He moved back to the main building, where the strong smell of charred wood and ashes masked the unpleasant smell of corruption. He began to cast around the site for tracks, stopping almost immediately at the sight of a large red-brown stain on the grass on the shallow slope leading to the river.

  Blood.

  There were more signs in that spot. Footprints, faint now that a few days had passed, and the marks where several horses had ridden up from the river. The hoofprints were deep and easily visible in the softened ground—far deeper than a walking animal would have left. These horses had been galloping. And one of them had galloped right past the spot where the large bloodstain still marked the grass.

  He looked around, from the river to the main building, picturing what had happened.

  The raiders had crossed the river, then, led by several mounted men, had charged up the shallow slope, across the open grassy meadow. One of the men from Duffy’s Ford had run forward to stop them—or perhaps delay them while the others tried to escape. And he’d been cut down here.

  Will searched around the immediate area and soon found a sickle lying a few meters away, almost hidden by the long grass. He turned it over with the toe of his boot. Already, a few rust stains were showing on the curved blade. He shook his head. The makeshift weapon would have given its owner little chance against the determined raiders. He had been cut down without a second thought. Probably a sword or spear thrust, Will thought, a weapon that would have given its owner a longer reach than the short-handled sickle.

  He followed the hoofprints back up the slope for a few meters. One horse had diverted to the right, and he followed it to another drying brown bloodstain. He dropped to one knee to study the ground more closely and made out the faint trace of footprints in the grass and mud. Small footprints, he saw. A child’s.

  He closed his eyes briefly. He could see the scene in his mind’s eye. A boy or girl, terrified by the galloping, screaming men, had tried to run for the shelter of the trees. One of the raiders had swung out of line to pursue the little running figure. Then he’d cut his victim down from behind. Without pity. Without mercy. He could have let the child escape. What harm could a child have done them? But he hadn’t. Will’s lips set in a hard line as he realized that this atrocity had been committed, at least ostensibly, in the name of religion.

  “You’d better pray that your god will protect you,” he said quietly. Then he rose from the crouching position he’d assumed to view the tracks. There was no point studying further on events that had taken place here. He knew the general outline, and he could picture some of the details as well.

  Now it was time to track these murderers back to their lair, wherever that might be.

  He remounted Tug and urged the horse into the river. The raiders had come from the other side. Presumably they had returned there as well. The water came no higher than Tug’s belly, and there was little current to contend with. The small horse splashed easily across the sandy bottom to the far bank. Leaning out of the saddle, Will searched for the party’s return tracks.

  It didn’t take him long to find them. It had been a large party, perhaps twenty or thirty men, he estimated. It was certainly the largest group to have crossed the ford in the preceding few days, so the tracks were easy to follow. Added to that, they’d made no attempt to cover the sign of their passing, although perhaps a person without a Ranger’s skill at tracking wouldn’t have been able to follow them.

  Or perhaps the raiders simply didn’t expect anybody to dare make the attempt.

  That was more likely the case, Will thought. They’d been raiding and killing and burning throughout Hibernia, virtually unopposed, for months now. It was logical that they would have begun to believe that there was no one who could be a threat to them. Will smiled grimly to himself as he followed the trail of hoofprints and footprints to the southwest.

  “Just keep believing that,” he said. Tug swung his head curiously at the unexpected sound of his master’s voice. Will patted the coarsemaned neck reassuringly.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just ignore me.”

  Tug tossed his head briefly. Fine. Let me know if you want to talk.

  The raiding party had moved onto a narrow trail now and there was less need to search for every heel print, every indentation in the damp ground. Time enough for that when he reached a fork in the track. For the moment, Will could simply follow the track, noting the occasional sign that a group of people had passed by—broken branches, threads of cloth caught on twigs and, at one point, a dried pile of horse droppings. This sort of tracking he could do in his sleep, he thought.

  Eventually, the trail forked and he saw that the band had diverged to the left, taking the smaller of the two trails. The ground began to rise gradually, and the tree cover, although still substantial, thinned as they climbed higher. In the middle distance, Will could make out the steep cliffs of an escarpment. He had the sense that they were nearing the end of their search. He doubted that the raiders would have climbed the escarpment. Their disregard for the possibility that they might be followed dictated against it. If they hadn’t taken any steps to cover their tracks, he doubted that they’d bother with the difficulty of climbing that forbidding line of black granite cliffs, although to do so would have given them a virtually unassailable sanctuary.

  He reined Tug in, sniffing the air experimentally. There was a trace of something on the faint breeze—something that was just a little unexpected, just a little out of place. He turned his head from side to side, still sniffing, trying to determine what it was. Then he had it.

  Smoke. Or rather, ashes. The wet ashes of a dead campfire. They moved on, the smell becoming stronger and more pungent. A hundred meters farther along the track, he found its source, in a spot where the trail widened out to form a substantial clearing. There was ample evidence that the raiders had camped here for the night—the blackened circles of four fires, and flattened spaces on the grass where men had rolled into their blankets and slept. More dung showed where the band’s half dozen horses had been picketed.

  Will sat on a tree stump and considered the scene as Tug watched him with intelligent eyes.

  “They camped here, so we can’t be too close to their eventual destination,” he said. That made sense when he thought about the escarpment he had seen earlier. It must still be a good half day’s ride away from their current position. If darkness had been closing in when they reached this point, it would have been an ideal place for them to camp.

  “At least we know we’re on the right trail,” he told Tug, and the little horse cocked his head to one side.

  I never doubted it.

  Will grinned at him. Sometimes, he wondered how accurate his interpretations of Tug’s unspoken messages were. And he wondered if other Rangers talked to their horses the way he did when they were alone. He had a suspicion that Halt did, but he’d never seen proof of the fact.

  He stood, looking at the sky. There were still three or four hours of daylight left. If the trail remained as easy to follow as it had been so far, there was no reason why he shouldn’t reach the raiders’ camp that evening.

  He rode on. The path widened a little, and although it was still gradually climbing uphill, it tended to wind and twist less than it had previously. There was no need to proceed slowly. He could see where the trail led and there was no chance in the next hour or two of catching up with the raiders. They were at least two hours ahead of him. So he let Tug fall into an easy lope, eating the kilometers beneath them.

  As the day wore on, the black cliffs came closer. The sun dropped behind them, throwing the surrounding countryside into shadow. When he estimated that the escarpment was an hour’s ride away, Will eased Tug to a halt. He dismounted and rested the little horse for ten minutes, splashing some water from his canteen into a small folding leather bucket so the horse could drink. He took a mouthful himself and chewed on a piece of dried smoked beef. He smiled quietly as he thought of Horace’s grumbling over such rati
ons. Will quite liked the taste of smoked beef. The chewing, of course, was another matter altogether. He might like the taste, but the consistency was similar to an old boot.

  He remounted and walked Tug forward. From here on, it would pay to proceed cautiously. On the evidence so far, it was unlikely that the raiders would have an outer screen of sentries around their headquarters, but it never hurt to be careful. He nudged Tug in a signal, and the horse walked soft-footed, picking his way carefully as he had been trained to do, his hoofs making barely a sound on the damp earth of the track.

  Once again, it was Will’s nose that gave him warning. The unmistakable, penetrating smell of fresh wood smoke wafted through the trees to him. They were riding along the crest of a gully and the black cliffs were ahead, seeming close enough to touch. They were only one or two hundred meters high, he saw. Not the biggest cliffs he’d ever come across. But their sides were sheer, glistening black rock. They’d be unclimbable if there wasn’t some tenuous winding track leading to the top. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and he thought he caught the faint sound of voices. He brought Tug to a stop and slipped down from the saddle.

  “Stay here,” he said, and moved silently up to the next bend in the trail. He had resumed his Ranger’s cloak when he left camp that morning. Now he ghosted among the trees, taking advantage of the uncertain afternoon light that made him almost impossible to discern.

  At the bend, he stayed in the shadow of the trees and found himself looking across the wide gully to an open space at the foot of the cliffs. Tents were set out in uneven, ragged lines, and fires gleamed among them. He could see men moving and others sitting around the fires. He estimated there must be at least one hundred and fifty men camped below him. Armed men, he saw. He thought about the way the people of Craikennis had dismissed the threat of a raid, and their confidence in their own numbers. If a band this size attacked a town like Craikennis, the defenders would have little chance of resisting.

  He slid to the ground, his back against a tree, and studied the camp for the next hour, until night fell. He gradually identified the largest, central tent in the camp. Judging by the number of men coming and going there, it must be the leader’s headquarters. Equally important, as dusk was falling, he watched the picket line being set—a half circle of sentries who took up their positions where the open ground gave way to the tree line again. Even this group, overconfident as they might be, wouldn’t settle for the night without some form of guard.

  He noted one man who had moved a little farther into the trees than his neighbors. From his elevated position, Will could see him easily. And he could see that the man wouldn’t be visible to his fellow sentries. Perhaps he had found a more comfortable spot to spend his hours on watch. Or perhaps he preferred not to be constantly under the eye of the guard commander.

  Either way, it was a mistake—one that Will planned to take advantage of.

  20

  AFTER WILL HAD LEFT FOR DUFFY’S FORD, HALT AND HORACE broke camp and took the high road that headed northwest to Mountshannon. They saw only a few other travelers along the way: a single rider on a tired-looking, elderly horse and a small group of traders walking alongside a wagon pulled by a mule.

  Halt greeted the traders politely as they rode past. There was no response. Four pairs of eyes followed the two riders suspiciously. Halt’s bow and the fact that Horace wore a sword and rode a battlehorse were sufficient reasons for their mistrust.

  The gray-bearded Ranger sighed, and Horace looked at him, a question in his eyes. It was unlike Halt, he thought, to show emotion so easily.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking,” Halt said. “This used to be such a friendly place. People would stop and chat on the road if they met. And a road like this would be covered in travelers, all with important things to be done. Now look at it.”

  He indicated the long empty road. It ran in a straight line at that point and Horace could see for perhaps a kilometer in either direction. Ahead of them, the road was deserted. Behind, there was only the plodding cart and its four attendants, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing minute.

  If they expected traffic on the road to increase as they neared Mountshannon, they were disappointed. The wide, dusty highway continued to stretch empty before them.

  Gradually, the forest on either side of the road gave way to open farmland. Here, the fields were in slightly better shape than those they’d passed when they first arrived in Clonmel. And the farms themselves weren’t deserted. They could see occasional figures moving in the farmyards, although the yards themselves were barricaded in the now familiar way and it was rare to see anyone moving too far from the farm buildings.

  “Things don’t look quite as bad here,” Horace ventured.

  “There haven’t been any raids in this area so far,” Halt reminded him. “People are a little more confident this close to a large village like Mountshannon. And the farms themselves aren’t so isolated.”

  There was a warning shout from a farmhouse they were passing and they glanced across at it in time to see two men running in from a field where they had been stacking hay to take shelter behind the barricaded farmyard wall. They still carried their pitchforks, Halt noticed.

  “A little more confident,” he repeated. “Not a lot.” Mountshannon was similar to Craikennis, although considerably larger. One main street held the principal buildings of the village—an inn and the buildings of the various traders that would be found in any sizable center: blacksmith, wheelwright, farrier, toolmaker, harness maker and general store where the ladies of the town could buy cloth and yarn and dried foodstuffs while their menfolk could buy seed, tools, oil and those hundred and one items that were always needed on a working farm.

  The store was only a stopgap measure, of course; the main trading would take place in a weekly market.

  Small lanes ran off the main street, linking to a network of back-streets that ran more or less parallel to the high road. These were lined by houses, where the town’s population lived. As in Craikennis, the majority of the houses were single-story, roofed with thatch and constructed with whitewashed clay set over timber frameworks. The inn was two stories, as was the farrier’s building. There was a hayloft there, with a derrick projecting over the street to raise and lower the heavy hay bales stored inside.

  Once again, the two riders had to submit to an examination when they approached the town. There was no barricade here, but a small stream ran past the village at right angles to the road and a guard post had been established at the bridge that crossed it. As in Craikennis, it was a simple canvas pavilion with a couple of chairs and beds inside and a charcoal-burning stove for warmth at night. It was manned by two members of the town watch, both armed with heavy clubs and with long daggers in their belts. They stepped out onto the road now, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. As before, Halt had tossed the cowl back from his face.

  “What’s your business in Mountshannon?” the taller of the two men asked. Horace eyed them critically. They were both big men, probably reasonably competent fighters, he thought. But, judging from the self-conscious way they handled their weapons, it was obvious that fighting wasn’t their principal business. They weren’t warriors.

  “I’m looking to buy sheep,” Halt said. “A ram and a pair of ewes. I need to replace my breeding stock. You’ll have a market here, no doubt?”

  The man nodded. “Saturday,” he said. “You’re a day early.”

  Halt shrugged. “We’ve come from Ballygannon,” he said, naming an area that was well to the south, where the Outsiders had been active for some time. “Better a day early than a day late.”

  The watchman frowned thoughtfully at the name. He’d heard rumors of what had been going on in the south. Everyone had. But Halt was the first person he’d seen in some weeks who had actually been through the troubled area.

  “How are things in Ballygannon?” he asked.

  Halt eyed him bleakly.“As
I said, I need to replenish my breeding stock. They didn’t all drop dead of old age at the same moment.”

  The watchman nodded understanding. “Aye, we’ve heard tales of dark doings in the south.” He looked now at Horace. Like the man in Craikennis, he could see the broad-shouldered young man didn’t have the look of a farmer or woodsman. Besides, there was a long sword at his hip and a round buckler strapped at the back of his saddle. “And who’s this?” he asked.

  “My nephew Michael. He’s a good boy,” Halt told him.

  The other man spoke now for the first time. “And would you be a farmer too, Michael?” he asked.

  Horace gave him a cold look. “A soldier,” he said briefly.

  “And what’s a soldier going to do at the markets?” the second man asked.

  Halt hurried to answer. Horace’s accent was foreign and he didn’t want the youth saying more than the odd word.

  “I’m here to make sure I get the sheep home,” he said. “Michael is here to make sure I get home.”

  The watchman considered them for a few moments. It made sense, he thought. “And he looks like the boy who could do it,” he said, a faint smile thawing his features a little.

  Horace said nothing. He simply met the man’s gaze and nodded once, strong and silent.

  The two watchmen seemed satisfied. They both drew back to the side of the road, waving Halt and Horace into the town.

  “Ride in,” said the one who had spoken first. “There’s an inn in the main street or, if you’ve a mind to save a few pennies, you can pitch camp in the market ground at the far end of the village. Stay out of trouble while you’re here.” He added the last statement almost as an afterthought. It was something all watchmen felt the need to say.

  Halt touched a finger to his forehead in an informal salute and urged Abelard forward. Then he stopped, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, calling to the two men as they headed back to their pavilion.