Will walked past the large tent, staying well away from it, on the far side of the cleared area. Out of the side of his eyes, he regarded the position. Sentries at the front, of course. But he was willing to bet the back of the tent was unguarded. After all, the two sentries were more a mark of authority than a security measure. There was little chance of anyone attacking the command tent in this camp. He continued on. The open space ended and now the ragged lines of tents resumed, the individual tents placed only a few meters away from one another. He passed several where the tent flaps were open and men were sprawled inside or on the ground outside, talking among themselves. He muttered a greeting to one group who looked up at him with mild curiosity. He waited until he had passed several unoccupied and unlit tents. Then, glancing quickly around to see that nobody was watching, he dived into the shadowed space between two of them. Crouching, he moved to the rear, and so to the next avenue of tents. Now he dropped full length, pulling the cowl of his cloak over his head once more, and lay like a shadow, observing the next lane that he had to cross. There was little activity here. He waited several minutes to make sure, then rose smoothly to his feet and moved across the line into the space between two tents on the opposite side. One of them was occupied and lit from within, and he could see a shadow on the canvas as the occupant moved around.
Again, he stayed to the back of the tents. He estimated now that he would be behind the command pavilion if he were to head back along the next lane. Checking as before that the way was clear, he rose and walked unconcernedly back the way he had come.
He could see the command tent again. It bulked much larger than the others and stood in its own empty patch of ground. He was right. His movement back through the tent lines had brought him out level with the rear of the big tent. His original assumption also proved to be correct. There was no guard at the rear. Still, he could hardly hope to walk out of the tent lines and stroll up behind the pavilion to eavesdrop without someone noticing him, so he cut left between two more tents and moved to the next lane.
He took stock of the situation. There were men in front of some of the tents in the next line. But the two tents closest to the open space where the pavilion was pitched were dark and empty. Will looked around quickly. The tent to his left was occupied, but the flaps were drawn closed. There was a bundle of kindling by the small fireplace in front of it. Quickly he moved to it, stooped and swung the bundle up over his shoulder. He trudged along the tent line now, carrying his firewood, passing the men who were sitting talking. They barely gave him a glance. As he reached the final tent, he swung the pile of branches down and placed it beside the fire, then, in one quick movement, he slid out of the tent lines to the darkened area beside them and went quickly to ground, his cloak wrapped around him, his face concealed once more beneath the cowl.
He crawled several meters into the open but unlit space, driving himself forward with elbows and knees. After a few moments, he stopped to see if there had been any reaction to his approach. Nothing. He glanced up to get his bearings and slithered toward the back of the pavilion, sliding through the rank grass like a serpent, the mottled pattern on his cloak breaking up the outline of his body and letting him merge into the shadows and uneven hollows of the ground around him.
It took ten minutes for him to cover the thirty meters to the rear of the pavilion. At one stage, a group of men emerged from the tent lines and headed toward the larger tent. There were four of them, and they came dangerously close to the spot where he lay. Not daring to move a muscle, he felt his heart hammering behind his ribs, was sure they must be able to hear the sound as well. No matter how many times he had done this, there was always the fear that this time they must see the prone shape lying unmoving a few meters away. The men were drunk and talking loudly, staggering slightly on the uneven ground. One of the sentries stepped forward, holding up a hand to stop them. Will lay with his head to one side so that he could watch what was happening.
“That’s far enough, you men,” the sentry called. A sensible man would have realized that his tone brooked no argument. But these weren’t sensible men. They were drunk.
They stopped. Will could see they were swaying slightly.
“Wanna talk with Padraig,” one of the men said, slurring his speech badly.
The sentry shook his head. “That’s Captain Padraig to you, Murphy. And you can believe he doesn’t want a word with you.”
“We’ve got a legitimate complaint to make,” the man called Murphy continued. “Any man can make his case to Padraig. We’re brothers in this band. We’re all the equals of each other.”
His companions chorused their agreement. They all took a pace forward and the sentry lowered his spear. They stopped again. A voice from inside the pavilion caught the attention of all of them.
“We may be equal in this band, but I’m more equal than anyone, and it pays to remember that. Quinn!”
The sentry straightened, turning to look back at the pavilion. The voice obviously belonged to Padraig, the leader of the band of cutthroats, Will thought. It was a harsh, uncompromising voice—the voice of a man used to instant obedience.
“Yes, Captain!” the sentry replied.
“Tell those drunken fools that if they continue to disturb me, I’ll start taking their ears off with a blunt knife.”
“Aye, Captain!” Quinn said. Then, in a lowered tone, he said urgently to the four drunks, “You heard him, Murphy! And you know the captain is not a man to cross. Now get yourselves out of here!”
Murphy swayed belligerently, unwilling to back down in front of his friends. Yet Will could tell from his body language that he was cowed, and after a show of defiance, he would give in.
“Well, then,” he said, “we wouldn’t want to disturb the great captain’s rest, would we?”
With an exaggerated bow, he turned away with his companions, and they lurched back down the sloping ground to the tent lines.
Realizing that the sentries’ eyes were on the drunk men, Will slipped forward quickly, slithering into the dark shadow at the rear of the pavilion. He pressed forward, easing the cowl back away from his ear to hear what was being said.
“. . . so at first light, Driscoll, you’ll take thirty men and head for Mountshannon. Take the valley road. It’s more direct.” He recognized the voice of Padraig.
“Is thirty men enough?” a second voice asked.
Another man answered impatiently. “Twenty would be enough for what we have in mind. But with thirty I can make a better show of it.”
Obviously the one named Driscoll, Will thought. Then Padraig resumed talking.
“That’s right. Now, you others, I want the rest of the band ready to move out by midday. We’ll follow the ridge trail and head for Craikennis. Driscoll can rendezvous with us at the intersection with the Mountshannon road the morning after tomorrow. Then we’ll put on another show for Craikennis.”
The one called Driscoll chuckled. “More than a show, I think. There’ll be no holy man to send us packing.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the others. Will frowned. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had just missed something important. He edged a little closer to the canvas wall. He heard the clink of glasses from inside and the sound of pouring. The men were refilling their drinks.
There were one or two appreciative sighs—the sound a man makes when he has taken a deep draft of wine.
“You keep a good cellar, Padraig, and no doubt to it,” said a voice he hadn’t heard so far.
“There’ll be more where that came from in a few days,” Padraig said. “Now, once we’ve rendezvoused with Driscoll, here’s what we’ll—”
Whatever they were going to do, Will never learned. At that moment, there was a shout of alarm from outside the camp. Then a voice was raised in anger, and men started shouting and running toward the open space that led to the forest.
Will knew what had happened. The unconscious sentry had been found, and the alarm had been raised. He�
��d hear nothing further tonight, he realized. He wriggled back a few meters from the tent, rose into a crouch, and melted back into the tent lines again.
He began running toward the sentry line, following scattered groups of men. As he passed one tent, he saw several spears stacked together outside it. He grabbed one, sending the others clattering to the ground like giant pick-up sticks, and ran out onto the open grassy area that separated the camp from the forest. He passed several other men as he did so. He could hear sergeants bellowing orders, trying to bring some sense into the chaos of the disturbed camp. But for now, this confusion was exactly what Will needed.
“This way!” he shouted, to nobody in particular, and angled toward a point in the trees which he judged to be some fifty meters from where he had knocked the sentry out. The more noise he made, the more conspicuous he made himself seem, the less notice anyone would take of him. If anyone actually followed him into the forest, he was confident that he could lose them within a few minutes.
He glanced over his shoulder, but nobody had followed his lead. Already, as word filtered back that it was nothing but a sentry found sleeping on watch, men were beginning to slow down and stop. Some had even turned back to the camp.
None of them noticed when Will plunged into the forest. Within seconds, the darkness beneath the trees seemed to have swallowed him. All that was left was the spear, lying half concealed in the long grass where, having no further use for it, he had tossed it to one side.
23
THE MARKET GROUND WAS A LARGE MEADOW AT THE EASTERN end of the village. To the north and south were open farmlands—plowed fields and others under crops. Several small farmhouses were visible in the near distance. On the eastern side of the meadow there was a thick band of trees where the forest began again.
“Look who’s here,” Halt said quietly. Horace followed his gaze. In the southwestern corner of the meadow was a large white pavilion. Several figures in white robes were moving around it, tending a fire and preparing food.
“That’s them?” Horace asked, and Halt nodded once.
“That’s them.”
They pitched their two small tents by a blackened ring of fire-stones some distance from the pavilion. “What now?” Horace asked. Halt looked up at the sun. He estimated that it was past noon.
“We’ll have a bite to eat,” he said. “Then, later on, we’ll go and listen to what Tennyson has to say.”
Horace’s face brightened at the mention of food. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
In the late afternoon, people began making their way toward the Outsiders’ camp. Halt and Horace joined the rapidly growing crowd. Halt raised an eyebrow as he saw that Tennyson’s followers had set up several casks of ale and wine under a large, open-sided tent and were serving generous mugs of both to all comers.
“That’s one way to get a congregation together,” he muttered to Horace. They edged their way through the throng who were jostling for position at the refreshment tables. “Try to look diffident,” he added to Horace.
The tall warrior frowned at the word. “How do I do that?”
“Look as if you’re not certain you should be here,” Halt said. “As if you’re uncertain of yourself.”
“Well, I’m not certain I should be here,” Horace said.
Halt sighed. “Then stop striding along so confidently. Look as if you think I’m going to whack you over the head any minute. That’ll do the trick.”
“Are you?” Horace asked, smiling.
Halt shot a baleful glare at the younger man. But before he could speak, another voice interrupted them.
“Greetings, friends! Greetings!” The voice was deep and resonant, the powerful, well-modulated voice of a trained orator. Halt and Horace turned to view the speaker, who was walking toward them. He was a tall, heavily built man in a long white robe. In his right hand, he held a staff.
Flanking him, but a few paces behind, were two identical figures. They were massively built, well over two meters in height. Tall as the leader might be, he was dwarfed by these two men. Both were totally bald. Horace studied them for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the speaker.
His face was broad, with strong features and a prominent nose. The eyes were a startling blue. They gave the impression that their owner was looking far into the distance and seeing things normal folk could not. Horace was willing to bet that this was a look the man had carefully cultivated. On a closer inspection Horace realized that the man was well built but somewhat overweight. Obviously, he wasn’t a warrior. He was bare-headed and his hair was shoulder length, brushed back from his forehead and gray all over. Not pepper-and-salt gray like Halt’s, but a uniform shade of white-gray throughout. The man assessed Halt and Horace quickly, then addressed himself to Halt as the obvious leader.
“You’re new to the town.” His tone was friendly, and he smiled in greeting. “I saw you arrive earlier today.”
Halt nodded. He made no attempt to return the other man’s smile. “And you’re taking a census, are you?”
Horace stayed silent, content to let Halt take the lead. He realized that the Ranger was playing the role of a typical country person—guarded and suspicious of strangers. His manner didn’t seem to bother the newcomer, however. He seemed genuinely amused by Halt’s curt rejoinder.
“Not at all. I’m just always glad to greet a new friend.”
“I wasn’t aware that we were friends,” Halt said.
The burly man’s smile widened. “I’m a servant of the Golden God Alseiass. And he says all men are my friends—and I should be a friend to all men.”
Halt shrugged, still unimpressed. “Can’t say I’ve heard of Alseiass, either,” he said. “He’s new, is he? Just arrived from another part of heaven, perhaps?”
The man chuckled. It was a rich, deep sound. Horace found himself thinking that, if he didn’t know who this man was, he would find him easy to like.
“I’ll admit that Alseiass isn’t well known in this part of the country,” the man said. “But that will change. My name is Tennyson, by the way. I’m the Golden God’s minister, and these are my assistants Gerard and Killeen, who are also disciples of Alseiass.” He indicated the two silent giants behind him. “We bid you a warm welcome to our campsite.”
Neither Gerard nor Killeen looked particularly warm or welcoming, Halt thought. He could read the underlying message in Tennyson’s words: Welcome to my campsite, and here are my two tame bruisers in case you get out of hand.
“Please enjoy our hospitality,” Tennyson continued smoothly. “Alseiass tells us we should all share our bounty with our friends.” He smiled again. “Particularly new friends.”
This time, his warm smile embraced both Halt and Horace. Then he turned to look at the crowd gathering around a dais at the far end of the tent.
“ The people are waiting,” he said. “I should go.”
He raised a hand, describing a curve in the air in what was obviously a form of blessing. Then he turned and strode away. Flanked by his two disciples, he made his way through the crowd, stopping here and there for a quick word or a smile or to deliver a blessing.
“So that’s Tennyson,” Halt said softly. “What did you think of him?”
Horace hesitated, then, a little reluctantly, he replied, “Actually, I found him rather impressive.”
Halt nodded. “So did I.”
There was a buzz of interest from the crowd as Tennyson mounted the dais, smiling at those around him and holding up his hands for silence. An expectant hush fell, and he began to speak, his deep, resonant voice carrying easily to all corners so that nobody had to lean forward to hear his words.
He was a polished performer, there was no question about it. He began with a joke at his own expense—a story about a disastrous attempt at milking a cow. Such a task was second nature to a rural audience like this, and the laughter swelled as he described his complete ineptitude. Then he segued neatly to the observation that all people had varying skil
ls and the trick to life was to find ways for people to work together and make the most effective use of their abilities. From there it was a short step to the need for people to stick together in troubled times such as the ones they were now going through.
“There are evil, lawless men abroad in the world. They are the servants of the black spirit Balsennis. I see his hand everywhere I go, bringing sorrow and despair and death to the people of this wonderful country,” he said. “Where will we find the help we need to defeat them, to drive them out? To put this country back to the way it was before? Who will help us do this?”
“The King?” said a tentative voice from the side of the crowd. Halt was willing to bet that it was one of Tennyson’s own followers who had said it.
The burly orator allowed himself a small, sad smile. “ The King, you say? Well, I’ll agree with you that he should be the one to set his own country to rights. But can you see him doing so?”
An angry muttering swept through the crowd. Tennyson had hit a sore point with that thrust. But the people’s dissatisfaction wasn’t quite strong enough for them to come out in the open and agree with him. Privately, and to each other, they agreed. Publicly, they weren’t quite ready to commit themselves. Open criticism of a king was a dangerous path to tread.
Tennyson let the dissatisfaction grow for a few seconds, then he resumed. “I can’t see him doing anything. I can’t see his troops on their way to flush out these bandits and outlaws who are destroying the country. After all, he’s the man with the power, isn’t he? Does he allow anyone else to keep a body of trained soldiers for protection?”
The word No! rang out from several points in the crowd. Tennyson’s stooges again, Halt thought. Then the cry gathered strength and momentum as more and more people began yelling it. A few fists were raised and shaken in the air. Tennyson raised his hands for silence, and the shouting gradually died down.
Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8 Page 15
