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

by John Flanagan

  These were fighting men, and the sentry was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was outnumbered.

  “What do you want?” he called. His uncertainty made him abrupt and more strident than he’d intended.

  The leader of the three riders, the bearded one, leaned forward and crossed his forearms over his saddle pommel. “We mean you no harm,” he said. The voice was quiet and reassuring. But that was no guarantee that the words were the truth.

  “Don’t come any closer!” the sentry called. He wished he’d brought his spear out of the guard shelter. His companion had a spear, but he was armed only with a heavy, long-handled mace.

  “We won’t,” Halt told him, in a reasonable tone. “We’re content to stay here. But we need to speak to your commander.”

  “Our . . . what?” the sentry asked.

  He wasn’t a military man, Horace thought.

  Halt revised his request. “Your village head man. Or the senior member of the watch. We need to speak to someone in authority.”

  The sentry eyed him suspiciously. If he sent Finneas, the other guard, to fetch the head man, he’d be left here facing these three alone. He didn’t like the idea of that. But at least if he called the head man he could hand this problem over to someone else, he thought. He hesitated, then decided.

  “The head man’s asleep,” he said eventually, not knowing whether he was or not. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “Dismount, boys,” Halt said, and the three of them swung down from the saddle, in spite of the guard’s shrill orders.

  “No! You stay as you are! Turn around and ride away, d’you hear me?”

  The sentry’s voice trailed off as he realized that the three strangers were taking no notice of him. Their leader spoke again.

  “We’re setting down our weapons.” He led the way, moving to the side of the road, unstringing his longbow and laying it on the grass verge. The younger bowman followed suit. The tall youth unclipped the scabbard from his belt, and the long cavalry sword joined the two longbows on the grass. That done, the three strangers stepped back onto the road, away from their weapons.

  “There,” said Halt. “Now fetch your head man or watch commander.” He paused a few seconds and added emphatically, “Please.”

  The two watchmen exchanged a glance. Finneas raised one shoulder in a shrug. The strangers seemed trustworthy, he thought. He sensed what was troubling his friend.

  “You fetch Conal. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  The senior man let go an involuntary sigh of relief. Anything to get this problem off his hands. He came to a decision. Then he thought he’d better make it seem as if this was his idea and he was giving the orders.

  “All right. You keep them here. I’ll get Conal.”

  Finneas looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, we could do it that way instead,” he said sarcastically.

  “Could we do it sometime before dawn?” Halt asked in an exasperated tone. The watchman took a pace toward him, his hand on the handle of his mace.

  “I’ll go when I’m good and ready!” he snarled.

  “Which is now, right?” Finneas cut across him.

  The senior watchman drew himself up, trying to reclaim his dignity. “Er . . . yes. Which is now.” He turned about and hurried toward the village. He looked back several times, but the three strangers hadn’t moved and Finneas stood at ease, facing them, leaning casually on his spear. He turned and increased his pace a little, until he was half running.

  Fifteen minutes later, he returned with Conal. Halt was quietly pleased to see that Conal, who turned out to be the head watchman, was the same man he and Horace had spoken to several nights previously. The man had struck him as sensible and reasonable. He was certainly going to be easier to deal with than the panicky guard who had gone to fetch him.

  That wasn’t to say that Conal didn’t view the three travelers with suspicion. Halt noticed that he had taken the precaution of arming himself. He wore a sword and a long dirk in his belt. As he approached, the nervous senior guardsman darted into the shelter to fetch his spear.

  Conal glanced at Finneas, then at the three figures standing by their horses in the road.

  “Well, Finneas, what do we have here?” he asked. Finneas was standing facing them, his spear grounded beside his feet. He touched the spear head lightly to his forehead in salute.

  “Three travelers, your honor,” he said, grinning. “They’ve given me no trouble.”

  Conal looked more closely at Halt and Horace.“I know you two,” he said, and Halt nodded. Then the watch commander shifted his gaze to Will, his brow furrowing. “And you? Weren’t you here the other night as well?” The young man looked familiar, he thought, but he couldn’t quite place him.

  “He’s the singer, Conal,” Finneas put in, and Conal nodded slowly as recognition dawned.

  “Of course,” he said. “But you weren’t wearing that cloak. Or carrying that bow. What are you up to?”

  The question was asked of all three as his gaze shifted from one to the other. There was something suspicious here, and in these times, suspicions were not to be disregarded. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Then he noticed the trio’s weapons were laid by the side of the road and he relaxed a little. Just a little. He glared at Halt.

  “I take it you’re not a shepherd looking for stock?” he said, and the bearded man nodded.

  “No. You’re right about that.”

  “Then you lied to me the other night. Why?” The challenge was gruff and uncompromising. Halt seemed to take no offense at being called a liar. He replied in a calm, reasonable tone.

  “We weren’t sure what we were walking into,” he said. “These are troubled times, as you may well know.”

  “Aye, and they’re not helped by people skulking around claiming to be what they’re not,” Conal replied with a little heat. He could hear a rustle of movement from behind him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and relaxed slightly as another dozen members of the guard came shuffling at a half run down the high street. When he was first alerted to the presence of three strangers at the guard post, Conal had sent his son to rouse a platoon of the town guard, telling them to arm themselves and join him. Now they had arrived and he felt a little more in control of the situation. The numbers were comfortably on his side.

  Horace sighed to himself. He was a direct sort of person, and this verbal sparring was beginning to annoy him. He and his friends were here to help the people of Craikennis, not to bandy words in the street in the middle of the night. Conal heard the slight exclamation and turned to him.

  “Something to say, boy?” he demanded.

  Halt’s eyebrow went up. “I wouldn’t be so free and easy with the word boy if I were you,” he said warningly. But Conal ignored him, and Horace was already replying.

  “Yes. I’ve got something to say. My friends and I are here to help you. If you keep us standing here much longer while you throw accusations and insults, we’ll just ride on and leave you to the bandits.”

  He was remarkably self-assured for one so young, Conal thought, his brow puckering at the last word.

  “Bandits? What bandits would they be?”

  “There are eighty of them heading this way. They’re planning to attack you tomorrow and wipe your village out. We came to warn you and to offer you our help. But if you prefer, you can go back to bed and we’ll just ride on. It’s really no skin on our nose.”

  Halt glanced sidelong at Horace. The young man’s face was flushed with annoyance.

  “I think that’s ‘off our nose,’ ” he pointed out. Horace glanced briefly at him.

  “Whatever. He gets my meaning.”

  And Conal did. So far, Craikennis had remained undisturbed. But there had been bandits and outlaws running amok in the south of Clonmel, and the trouble had been gradually spreading north, like a dark stain of spilled ink advancing over a map.

  “How do I know you’re not with them?” he asked and
instantly regretted the question. If they were, they would never admit it, and asking had only shown his own indecision. “Who are you, anyway?” he added angrily, trying to cover the mistake.

  “We’re King’s Rangers from Araluen,” Halt told him, indicating himself and Will. “And this tall, rather aggravated young man beside me is a knight of the Araluen court.”

  Conal frowned. He had no idea what Rangers might be. He guessed they must be woodsmen or scouts. But he knew what a knight was, and the tall stranger, in spite of his youth, had the look of a warrior about him.

  “Your Araluen king has no authority here. King Ferris rules—in a manner of speaking,” Conal told them.

  Interesting, Will thought. There had been a hint of distaste in Conal’s voice as he spoke of the King. He glanced at Halt to see if his mentor had noted it. But Halt’s face was a blank mask.

  “Nevertheless, we’re all trained fighters, and we might be useful to you,” Halt said.

  Conal scratched his ear, inspected his fingernails and then replied. “Exactly. And I’m thinking if there’s an attack coming, it might not be the wisest move to let three armed fighting men into the village.”

  “Then don’t,” Halt said immediately. “We’ll camp in the trees there. If there’s no attack tomorrow, we’ll go on our way. If there is, you might be glad of a bit of support.”

  “And how much use will three men be against eighty?” Conal asked.

  “That depends on the three,” said the third member of the group, the one who had posed as a minstrel a few nights ago.

  The bearded one turned to smile at him. “Well said, Will,” he said quietly. Then, to Conal: “However much help we can provide, it’ll be more than nothing. My main aim is to make sure you have your defenses ready, your men armed and warned. The outlaws will be looking to surprise you. If they find you ready and waiting, it might take a little starch out of them.”

  Conal considered the point and nodded slowly. “Aye, that makes sense,” he said. “I’ll have the men stand to at dawn. We do that every day.”

  Halt smiled grimly.“Then do it tomorrow. But the odds are, they won’t attack then.” He smiled. “The enemy will expect you to be ready at dawn. Most places ‘stand to at dawn,’ as you put it. My guess is, they’ll wait for you to lower your guard when nothing happens. If I were them, I’d hit you at noon, when people are relaxing, tired from the morning’s work and looking forward to their midday meal.”

  Conal regarded the bearded man. He was small for a warrior, the Hibernian thought. But he carried an air of confidence and authority. He suddenly thought that if there were to be a fight, he’d prefer to fight with this man than against him.

  “Good advice,” he said. “I’ll make sure everyone stays ready. Where will you be?”

  Halt gestured to the forest north of Craikennis.“We’ll bed down inside the trees. Then we’ll take a position on that low hill outside the tree line.”

  Conal stepped forward and offered his hand to Halt. He was a little awkward, realizing that this man had come to warn the village and, so far, had been treated with suspicion and distrust.

  “I owe you thanks,” he said.

  Halt took his hand. “ Thank me tomorrow, if we’re all still here,” he said. Then he and his two companions retrieved their weapons from the grassy verge, mounted their horses and rode away across the fields to the north.

  They’d gone a hundred meters or so when Horace urged Kicker alongside Abelard.

  “Halt?” he said, and the Ranger looked at him.

  “Something troubling you?”

  “Yes. I just realized we’ve left all our camping gear at Mountshannon,” Horace said.

  Halt let out a deep sigh. “Yes. I remembered that too—just after I told him we’d camp out in the trees.”

  Horace glanced at the sky above them. There were dark clouds scudding across it, blanking out the stars as they passed.

  “Do you think it’s going to rain tonight?” he said.

  “Probably,” Halt replied gloomily.

  28

  IT DID RAIN DURING THE NIGHT, A LIGHT SHOWER THAT FELL FOR about fifteen minutes just after midnight. But the campsite wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as Halt and Horace had envisaged. They had overlooked the fact that Will still had his tent and camping equipment with him.

  Even though the tents were designed for one man, it was possible to squeeze two people into one. And of course, at any time, one of the group was on watch.

  Will had the final shift, and as dawn was slowly spreading over the countryside and birds were waking up in the trees and bushes, he saw Halt crawling out of the low tent.

  The older Ranger looked with annoyance at the damp patches on his knees. It was impossible to emerge from a low tent like that on wet ground without getting your trousers wet, he reflected. He stretched and walked to where Will was watching the road, wrapped in his cloak.

  “Any sign of them?” he asked.

  Will shook his head. “Not so far,” he said. Then he added, “I thought you said a dawn attack would be too obvious and they probably wouldn’t attack until midday?”

  Halt picked up Will’s canteen and took a swig of cold water, rinsing it around his mouth, then spitting it out.

  “I did. But then they might decide to do the obvious thing after all,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s a case of they think I’ll think that they’ll do A, so they’ll do B because I wouldn’t think they’d think of that but then because I might think I know what they’re thinking they’ll do A after all because I wouldn’t think they’d think that way,” Will said.

  Halt looked at him for a long moment in silence. “You know, I’m almost tempted to ask you to repeat that.”

  Will grinned. “I’m not sure I could.”

  Halt moved away to rummage in Will’s pack for the coffeepot.

  “Might as well light a small fire,” he said. “They won’t see it among the trees, and if they smell the smoke, they’ll think it’s from Craikennis.”

  Will cheered up at the words. He’d assumed they’d have a cold camp. The idea of hot coffee was a pleasant surprise. A few minutes later, Horace crawled out of the tent. He made sure he emerged on hands and toes, not letting his knees touch the wet ground. Halt scowled at him as he saw him spring athletically to his feet.

  “I hate young people,” he said to himself.

  Horace wandered over and took a cup of coffee to Will, then went back for one for himself. The three stood, sipping the hot, restoring drink, easing the cramps from their muscles after a night spent on the hard, damp ground. It took a little longer for Halt to manage this.

  He muttered darkly about young people again. Horace and Will, wisely, chose to ignore him.

  After a few minutes, Horace asked, “So what’s the drill for today, Halt?”

  Halt pointed to a small knoll a few meters from the tree line.

  “That’s our position there. Will and I will see if we can’t thin out Padraig’s numbers a little.” He looked at his former student. “Don’t take any chances, but whenever you can, shoot to wound or disable.” He saw the unspoken question in Will’s eyes and continued, “I know, these men are killers and murderers, and I have no compunction about shooting to kill. But a wounded man takes another man out of the battle—he has to tend to him.”

  Horace smiled. “I thought you were getting sentimental in your old age, there, Halt.”

  The Ranger said nothing. He glared at Horace for a long moment, and the big warrior wished he could take back the phrase “old age.” Over the past weeks, he’d noticed that Halt was a little prickly about the fact that he wasn’t getting any younger.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled eventually. Halt said nothing. He snorted angrily, and Horace suddenly found it necessary to take a great interest in adjusting his belt buckle until it was just right. Halt let him suffer for a few moments, then beckoned him to follow.

  “I want you mounted and ready, Horace. But stay back out of sight
till I call you. And I want you to put this over your shield.”

  He searched in his saddlebags and brought out a folded piece of heavy linen, handing it to the younger man.

  Horace spread it out and found it to be a circular piece, a little larger than his shield, with a drawstring around the edge. It would slip over the shield and the drawstring would pull tight to hold it in position. Sometimes, he knew, knights used these covers in tournaments, when they wanted to cover their insignia and fight incognito.

  But this wasn’t blank. It had a strange and rather striking design in the center. It was a reddish-orange circle, with the bottom third of its arc cut off by a straight black line that protruded a few centimeters on either side. It reminded Horace of something, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “It’s the insignia of the Sunrise Warrior,” Halt told him. Horace cocked his head to one side interrogatively, and the Ranger continued. “He’s a figure of Hibernian myth. The story goes that when the kingdoms are in peril, the Sunrise Warrior will rise up from the East and restore order within the kingdoms.”

  “And you want me to be him?” Horace said. Now that Halt had mentioned the word sunrise, he realized that was what the design had reminded him of.

  Halt nodded. “Your legend begins today, when you save the village of Craikennis from two hundred men.”

  “Eighty,” Will said. He had strolled over to watch as Horace fastened the cover over his shield. For this trip, Horace’s normal green oakleaf insignia had been painted over and his shield was blank.

  Halt looked up at the interjection.

  “There’ll be two hundred by the time I finish telling it,” he told Will. “We might even get you to compose a ballad of praise to the Sunrise Warrior.”