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

by John Flanagan

  “Very kind of you,” Halt said, “but we don’t have time for that nonsense. I’m really not interested in being King. I prefer to work for a living. Now, Ferris, we need to talk.”

  Ferris looked wildly about the room, as if seeking some form of escape. He knew that he was about to face retribution for his crimes. So he was quite startled when Halt continued, in a bad-tempered tone.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man! I’m not here to steal your throne! I’m here to help you keep it!”

  “Keep it?” Ferris, said, bewildered. Events were moving too fast for him. “Keep it from whom?”

  “Let’s sit down, shall we?” Halt saw several low benches to one side, and he picked one up and brought it close to the throne, gesturing for Horace and Sean to do likewise. Ferris stood watching them, uncertain what to do next, plucking nervously at the hem of his satin sleeve.

  “You hop up on your throne,” Halt told him.“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” He glanced at Sean. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could get some coffee sent in, is there?” he asked.

  Sean looked doubtful.“We don’t drink coffee here. The King”—he corrected himself—“Uncle Ferris doesn’t like it.”

  “Might have known,” Halt said, scowling. He looked at Horace and curled his lip in distaste. Horace couldn’t help grinning. Halt seemed more antagonized by the fact that his brother didn’t like coffee than by the fact that he had stolen the throne from him.

  “Well, never mind,” Halt continued. “We’ll just get this over as quickly as we can. Now, Ferris, you’ve heard of a group called the Outsiders, I take it?”

  “Yes. . . .” Ferris was taken aback. He hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. “ They’re some kind of religion. Harmless, I would have said.”

  “Harmless, my eye. They’re a cult, not a religion. And you’re going to have to take a stand against them. They’re on their way here, and they plan to seize power in Clonmel.”

  “Seize power? That’s ridiculous! What makes you say that?” Ferris was openly skeptical of the idea. Halt gazed steadily at him. Sean noted that the King averted his eyes after a few seconds, as ever.

  “I’ve heard their leader speak. And I’ve heard him whipping people up—inciting them to rebellion.”

  “Nonsense!” Ferris seemed sure of himself now, back on secure ground. “Tennyson is a simple preacher, that’s all. He wishes me no harm.”

  “Tennyson?” Halt said, seizing on the name, and the familiarity in Ferris’s voice when he mentioned it. “You know him?” A light of understanding dawned in his eyes. “You’ve been in contact with him . . .”

  Ferris was about to answer, then hesitated. Halt pressed him further.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “We have . . . communicated. He sent a delegate to see me, to reassure me.”

  “When?” The question burst from Sean’s lips before he could stop it. As the King’s steward, he was supposed to be aware of any and all delegations who came to see Ferris. This was the first time he had heard of any approach from this Tennyson. Ferris looked at him, trying to retain his dignity and authority.

  “It didn’t concern you, Sean. It was a confidential visit.”

  He realized how flimsy the excuse sounded as it hung in the air of the throne room. A long and ugly silence stretched out.

  “Have you come to some arrangement with him?” Halt asked. But Ferris didn’t answer the question directly.

  “Halt, the man has done wonders. There have been outlaws and brigands terrorizing the countryside, and I’ve been powerless to stop them.”

  “You tend to be powerless when you refuse to do anything,” Halt said contemptuously. “The truth is, you’ve sat here and twiddled your thumbs while outlaws have been killing and robbing your people, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned quickly to Sean. “Has he done anything? Sent troops out to hunt these outlaws down? Garrisoned any of the larger towns and villages? Has he even made a statement promising to act and denouncing the outlaws’ actions?”

  Sean looked at the King, then back at Halt.

  “No,” he said. “I offered to take a patrol out and . . .” He stopped, feeling awkward. Somehow it seemed disloyal to say that he had wanted to do something but the King had refused his request. But the truth was that the King had done nothing, tried nothing. Slowly, Sean shook his head. Halt sighed and his shoulders slumped. He looked at Ferris with contempt. The King tried to explain himself.

  “Don’t you see? That’s why I agreed to see Tennyson’s messenger. He can stop the outlaws. He can bring an end to the lawlessness!”

  “Because he controls them!” Halt came to his feet so violently that the bench he was seated on crashed over behind him. “Surely you can grasp that, you almighty fool?”

  “He . . . controls them?” Ferris’s face creased in a puzzled frown.

  “Of course! They do his bidding. Then he pretends to chase them off and claims to be the only person in the country with the power to do so. I’ve heard him preaching sedition against you, Ferris! ‘Can the King protect you?’ he asks. And the answer is a resounding No! from those he speaks to. ‘Can anyone protect you?’ he asks, and they fall over themselves to tell him that he is their only hope. Not you. Not the rule of law in this country. Him! Ferris, he is planning to seize power in Clonmel. Just as he has done in the other five kingdoms.”

  “No! He said I’d be safe. I’d remain as King! He said—” Ferris stopped, realizing he’d said too much. He was used to the contempt in Halt’s eyes. Now he saw it in the eyes of the two younger men as well.

  “You’d remain as King,” Horace said. “You’d be his puppet on the throne. And all the while, he’d bleed your people dry.”

  “ They’re not his people,” Halt corrected him. “He doesn’t deserve them. And they certainly don’t deserve him. Get up, Ferris. Get up and face me.”

  Reluctantly, the King stood so that he was facing his brother.

  “There’s one way to stop Tennyson and put an end to his depraved cult. A figure of authority has to stand up against him and denounce him. He’s successful because nobody is ever willing to act or speak against him. Or if they do, they’re quickly removed and murdered. But he couldn’t do that to you.”

  “Me?” Ferris was horrified at the concept. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Speak out! Take control of your Kingdom and offer the people an alternative to this charlatan! Break this cult of his. Roll it back and destroy his power! It’s built on an illusion anyway. Offer them another illusion.”

  “What?” Ferris asked. “What illusion do I have?”

  “The illusion of your own authority,” Halt said sarcastically. “That won’t go far. But fortunately for you, we’ve provided an additional one.” He pointed to Horace. “The Sunrise Warrior.”

  “But that’s a myth!” Ferris cried, and Halt laughed bitterly.

  “Of course it is! Just as Alseiass, the all-loving Golden God of the Outsiders, is a myth. Make the Sunrise Warrior your countermyth. Make him your champion, summoned by you to bring the rule of law back to Clonmel.

  “We’ve already prepared the ground for you. The warrior was seen at a village called Craikennis just a few days ago. He wiped out a band of three hundred outlaws.”

  “Three hundred?” Horace said, surprised. “You’re coming at it a bit strong, aren’t you, Halt?”

  The Ranger shrugged. “The bigger the rumor, the easier it is to make people believe,” he said. But Sean had reacted instantly to the mention of Craikennis.

  “It’s true, your majesty. I heard rumors of the Warrior in the marketplace yesterday. And I heard mention of a battle at Craikennis as well.”

  Ferris looked from one to the other. He made an ineffectual, undecided gesture, one hand flapping in the air.

  “I don’t know. I . . . I just don’t know.”

  Halt stepped close to him so that their faces were only centimeters apart.

&nbs
p; “Do this, brother. Speak out and denounce Tennyson and his cult. Offer the people the protection of the Sunrise Warrior at the head of your soldiers, and I promise we’ll give you every support.”

  He saw that Ferris was wavering and added his final inducement.

  “Do it and I swear I will make no claim against you for the throne. I’ll return to Araluen as soon as we’ve destroyed the Outsiders, and Tennyson with them.”

  That struck home, he saw. For a second or two, Ferris was on the brink of agreeing. But decisiveness had never been his strong suit, and still he vacillated.

  “I need time to think about this. I need a few days. You can’t just walk in here and expect me to . . .” He hesitated, and Halt finished the sentence for him.

  “Make a decision? No, I suppose that’s a pretty foreign idea for you. All right. We’ll give you a day.”

  “Two days,” Ferris replied instantly. Then, in a pleading tone, “Please, Halt, there’s a lot for me to take in here.”

  Halt shook his head. The longer Ferris had to think about this, the more likely he would find a way to weasel out of his predicament. It was not impossible that he would try to contact Tennyson again.

  “One day,” he said firmly. His tone told Ferris that there would be no further discussion of the matter, and the King’s shoulders slumped in resignation.

  “Very well,” he muttered.

  Halt studied the submissive figure for a few seconds. Ferris seemed cowed, but he still didn’t trust him. He turned to Sean.

  “Do I have your word that you’ll prevent any trickery?”

  Sean nodded instantly. “Of course. I’ll make sure he keeps his side of the bargain,” he said, then added, “Uncle.”

  A grim smile touched Halt’s face at the word. He studied Sean for a few seconds. The eyes were clear and honest. The face was a trustworthy one. He felt a surge of warmth for this young man. Halt had lived his life without any knowledge of his family. At least one of them had turned out well, he thought. Pity about the other one in the room with them.

  “That’s good enough for me.” He looked back to Ferris.“We’ll be back at noon tomorrow for your answer. Let’s go, Horace.”

  They turned and walked toward the big double doors, their boot heels ringing on the flagstones. They were almost there when Ferris’s cry stopped them.

  “Wait!” he called, and they turned to face him again. “What if my answer is . . . no?”

  Halt smiled at him. At least, it might have been called a smile. Horace thought it was closer to the way a wolf shows its fangs to an enemy.

  “It won’t be,” he said.

  34

  WILL WAS SEATED UNDER A TREE, HIS BACK COMFORTABLY against the trunk, repairing a part of Tug’s harness. He worked the point of an awl through the tough leather strap, wincing as the sharp end caught the ball of his thumb.

  “I’m going to have to stop doing that,” he told himself. Perhaps the key to doing so would be to keep his eyes on the job in hand. But the broken strap was merely a ruse to occupy him while he studied the sprawling camp of Tennyson’s followers.

  He had joined the band two nights previously, riding in after dark and being challenged by a sentry from the picket line thrown around the camp. He identified himself as a traveling minstrel and said he was anxious to join the followers of Alseiass. The sentry grunted, seeming to be satisfied, and waved him inside the camp.

  There were nearly four hundred people massed under Tennyson’s banner. Most of them were people from villages along the way who had joined after hearing the enthusiastic testimony of the residents of Mountshannon. Some had been summoned from other villages farther south, where Tennyson had already driven off parties of outlaws. The prophet had left some of his henchmen in each of these villages and, once the march on Dun Kilty began in earnest, they had been summoned, along with their converts, to join the band.

  But there was also a solid core of Tennyson’s acolytes, recognizable by their white robes. Most obvious of all were the two massively proportioned bodyguards who always stood close to the leader. They were surly brutes, Will thought. The Golden God Alseiass hadn’t imbued them with his much-professed love for their fellow man.

  As the numbers grew, Tennyson continued to preach, stressing the King’s lack of decision and action, and laying the blame for Clonmel’s troubled situation squarely on his shoulders. And at each of these sessions, his subordinates moved among the crowd, collecting gold and jewelry in tribute to Alseiass.

  As an outsider Will could see the sharp division in the camp. There were the fervent, hopeful new converts, the large mass of people who had chosen to follow Tennyson and who looked to him and his god as the new hope for peace and prosperity. That group grew larger each day as new converts flocked into the camp.

  And there was the hard-edged core of existing followers, who collected the gold, protected Tennyson and, Will was sure, dealt with anyone who chose to speak out against Alseiass’s prophet.

  The previous day, the latter group had been reinforced by three remarkable newcomers. Dressed in tight black leather, they wore dull purple cloaks and wide-brimmed, feathered hats of the same color. They were olive skinned and dark haired and obviously foreigners. And they weren’t simple pilgrims come to join the throng. They carried crossbows slung on their backs and, from Will’s careful observation, each of them had at least three daggers on his person—in belt sheaths, in their boots, and under the left arm. They were dangerous men. They carried themselves with an air of assurance that said they had confidence in their weapon skills.

  He wondered who they were and where they had come from. He was less curious as to their purpose. They were Tennyson’s hired killers, he felt certain. Earlier, Will had been singing close to the white pavilion and had watched as one of them followed a shabbily dressed man out of the camp and into the forest. Fifteen minutes later, the foreigner returned alone, going straight to Tennyson’s pavilion to report. Will, who had discreetly followed them part of the way, waited by the edge of the forest until sundown. But there had been no sign of the other man returning.

  He heard a raised voice now a few meters away and glanced up. One of the white-robed inner circle was walking among the haphazardly pitched tents and shelters, issuing orders to the people there. Will rose and moved closer to hear what was being said.

  “Pack up your camp tonight after prayers. Get your goods loaded on your carts and horses and be ready to strike camp tomorrow. Tennyson wants everyone ready to move out by ten o’clock! So get busy! Don’t leave it till tomorrow! Get it done tonight and sleep in the open if you must!”

  One of the pilgrims stepped forward and addressed the white-robed figure deferentially.

  “Where are we going, your honor?” he said, and half a dozen voices echoed the question. For a moment, the messenger looked as if he wasn’t going to answer, out of simple contrariness. Then he shrugged. There was no need to keep it a secret.

  “We’re marching directly to Dun Kilty. It’s time King Ferris was told his hour has come!” he said, and there was a swelling buzz of approval from those who heard him.

  Interesting, Will thought. He threaded his way through the tents to the edge of the settlement, where his own small tent was pitched and Tug stood grazing close by. He quickly lowered the tent and packed it away. Tug looked at him curiously as he did so.

  “We’re moving out tomorrow,” Will told him. He checked that everything was tightly rolled and secured. He’d be content to sleep in the open tonight. He glanced at the sky. There were clouds scudding overhead, obscuring the stars from time to time. It might rain, but his cloak was waterproof and he’d be comfortable enough.

  “You!”

  The voice startled him. It was rough and overloud and as he turned he felt a twinge of uneasiness as he saw who had spoken. It was one of the giants who attended to Tennyson—Gerard or Killeen. He had no idea which was which, and there seemed to be no way to tell them apart.

  The huge man pointe
d a finger at him.

  “You’re the singer, is that right?” he said, a challenging tone in his voice. Will nodded uncertainly.

  “I am a jongleur, that’s true,” he said, wondering where this was leading. The word seemed unfamiliar to the man, and Will explained further. “I’m a minstrel. A musician and singer.”

  The man’s face cleared as he heard a description he understood. “Not anymore, you’re not,” he said.“Tennyson has barred all singing—except hymns to Alseiass. You know any of them?”

  Will shook his head. “Sadly, no.”

  The big man smiled evilly at him. “Sad for you, because you’re out of business. Tennyson says you’re to bring your lute to him after the evening prayer session.”

  Will contemplated whether there was any point in telling this oaf that he played a mandola, not a lute. He decided against it.

  “Tennyson wants my . . . instrument?”

  The man scowled at him. “Isn’t that what I said? No more music and hand in your lute! Clear?”

  Will hesitated, thinking about the order and what it meant, and the man spoke, this time even louder and more abruptly.

  “Clear?”

  “Yes, of course. No more music. Hand in my . . . lute. I understand.”

  Gerard or Killeen nodded in a satisfied manner. “Good. Make sure you do.”

  He turned on his heel and swaggered away, his huge frame visible over the tents for some distance. Will sat on his rolled pack and looked at the mandola in its boiled-leather case. It was a beautiful instrument, made by Araluen’s master luthier, Gilet, and given to him as a present by a grateful Lord Orman of Castle Macindaw. If he handed it in to Tennyson, he had no doubt that he’d never see it again.

  Besides, he thought, he’d learned as much as he could about Tennyson’s plans. The prophet was heading directly for Dun Kilty, cutting short his original scheme to gather an increasing number of followers in a triumphal progression through the countryside. Not that he needed any more. He had hundreds of them already.