Halts peril ra-9

by John Flanagan

  Then, eyes intent on the burly figure at the Claw's tiller, he caught a flicker of movement as the two arrows flashed down. He couldn't tell which arrow struck O'Malley. Halt was the better shot, Horace knew, but Will was nearly as skilled.

  One arrow thudded, quivering, into the bulwark less than a metre from the helm. The other buried itself painfully in the fleshy part of O'Malley's upper left arm – the side that was facing towards them.

  With the noise of wind and sea, Horace couldn't hear the cry of pain from the smuggler. But he saw him stagger, releasing the tiller and clutching his injured left arm.

  The effect on the Claw was almost instantaneous – and disastrous. Freed of the steadying pressure of the rudder, holding her across the wind, she suddenly flew up ahead of the wind, her square sail bulging and ropes snapping like overtuned harp strings with the increase in pressure as the force came from dead astern. The lurching of the ship threw O'Malley to the deck. At the same time, several oarsmen completely missed their stroke and tumbled backwards on the rowing benches. One oar came unshipped. Several others tangled with their neighbours. The result was chaos.

  The precise balance of forces that Halt had observed was totally disrupted. The Claw swung wildly downwind, already passing astern of the Sparrow, rushing madly towards the boiling waters of Palisade Reef.

  One of the crew was lurching across the plunging deck, heading for the tiller, which was smashing back and forth, out of control.

  'Stop him, Will,' Halt said briefly. They crossed to the opposite side of the deck, where they had a clearer view of the out-of-control smuggler ship. Again they shot. This time, both arrows found their mark and the man pitched forward, rolling into the scuppers as the ship heeled.

  The Sparrow's captain watched, open-mouthed.

  'Nobody can shoot like that,' he said softly. Horace, beside him, allowed himself a humourless smile.

  'These two can,' he said.

  On board the Claw, the stricken crew realised that it was too late to save their ship from driving onto the reef. They began to scramble towards the raised stern, trying instinctively to avoid the point of first impact. Their ship, rolling wildly, struck the first of the rocks, hidden below the seething water. There was a grating crash and the ship shuddered, her movement checked for a moment. The mast bowed forward under the sudden impact, then snapped off clean, a metre above the deck. It came crashing down across the ship in a tangle of rope and canvas and splintered wood, crushing and trapping a few who had been caught beneath it. The extra weight to one side heeled the ship downwind and that seemed to release it momentarily from the grip of the first rock. It surged upwards, staggered further into the tangle of the reef and crashed hard against another black, jagged mass rising from the sea. A wave broke over the trapped hull and several of the men on board were swept away. Halt and Will had lowered their bows. The bearded Ranger turned now to the captain.

  'We should do something to help them,' he said.

  The captain shook his head fearfully. 'I can't take my ship down into that!' he protested.

  'I'm not suggesting you do. But we could toss some barrels overboard to float down to them. It might give them a chance.' Halt glanced coldly back towards the wrecked ship. 'Which is more than they would have given us.'

  Horace nodded, grim-faced. The sight of the Claw, so recently a fast, agile creature of the water, now turned into a splintered, helpless wreck, was a terrible one indeed. But he knew the men on board had been willing to consign him, his friends and the crew of the Sparrow to the exact same fate. At a word from the captain, some of the Sparrow's crewmen left the oars and began to heave empty casks over the rail and he moved to help them. Soon a line of bobbing, floating barrels was drifting down towards the sinking ship.

  The captain turned to Halt, fear in his eyes.

  'I need my men back on the oars now,' he said, 'or we'll join them on the reef.'

  Halt nodded. 'We've done all we can for them. Let's get out of here.'

  The sailors scrambled back to their benches and began to heave on the oars again. Slowly, the Sparrow began to drag herself away from the dreadful reef. But it was a close-run thing. One of the jagged rocks passed a few metres by their bow and was actually hidden by the port bulwark as they surged past it, emerging a few minutes later in their wake. Horace shuddered at the sight of it. He had no idea how they'd missed it and in his mind's eye he could see the Sparrow suddenly smashing into it, pinned to the rock by the wind, slewing round, her mast crashing down under the shock, men hurled in all directions as the grey waves broke over the deck. He shook the image away as they crept closer to safety. Then he felt a strange sensation as the wind on his right cheek faltered and died, to be replaced by a gust from the left, then another, then a steady breeze. They'd reached the backlift!

  'Go about!' the captain was yelling and the crew left the oars and rushed to the halyards. The big square sail began to swing ponderously, then filled with a loud crack on the opposite tack. As if she were aware of the danger she had just faced, the Sparrow surged gratefully away from the reef.

  They beached the ship on the southern bank of the wide river mouth, running her prow into the sand so that she gradually eased to a halt. As the crew rigged a sling to the mast to haul the three horses overboard, the captain confronted Halt.

  'You should have told me,' he said accusingly. 'You should have told me O'Malley was an enemy.'

  Surprisingly, Halt merely nodded.

  'You're right,' he said. 'But I knew you'd never take us if I did and I needed to get here.'

  The captain shook his head and began to say something further. Then he hesitated, remembering the uncanny skill of the two bowmen when they had sent their arrows streaking across the water at the smuggler's ship. Perhaps it might not do to show too much indignation with such men, he thought. Halt saw the struggle on his face and touched his arm gently. He understood the man's feelings and he had to admit to himself that he had used him and his crew and he had put them all in danger.

  'I'd pay you more,' he said apologetically. 'But I need all the gold I have left.' He thought for a moment, then said, 'Bring me a pen and paper.'

  The skipper hesitated for a moment, then, as Halt urged him with a nod of his head, he disappeared into the low cabin at the stern. It was several minutes before he emerged, with a ragged-edged sheet of vellum and a writing quill and inkhorn. He had no idea what Halt intended and his expression said as much.

  Halt took the writing implements, looked around for somewhere to rest the paper and saw the capstan set in the foredeck of the ship. He walked to it, the captain trailing him curiously, and spread the paper on the flat, scarred wooden surface. The top of the inkhorn was stuck in place by dried ink and it took him some seconds to pry it loose.

  'What's your name?' he said suddenly. The question took the captain by surprise.

  'Keelty. Ardel Keelty.'

  Halt thought for a second or two, then wrote quickly. He covered the vellum with half a dozen lines, leaned back to read what he had written, his head at a slight angle, then nodded, satisfied. He signed the sheet with a flourish and waved it in the air to allow the ink to dry. Then he handed it to the captain, who looked at it and shrugged.

  'I'm no great hand at reading,' he said.

  Halt nodded. It explained the length of time it had taken Keelty to find pen and paper, and the state of the inkhorn. He took the paper back and read it aloud.

  'Captain Keelty and the crew of the ship Sparrow have been instrumental in the taking and sinking of the notorious pirate and smuggling ship Claw off the coast of Picta. I request that these men be given a suitable reward from the royal coffers. Signed Halt, Araluen Rangers.' He looked up and added, 'It's addressed to King Sean. Present it to him and he'll make it worth your while.'

  The captain snorted derisively as Halt handed him the sheet again. 'King Sean? Never heard of him. Ferris is the King of Clonmel.'

  'Ferris is dead,' Horace put in. He wanted to spare Hal
t the anguish of discussing his brother's death. 'We're following the men who killed him. His nephew Sean has taken the throne.'

  The captain turned to Horace. He was mildly surprised at the news of the King's death. Fingle Bay was a long way from the capital, after all. He looked sceptically at the words Halt had written.

  'So if he has,' he said, 'why should this new king take any notice of you?'

  'Because he's my nephew,' Halt told him. His dark eyes burned into Keelty's and the captain knew, instinctively, that he was telling the truth. Then a further thought struck him.

  'But you said… he was Ferris's nephew?' he said. 'So that means you're…' He stopped, not sure if his line of thinking was correct, not sure if he was missing something.

  'It means I'm keen to get off this rolling tub of bilge-water and be on my way,' Halt said briskly. He glanced around, saw that Will had brought their packs and saddles up from the small sleeping berth they had shared. He nodded his thanks and moved to the bow. The sailors had placed a ladder so that the three passengers could negotiate the two-metre drop to the sand more easily. Halt swung a leg over the bulwark and looked back at Keelty, standing with the sheet of paper fluttering in the wind.

  'Don't lose that,' he admonished him.

  Keelty, his mouth open as he tried to put all the factors together, nodded absently. 'I won't.'

  Halt looked at his two companions. 'Let's go,' he said, and ran lightly down the ladder to the sand. He was grateful to have the feeling of solid ground under his feet once more. Eight They pushed inland, following a rough trail that wound erratically through the dotted clumps of low-lying scrub and long grass that covered the ground. The wind was a constant force about them, keening in off the sea, bending the grass before it. Will glanced around. No trees in sight. For a moment, the sound of the wind soughing through the grass took him back to the terrifying night he had spent on the Solitary Plain, in his first year as an apprentice, when he and Gilan and Halt were hunting the Kalkara.

  He shrugged mentally and corrected himself. When the Kalkara were hunting them was more accurate.

  'Be nice to see a tree,' Horace said, echoing Will's earlier thought.

  Halt looked round at him. 'They won't grow here. The wind brings in the salt from the sea and it kills them. We'll need to get further inland to see trees.'

  Which raised a point that had been bothering Will. 'Halt, where are we going? Do you have any idea?'

  Halt shrugged. 'We know Tennyson landed at Craiskill River. And this is the only path from the landing site. So reason says he must have gone this way.'

  'What happens when we hit another path?' Will asked. Halt gave him the ghost of a smile.

  'Then we'll have to do some alternate reasoning.'

  'Can't you find their tracks or something?' Horace asked. 'I thought you Rangers were supposed to be good at that.'

  'We're good,' Halt told him comfortably. 'But we're not infallible.' The minute the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw the look of mock surprise on Horace's face.

  'Well,' said the young warrior, 'that's the first time I've ever heard you admit that.' He grinned easily at Halt, who scowled at him.

  'I preferred you when you were young and had a modicum of respect for your elders,' Halt said.

  In truth, there were signs that people had passed along this track, but Halt and Will had no way of knowing whether they had been left by Tennyson's party or by other people. This was, after all, a path leading from a popular smuggler's rendezvous. It stood to reason that the Scotti used it constantly, bringing goods to trade with the smugglers and taking back the casks of spirits and bales of wool they brought ashore. Wool was prized in this part of Picta, where the weather was too cold and damp for the successful raising of sheep. Cattle were hardier and more attuned to the climate and the Scotti traded leather hides and horns for the soft wool.

  So they rode on, content for the moment to follow the trail, and with no real alternative to make them choose another direction.

  They had started in the late afternoon and night was nearly upon them when they found a fork in the trail. One branch continued in the general direction they had been taking – eastward. The other forked off to the south. Both branches seemed to be equally well used.

  'We'll decide which way to go tomorrow,' Halt said. He led them off the track, through the high grass and scrub. They found a more or less suitable camp site behind a clump of scrub and blackberry bush, which grew to a little more than head height. They led the three horses in a series of circles for a few minutes to trample down the long grass, then unsaddled and watered the horses, and settled down themselves, leaving the animals to crop the grass around them. Kicker was attuned to travel with the two Ranger horses by now and Horace had no need to hobble him. He'd stay close by his two companions.

  He listened to the grinding, chomping sound of the three horses as they ate and looked around, a frown on his face. 'Don't know where I'll find firewood.'

  Halt regarded him with a slight smile. 'No point in looking,' he said. 'There's none around and we can't have a fire anyway. Once it's dark, even a small fire will be visible for miles and we never know who's watching.'

  Horace sighed. Cold food again. And nothing but cold water to wash it down. He was nearly as fond of coffee as the two Rangers.

  'Let me know when we start having fun,' he said.

  There was a fine rain in the night and they woke under damp blankets. Halt rose, stretched and groaned as his aching muscles nagged at him.

  'I really am getting too old for this,' he said. He looked around the low horizon, bounded by scrubby heather and long grass, and saw no sign of anyone watching them. He gestured towards the blackberry bush and said to Will, 'I think we can risk a fire this morning. See if you can cut some dry branches from inside that thicket.'

  Will nodded. He'd be grateful for a hot drink to start the day. He crawled into the tangled blackberry bush and swore quietly when a bramble stuck him.

  'Mind the brambles,' Halt said.

  'Thank you for stating the obvious,' Will told him. But he got to work with his saxe knife and cut a bundle of the thin dry stalks. Halt was right. The thick tangle had kept the rain from penetrating and Will backed out of the tunnel he had cut with a substantial bundle of sticks. None of them would burn for long, but they'd give off little smoke.

  'Should be enough to boil the coffee pot,' he said. Halt nodded. They'd eat a cold breakfast again – hard bread and dried fruit and meat. But it would be more palatable with a hot, sweet mug of coffee to wash it down.

  A little later, they sat, savouring their second cups.

  'Halt,' Will said, 'can I ask you something?'

  He saw his old mentor's mouth begin to frame the perennial answer to that question and hurried on before Halt could speak.

  'Yes, I know. I just did. But I want to ask you something else, all right?'

  A little miffed that Will had forestalled his stock answer, Halt gestured for him to go ahead.

  'Where do you think Tennyson is heading?'

  'I'd say,' the Ranger answered, after a few seconds' deliberation, 'that he'll be heading south now that he has the chance. Back into Araluen.'

  'How do you know that?' Horace asked. He was interested to hear the answer. He was always impressed at the two Rangers' ability to read a situation and come up with the correct answer to a problem. Sometimes, he thought, they almost seemed to have divine guidance.

  'I'm guessing,' Halt told him.

  Horace was a little disappointed. He'd expected a detailed analysis of the situation. The ghost of a smile showed on Halt's face. He was well aware that Horace occasionally entertained exaggerated ideas of Ranger skills and abilities.

  'Sometimes that's all you can do,' Halt said, a note of apology in his voice. Then he decided it might be a good idea to explain his train of thinking. He reached behind him to his saddle bag and took out a leather map case. He spread a map of the northern half of the border country betwe
en Araluen and Picta out before him. The two young men positioned themselves either side of him.

  'I figure we're about here,' he said, tapping his forefinger on a spot several centimetres in from the coast. Will and Horace could see the Mull of Linkeith marked, and the Craiskill River, which meandered back to the northeast, angling away from the relatively direct eastern path they had been following. Horace leaned forward, peering more closely.

  'Where's the path we're on?' he asked. Halt regarded him patiently.

  'We don't mark every little footpath and game trail on these maps, you know,' he said. Horace stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. The action said that he thought such things should be marked. Halt decided to ignore him.

  'Tennyson probably wants to head south,' he said. 'And this fork in the trail has been the first opportunity he's had to do it.'

  Will scratched his head thoughtfully. 'Why south? You said that last night. What makes you so sure?'

  'I'm not sure,' Halt told him. 'But it's a reasonable assumption.'

  Horace snorted disparagingly. 'Fancy word for a guess.'

  Halt glared at him but Horace made sure he wasn't making eye contact with the Ranger. Halt shook his head and continued.

  'We know Tennyson didn't particularly want to come to Picta,' he said. 'O'Malley told us that, remember?'

  Understanding was beginning to dawn on Horace's face. His faith in Ranger infallibility was slowly being restored.

  'That's right,' he said. 'You asked him and he said Tennyson just wanted to get out of Hibernia.'

  'Exactly. And Picta was the place O'Malley was going. So he dropped Tennyson off at the Craiskill River. Now, I'd be willing to bet that the Outsiders don't have any influence in Picta so far…'

  'What makes you say that?' Will wanted to know.

  'The Scotti aren't particularly tolerant of new religions,' Halt told him. 'And the local brand of intolerance is a little more violent than it is in Araluen. Try to start a new religion in this country and they'll string you up by your thumbs – particularly if you ask them for gold as the price of conversion.'