The siege of Macindaw ra-6

by John Flanagan

  " That's enough," he ordered, and they stopped moving. Horace glanced quickly at them again. There was something not quite right about them. Then he realized what it was. They were scruffy, their surcoats stained and crumpled, their arms and armor unburnished and dull. They looked as if they'd be more at home hiding in the forest and waylaying innocent travelers than wearing the arms of a castle lord. In most castles, the men-at-arms were under the orders and discipline of experienced sergeants. It was rare that they would be allowed to become so disheveled.

  "You're getting off to a bad start with me, you know," the bearded man said. In another man, the remark might have had overtones of humor or amusement to soften implicit threat in the words. Here, the threat was overt. Even more so when he added, after a pause, "You might come to regret that."

  "And why might that be?" Horace asked. The other man had obviously got the point. He raised the lance again and replaced it in its stirrup socket as the man replied.

  "Well, if you're looking for work, you don't want to get on my wrong side, is why."

  Horace considered the statement thoughtfully.

  "Am I looking for work?" he asked.

  The other man said nothing but gestured toward the device on Horace's shield. There was a long silence between them and finally the man was forced to speak.

  "You're a free lance," he said.

  Horace nodded. He didn't like the man's manner. It was arrogant and threatening, the sign of a man who had been given authority when he wasn't used to wielding it.

  " True," he admitted. "But that simply means I'm unemployed. It doesn't mean I'm actually looking for a job at the moment." He smiled. "I could have private means, after all."

  He said it pleasantly, without sarcasm, but the bearded man was unwilling to show any signs of good humor.

  "Don't bandy words, boy. You may own a battlehorse and a lance, but that doesn't make you the cock of the walk. You're a raggletail beggar who's out of work, and I'm the man who might have given you a job – if you'd shown a little respect."

  The smile on Horace's face died. He sighed inwardly. Not at the implication that he was a ragged beggar but at the insult inherent in the word boy. Since the age of sixteen, Horace had been used to potential opponents underestimating his abilities because of his youth. Most of them had realized their mistake too late.

  "Where are you heading?" the bearded man demanded. Horace saw no reason why he shouldn't answer the question.

  "I thought I'd swing by Castle Macindaw," he said."I need a place to spend the rest of the winter."

  The man gave a derisive snort as Horace spoke. "Then you've started out on the wrong foot," he said. "I'm the man who does the hiring for Lord Keren."

  Horace frowned slightly. The name was new to him.

  "Lord Keren?" he repeated."I thought the Lord of Macindaw was Syron?"

  His remark was greeted with a dismissive gesture.

  "Syron is finished," the bearded man said."Last I heard, he hasn't got long to live. Might be already dead, for all I care. And his son, Orman, has run off as well – skulking somewhere in the forest. Lord Keren's in charge now, and I'm his garrison commander."

  "And you are?" Horace asked, his tone totally neutral.

  "I'm Sir John Buttle," the man replied shortly.

  Horace frowned slightly. The name had a vaguely familiar ring to it. On top of that, he would swear that this rough-mannered, roughly clothed bully was no knight. But he said nothing. There was little to be gained by antagonizing the man further, and he seemed to antagonize very easily.

  "So, what's your name, boy?" Buttle demanded. Again, Horace sighed inwardly. But he kept his tone light and good-natured as he replied.

  "Hawken," he said. "Hawken Watt, originally from Caraway but now a citizen of this wide realm."

  Once again, his easy tone struck no response from Buttle, whose reply was short-tempered and ill-mannered.

  "Not this part of it, you're not," he said. "There's nothing for you in Macindaw and nothing for you in Norgate Fief. Move on. Be out of the area by nightfall, if you know what's good for you."

  "I'll certainly consider your advice," Horace said. Buttle's frown deepened, and he leaned toward the young warrior.

  "Do more than that, boy. Take the advice. I'm not a man you want to cross. Now get moving."

  He jerked his thumb toward the southeast, where the border with the next fief lay. But by now, Horace had decided that he'd heard enough from Sir John Buttle. He smiled and made no attempt to move. Outwardly, he seemed unperturbed. But Kicker sensed the little thrill of readiness that went through his master, and the battle-horse's ears pricked up. He could feel a fight in the offing, and his breed lived for fighting.

  Buttle hesitated, not sure what to do next. He had made his threat, and he was used to people being cowed by the force of his personality – and the sight of men-at-arms ready to back his threats up. Now this well-armed young man simply sat facing him, with an air of confidence about him that said he wasn't fazed by the odds of five to one. Buttle realized he would either have to make good on his threat or back down. As he was thinking this, Horace smiled lazily at him and backing down suddenly seemed like a good option.

  Angrily, he wheeled his horse away, gesturing to his men to follow.

  "Remember what I said!" he flung back over his shoulder as he spurred his horse away. "You have till nightfall."

  3

  Malcolm the healer, more widely known as Malkallam the Black Sorcerer, looked up briefly from his work as Will rode into the little clearing in Grimsdell Wood.

  Each morning at eleven o'clock, Malcolm provided his people with medical treatment. Those with injuries or illnesses would line up patiently outside the healer's comfortable house so that he could diagnose and treat their ailments, sprains, cuts, sores and fevers. Since many of the people who lived in the little forest settlement had been driven out of their previous homes because of physical disabilities or disfigurement, there was usually a long line of patients. Many had ongoing health problems that required constant care.

  His last patient was a relatively straightforward case. An eleven-year-old boy had decided to use his mother's best cloak as a pair of wings while he attempted to fly from a four-meter-high tree. Malcolm finished binding the resultant sprained ankle, put some salve on the scraped elbows and wrists and ruffled the would-be adventurer's hair.

  "Off you go," he told him, "and from now on, leave the magic to me."

  "Yes, Malcolm," the boy said, hanging his head in embarrass- ment. Then, as he scuttled away, the healer turned to where Will was unsaddling his horse. The older man watched approvingly, noting the bond between the two as the Ranger spoke gently to the animal while he rubbed it down. The horse almost seemed to understand his words, responding with a good-natured snort and a toss of its short mane.

  "I hear you found the Skandians, then?" Malcolm said eventually.

  Will nodded. " Twenty-five prime fighting men," he said. " They were right where your messenger told us they'd be, on the banks of the River Oosel."

  Malcolm's people ranged far and wide through the vast forest. There was little that happened within its boundaries that they didn't see. And when they saw something out of the ordinary, they brought word to the healer. When reports had come in of a party of Skandian shipwreck survivors, Will had set out to find them.

  "And they were happy to offer their help?" Malcolm asked. Will shrugged as he sat down on the sunny veranda beside the old healer.

  " They'll be happy to receive the money I've offered them. Besides, their captain felt he owed me something because he let Buttle escape."

  Xander, the secretary and assistant to Orman of Macindaw, came out of the house.

  "How's Orman?" Malcolm asked. The castle lord had been poisoned by Keren in his attempt to gain control of Macindaw. Will and Xander had only just reached the healer's secret clearing in time to save his life.

  "He's much better. But he's still very weak. He's sleepin
g again," Xander said.

  Malcolm nodded thoughtfully."That's the best medicine for him now. The poison's out of his system. His body can heal itself from here on. Let him rest."

  Xander looked doubtful. In spite of the fact that Malcolm had saved his master's life, he still viewed the healer with a certain amount of suspicion. He felt Malcolm should be providing more tangible treatment than the simple injunction "Let him rest." But there was something else nagging at him at the moment.

  "Did I hear you say that you've offered to pay these Skandians?" he asked Will.

  Will grinned at him and shook his head. "No. I've offered to let you pay them," he replied. "Seventy gold royals for their services."

  Xander bristled at him indignantly. "That's outrageous!" he said. "You had no right to do such a thing! Orman is lord of Macindaw. Any such negotiations were up to him – or me, in his absence!"

  The secretary had proven to be a brave little man and very loyal to his lord. But that could make him act like a bit of a prig at times. Will eyed him meaningfully. He heard Malcolm's snort of derision.

  "At the moment," Will said, with a warning note in his voice, "Orman is lord of nothing very much at all, not even the borrowed bed he's lying in. So, actually, I outrank him. You seem to forget that I act with the King's authority."

  Which Xander realized was true. Will was a Ranger, after all, in spite of the fact that he had come to Macindaw disguised as a jongleur. It was difficult for Xander to accept that such vast authority could be vested in someone as young as Will. He backed off now, but reluctantly.

  "Even so," he said, "seventy royals? Surely you could have done better than that!"

  Will shook his head at the secretary's attitude.

  "You can renegotiate if you like. I'm sure the Skandians will be delighted to bargain with someone who'll sit watching while they risk their lives."

  Xander saw that he was on shaky ground. But he was too stubborn to simply admit it.

  "Well, perhaps. But after all, it's their trade, isn't it? They fight for money, don't they?"

  " That's right," Will agreed, thinking that Xander could be a very annoying man. "And that gives them a pretty good idea of what their lives are worth. Besides, look on the bright side. Maybe we'll lose, and then you won't owe them a penny."

  There was a hard edge to his voice that finally penet rated Xander's bumptious attitude. The secretary realized that it might be best not to pursue this matter any further. He sniffed and walked away, making sure that Will and Malcolm could just hear his parting remark: "Seventy royals, indeed! I've never heard such e xtravagance!"

  Malcolm looked at Will and shrugged sympathetically. "I do hope you can get that man back in his castle before too long," he said. "One tires of him very quickly."

  Will smiled. "Still, he's very loyal. And he can be a courageous little bantam, as you've noted."

  Malcolm considered the fact for a few seconds. "It's strange, isn't it?" he remarked at length. "You'd expect qualities like that to make a person quite likable. Yet somehow he manages to irritate the devil out of me." He made a brief gesture dismissing Xander as a subject of conversation. "So, come inside and tell me more about these Skandians of yours."

  He led the way inside the house, where he had a pot of coffee brewing. In the short time that he had known the young Ranger, he had become aware of his near-dependence on the drink. He poured him a cup now and smiled as Will tasted it, smacked his lips and let out an appreciative sigh. The two settled into comfortable chairs at Malcolm's kitchen table.

  "They'll be along in a day or two," Will continued."I left them to pack up their camp and follow on. One of your people will guide them here. I must say we were lucky to find them. I'm going to need fighting men, and they're in pretty scarce supply." In the first days after he had left Alyss imprisoned in Macindaw's tower, Will had sought furiously to find a way to release her. Gradually, his desperation eased as he realized he would need reinforcements and a plan before he could mount an attack. The news of the Skandians was like a gift from heaven.

  Malcolm sighed. "True," he said. "My people aren't fighters. They're not trained or equipped for the job."

  "And the people from the villages around here would hardly join us. They're all terrified of Malkallam the Black Sorcerer," Will said. He smiled to show there was no insult intended. Malcolm nodded, recognizing the truth.

  " That's a fact. So what do you plan to do when the Skandians get here?"

  The Ranger hesitated before answering. "Then… we'll see. I'll have to figure out a way to take the castle and get Alyss out of there."

  "Have you ever done that sort of thing before?" Malcolm asked.

  Will grinned ruefully."Not really," he admitted."It never came up in my Ranger training."

  He didn't want to dwell on it. He hoped that the Skandians might have some ideas on the subject, but he'd cross that drawbridge when he came to it.

  Malcolm stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Have you considered sending to Castle Norgate for help?"

  Will shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I have," he replied. "But Keren has the road sealed off. No riders are getting through."

  Malcolm's observers had reported that riders heading west were being stopped and turned back.

  "Except his own," Malcolm replied."A rider left Macindaw while you were away."

  Will nodded gloomily. "Keren's no fool. I'll wager he's reported that Orman is a traitor and has run off, leaving Keren to keep Macindaw safe. That's what I'd do in his place. The trouble is, he's well liked and respected. They'll be inclined to believe him. Whereas I'm a stranger. What's more, I'm in league with an accused traitor and a known sorcerer."

  "But you're a King's Ranger," Malcolm said.

  " They don't know that. My presence here was a secret." Will laughed at the thought. "Let's assume I could get a message through, and let's assume they don't dismiss it out of hand. What do you think they might do?"

  Malcolm considered for a moment."Send soldiers to help us?" he suggested, but Will shook his head.

  "It's winter. Their army is dispersed to their homes. It would take a couple of weeks to assemble them. It's a big undertaking, and they're not going to do that on a stranger's say-so. The best we could hope for is they might send someone to investigate, to find out who's telling the truth. And even that will take at least two weeks – it's a week there and another week back, after all."

  Malcolm pulled a wry face. " There's not much we can do, is there?"

  "We're not exactly helpless," Will told him. "With twenty-five

  Skandians, we can cause Keren quite a bit of trouble. Then, once I have some concrete evidence, we'll send word to Norgate."

  He paused, frowning heavily. He wished he was a little more experienced in matters like this. He was the most junior Ranger in the Corps and, truth be told, he was uncertain that he was taking the right path. But Halt had always taught him to gather as much information as possible before taking action.

  For the twentieth time in the past few days, he wished he could contact Halt. But Alyss's pigeon handler seemed to have disappeared from the district. Run off by Buttle and his men, most likely, he thought gloomily, then shook off the negative thoughts with an effort.

  "So, what else has been going on while I've been away?" he asked.

  He drained his coffee and looked hopefully at the pot. Malcolm, who was aware that his supply of coffee beans was running low, studiously ignored the hint, and the quiet sigh that followed it. He shuffled through a few sheets of notes that he had taken when his spies had reported in.

  "There were a couple of things," he said. "Your friend Alyss has been showing a light at her window for the past two nights."

  That news took Will's mind off the coffee. The young man sat straight up in his chair.

  "A light?" he said eagerly. "What kind of light?"

  Malcolm shrugged."Looks like just a simple lantern. But it moves around the window."

  "From corner to corner?" Wil
l asked. Malcolm looked up from his notes, surprised.

  "Yes," he said. "How did you know that?"

  Will was smiling broadly now. "She's using the Courier's signal code," he said."I guess she knows that sooner or later, I'll be watching. When does she do this?"

  Malcolm didn't need to consult the notes this time."Usually after the midnight watch has changed – around three in the morning. The moon's well down by then, so the light is easier to make out."

  "Good!" said Will. "That gives me time to get a message prepared. I'm a little rusty on the code," he added, apologetically."Haven't had to use it since my fourth-year assessment. You said there were a couple of items?" he prompted.

  Malcolm shuffled the pages again. "Oh yes. One of my people saw Buttle and his men talking to a warrior by Tumbledown Creek the other morning. He thought they might be recruiting him, but the warrior seemed to send them packing. Then he rode off himself. I believe he's taken a room at the Cracked Flagon."

  This news was less riveting, Malcolm saw.

  Will, his thoughts already composing a message to Alyss, asked absently, "Could your man make out the warrior's blazon?"

  "A blue fist. He was a free lance. Had a blue fist on a white shield. A round buckler."

  That piece of news definitely engaged the Ranger's attention. He looked up quickly.

  "Anything else? Was he young or old?"

  "Quite young, apparently. Surprisingly so, in fact. A big fellow, riding a big bay. My chap was close enough to hear him talk to the horse. Called him Nicker or Whicker or something like that."

  "Kicker?" said Will, a giant ray of hope dawning inside him.

  Malcolm nodded."Yes. That could be it. Makes more sense than Nicker, doesn't it? Do you know him?" he added. From Will's delighted reaction, it was obvious that he did.

  "Oh, I think I might," he said. "And if it's who I think it is, things just took a big turn for the better."

  4

  Alone in her tower prison, Alyss was waiting for the moon to set. She judged that there was still an hour to go and set about making her simple preparations.