Ranger's Apprentice 9 Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  Halt and Will exchanged an amused glance. 'Always a dangerous pastime,' they chorused. For many years, it had been Halt's unfailing response when Will had made the same statement. Horace waited patiently while they had their moment of fun, then continued.

  'Yes, yes. I know. But seriously, as we said last night, Macindaw isn't so far away from here . . .'

  'And?' Halt asked, seeing how Horace had left the statement hanging.

  'Well, there's a garrison there and it might not be a bad idea for one of us to go fetch some reinforcements. It wouldn't hurt to have a dozen knights and men at arms to back us up when we run into Tennyson.'

  But Halt was already shaking his head.

  'Two problems, Horace. It'd take too long for one of us to get there, explain it all and mobilise a force. And even if we could do it quickly, I don't think we'd want a bunch of knights blundering around the countryside, crashing through the bracken, making noise and getting noticed.' He realised that statement had been a little tactless. 'No offence, Horace. Present company excepted, of course.'

  'Oh, of course,' Horace replied stiffly. He couldn't really dispute Halt's statement. Knights did tend to blunder around the countryside making noise and getting noticed. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

  Halt continued. 'The best thing we have going for us is the element of surprise. Tennyson doesn't know we're coming. And that's worth at least a dozen knights and men at arms. No. We'll continue as we are for the moment.'

  Horace nodded grudging agreement. When they caught up with the Outsiders, they'd have a stiff fight on their hands. Will and Halt would have their hands full dealing with the two Genovesan assassins. He would have liked to have even three or four armed knights behind him to take on the rest of the false prophet's followers.

  But in the time he'd spent with Halt and Will, he'd learned repeatedly how valuable an ally surprise could be in a fight. Reluctantly, he decided that what Halt said made good sense.

  The two Rangers remounted and they set off again, following the trail with renewed purpose. The knowledge that they had narrowed the gap between them and Tennyson to less than a day urged them on. They scanned the horizon before them with extra caution, looking for the first sign that they had caught up with their quarry.

  Will spotted him first.

  'Halt!' he said. He had the good sense not to point in the direction he was looking. He knew Halt would follow his gaze and if he were to point, he would alert his quarry to the fact that he had been seen.

  'On the skyline,' he said quietly. 'To the right of that forked tree. Don't do that, Horace!'

  He had seen his friend's hand begin to move and instinctively, he knew Horace was planning to shade his eyes as he gazed at the figure. Horace changed the gesture at the last minute and pretended to scratch the back of his neck. At the same time, Halt dismounted and inspected Abelard's left front hoof. That way, whoever it was wouldn't think they had stopped because he had been spotted.

  'Can't see anything,' Halt told him. 'What is it?'

  'A rider. Watching us,' Will told him. Halt glanced sideways at the hill without moving his head. He could vaguely make out what might have been the shape of a man and a horse. He was grateful for Will's keen young eyes.

  Will reached down and unslung his water canteen from the pommel of his saddle. But he managed to do it without losing sight of the figure. He raised the water bottle to his lips, still watching. Then there was a brief flash of movement and the rider wheeled his horse and disappeared from the skyline.

  'All right,' he said. 'You can relax. He's gone.'

  Halt released Abelard's hoof and remounted. His stiff muscles and joints seemed to groan as he did so.

  'You recognise him?' he asked.

  Will shook his head. 'Too far to make out details. Except . . .'

  'Except what?' Halt asked.

  'When he turned away, I thought I caught a flash of purple.'

  Purple, Horace thought. The colour worn by the Genovesan assassins. So maybe, he said to himself, we might have just lost the element of surprise.

  Sixteen

  Conditions had improved in the Outsiders' camp since the raid on the Scotti farm. As the band moved south through Araluen, Tennyson had continued to send parties out to raid isolated farms that they passed. They brought back not just food, but also equipment to make their camp more comfortable – canvas, timber and rope to make tents, and furs and blankets to keep out the chill of the cold northern nights.

  In the last raid, they had also chanced upon four horses. They were sorry animals, but at least now Tennyson and the two Genovesans could ride instead of walking. The fourth horse he needed for another purpose. Now, as he sat in the relative comfort of his tent, he explained it to the young man he had chosen to be its rider.

  'Dirkin, I want you to ride on ahead.' he said. 'Take one of the horses and make your way to this village.'

  He indicated a spot on a roughly drawn map of the north-east.

  'Willey's Flat,' the young man said, reading the name of the spot Tennyson had indicated.

  'Exactly. It's just beyond this range of cliffs, a little to the south of them. Look for a man named Barrett.'

  'Who is he?' the messenger asked. Normally, Tennyson didn't encourage his followers to question orders but on this occasion it would help if the young man knew why he needed to make contact with Barrett.

  'He's the leader of a local chapter of our people. He's been recruiting converts in this area for the last few months. I want you to tell him to gather however many followers he's managed to convert and we'll rendezvous at a camp site near the cliffs.'

  Always planning to gain a foothold in Araluen once more, Tennyson had sent two groups of followers to establish the cult in remote areas, well away from the eyes of officialdom. One had been at Selsey, the fishing village on the west coast. The second had been here, in the wild north-eastern part of the Kingdom. The last message he'd had from Barrett had indicated that he'd managed to convert, or rather recruit, around a hundred followers to the religion. It wasn't a lot but Barrett wasn't an inspiring figure. And one hundred followers was a start, at least. They'd provide the gold and jewellery Tennyson would need to start up again.

  The young man looked with interest at the map.

  'I thought we were the only group,' he said. Tennyson's brows came together angrily.

  'Then you thought wrong,' he told him. 'A wise man always has something in reserve in case things don't go according to plan. Now get going.'

  Dirkin shrugged the implied rebuke aside and stood to leave. 'But it'll probably take a few days for this Barrett character to get the people assembled.'

  'Which is why I'm sending you on ahead,' Tennyson told him, a sarcastic note creeping into his voice. 'But if you plan to stand around talking about it, I might have to find someone else for the job.'

  Dirkin heard the tone and capitulated. Truth be told, he'd be happy to ride on ahead. He stuffed the map inside the breast of his jacket and turned towards the entrance of the tent.

  'I'm on my way,' he said. Tennyson's angry grunt was the only response.

  Dirkin headed for the entrance and was forced to step back as another figure entered hurriedly, bumping into him. An angry complaint rose to the young man's lips and then he bit it off as he recognised the newcomer. It was one of the Genovesan assassins whom Tennyson had retained as bodyguards. They were not people to insult or annoy, Dirkin knew. Hastily, he mumbled an apology and scuttled round the purple-cloaked figure, leaving the tent as quickly as he could.

  Marisi curled his lip in contempt as he glanced after the young man. He was well aware that many of the foreigners avoided him and his compatriot. Tennyson glanced up at him now, frowning slightly. Since they had acquired the horses, the two Genovesans had begun to check their trail every few days, to be sure nobody was following them. It was a routine measure that Tennyson had insisted on and so far, there had been nothing to report. But now that Marisi was here, Tennyson suspec
ted there was bad news. Bacari, the senior of the two, only reported when the news was good.

  'What is it?' Tennyson demanded.

  'We're being followed,' Marisi replied, with that inevitable, infuriating shrug of the shoulders.

  Tennyson slammed his fist down on the small folding table they'd stolen from a farmhouse some days ago.

  'Damn! I knew things were going too smoothly. How many of them are there?'

  'Three,' the Genovesan told him and his spirits rose a little. Three people following them was nothing to be concerned about. But the assassin's next words changed his mind.

  'They're the three from Hibernia. The two cloaked archers and the knight.'

  Tennyson came out of his chair with the shock of the news. It tumbled over backwards onto the grass but he didn't notice.

  'Them?' he shouted. 'What are they doing here? How the devil did they get here?'

  Again, the Genovesan shrugged. How they got here was immaterial. They were here and they were following behind the small band of Outsiders. And they were dangerous. That much he already knew. He waited for the self-styled prophet to continue.

  Tennyson's mind raced. The smuggler! He must have told them. Of course, they would have bribed him and he would have taken their money and betrayed the Outsiders.

  He began to pace up and down the restricted space inside the makeshift tent. This was bad news. He needed to gather the faithful at Willey's Flat. He needed the gold and jewellery he'd get there. And he'd be delayed while they came in from their outlying farms. He couldn't take the risk that the three Araluans might catch up with him.

  'How far back are they?' he asked. He should have asked that immediately, he thought.

  Marisi curled his lip thoughtfully. 'Not far. A day, at most.'

  Tennyson considered the answer, then came to a decision. A day was not enough of a lead. Particularly when he was held down to walking pace. He looked up at the assassin.

  'You'll have to get rid of them,' he said abruptly.

  Marisi's eyebrows went up in surprise. 'Get rid of them,' he repeated.

  Tennyson leaned across the little table, his fists planted on the rough wood.

  'That's right! That's what you people do, isn't it? Get rid of them. You and your friend. Kill them. Use those crossbows you're so proud of and make sure they stop following us.'

  Damn them, he thought. Those cowled archers and their muscular friend had been nothing but trouble for him. Now, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to know they were dead.

  Marisi had been considering his order. He nodded thoughtfully. 'There's a good spot where we can ambush them. We'll have to go back and lay a trail for them to follow. But of course . . .' He paused meaningfully.

  For a few seconds Tennyson didn't register the fact, then he snarled, 'Of course what?'

  'They're dangerous enemies, and our contract said nothing about "getting rid of " people like them.'

  The implication was obvious. Tennyson breathed heavily, controlling his rising anger. He needed these two men, no matter how much they infuriated him.

  'I'll pay you extra,' he said, his teeth gritted.

  Marisi smiled and held out a hand. 'Now? You'll pay now?'

  But Tennyson shook his head violently. He wasn't going to capitulate quite so far as that.

  'When you've done the job,' he said. 'I'll pay you then. Not before.'

  Marisi shrugged again. He hadn't really expected that the heavy-set preacher would agree to paying in advance, but it had been worth a try.

  'You'll pay later,' he said. 'We'll arrange a fee. But . . . if you pay later, you pay more.'

  Tennyson swept that fact aside carelessly with one hand. 'That's fine. Tell Bacari to come and see me and we'll agree on a payment.' He paused, then added, for emphasis, 'Later.'

  After all, he thought, with any luck, they might all kill each other and save him the extra payment.

  Seventeen

  'We'll have to assume he saw us,' Halt said as they rode on. They had been riding in single file but now Horace and Will pushed their horses up beside Halt so they could confer more easily.

  'But did he recognise us?' Will said. 'After all, we're a long way away and we could be just three riders.'

  Halt turned slightly in the saddle to look at his former pupil. What Will said was correct. Yet Halt hadn't lived as long as he had by taking chances and assuming that his enemies might make mistakes.

  'If he saw us, we also have to assume that he recognised us.'

  'After all,' Horace chipped in, 'when you two aren't skulking in the bushes, you're pretty recognisable. There aren't a lot of people riding around the countryside carrying great big longbows and wearing cowled cloaks.'

  'Thank you for pointing that out,' Halt said dryly. 'But in fact, you're right. And the Genovesans are no fools. Now Tennyson will know we're behind him.'

  He paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully as he pondered the situation.

  'The question is,' he said, more to himself than to the others, 'what to do next?'

  'Should we drop back a little?' Will suggested. 'If we drop out of sight, Tennyson might assume that the Genovesan was mistaken and we just happened to be three riders with no interest in him?'

  'No. I don't think so. That's hoping for too much. And if we drop back, we give him more time to give us the slip. I think we should do the opposite. Push up on him.'

  'He'll know we're here,' Horace said.

  Halt nodded at him. 'He knows we're here anyway. So let's push him. Let's make him feel crowded. That way he'll have to keep moving, and a moving target is easier to see than a concealed one.' He came to a decision and added, in a positive tone: 'We'll put pressure on him. People under pressure make mistakes and that could work for us.'

  'Of course . . .' Horace began, then hesitated. Halt gestured for him to go ahead. 'Well, I was thinking, we'll be under pressure too, won't we? What if we make the mistake?'

  Halt regarded him for several seconds without speaking. Then he turned to Will. 'He's a regular ray of sunshine, isn't he?'

  They continued in silence for a few minutes. They were working their way up a long uphill slope to the point where they had seen the Genovesan on the skyline. They still had about a hundred metres to go to reach the crest when Halt held up his hand to signal the others to stop.

  'On the other hand,' he said, in a quiet voice, 'Horace has a good point. The Genovesans are assassins and one of their favourite techniques is ambush. It occurs to me that it might not be a good idea to go romping over that next crest assuming that there's nothing to be concerned about.'

  'You think he's waiting for us?' Will said, his eyes scanning the crest.

  'I think he could be. So from now on, we don't go over any crests without scouting the land ahead of us.'

  He made a move to swing down from the saddle but Will forestalled him, dropping lightly to the trail.

  'I'll do it,' he said.

  Halt made as if to argue, then closed his mouth. His natural preference was always to keep Will out of harm's way, but he realised that he had to let the young man take his share of the danger.

  'Don't take any chances,' he said. Tug echoed the thought with a low rumble from his barrel of a chest. Will grinned at them both.

  'Don't be such a pair of old grannies,' he said. Then he slipped off into the shoulder-high gorse that lined the track. Bent double, he suddenly disappeared from sight. Horace made a slight sound of surprise.

  Halt looked at him. 'What is it?'

  Horace gestured at the rolling clumps of coarse bush that covered the hillside. There was no sign of Will, no sign of anything moving in the bushes, other than the wind.

  'It doesn't matter how often I see him do that, it still spooks me every time. It's uncanny.'

  'Yes,' said Halt, his eyes scanning the hillside above them. 'I suppose it would. He's very good at it. Of course,' he added modestly, 'I taught him all he knows. I'm regarded as the expert on unseen movement in t
he Ranger Corps.'

  Horace frowned. 'I thought Gilan was the real expert?' he said. 'Will once told me he learned all the finer points from Gilan.'

  'Oh really?' Halt said, with a hint of frost in his voice. 'And just who do you think taught Gilan?'

  That hadn't occurred to Horace. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that his tongue wouldn't run so many metres in advance of his brain.

  'Oh . . . yes. You did, I suppose,' he said and Halt bowed slightly in the saddle.

  'Exactly,' Halt said, with great dignity.

  'So can you see where he is at the moment?' Horace asked curiously. He wondered if it worked that way. If you taught someone how to move without being seen and you knew all their tricks, could you see them? Or were they invisible even to the person who taught them?

  'Naturally,' Halt replied. 'He's up there.'

  Horace followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw Will standing erect at the crest of the hill. A few seconds later, they heard his signal whistle and he waved for them to come forward.

  'Well, now you can see him,' said Horace. 'I can see him now! But could you see him before he stood up?'

  'Of course I could, Horace. How could you doubt me?' Halt said. Then he urged Abelard forward, gesturing for Tug to follow. His face was hidden from Horace as he went ahead, so the young warrior never saw the smile that creased it.