Ranger's Apprentice 9 Halt's Peril

by John Flanagan

  'I'll be fine,' the young warrior said, his face set in tight lines. Then he relaxed and grinned ruefully. 'Well, maybe not fine,' he admitted. 'But I'll manage.'

  Holding his sword in one hand, he reached into his jacket for the canvas packet, then ducked down and shuffled forward into the tunnel.

  After the brief period in the dim light of the cavern, the darkness of the tunnel seemed overwhelming once more. He reached up with his scabbarded sword, tracing the roof line above him. Then, as it receded out of reach, he stood slowly erect. Once again, he felt the terrifying sensation of blindness, the feeling that his world had been reduced to his own personal space, with nothing beyond it. The fear that his eyes no longer functioned. His heart began thumping more rapidly once again and he flipped back the cover on the luminous moss, seeing that wonderful little glow of light nestled in the palm of his hand. Behind him, he heard Malcolm shuffling along the tunnel.

  Calmed by the little light source, Horace continued down the tunnel, moving with greater assurance now that the darkness wasn't total. He glanced up several times but the dim glow from the moss wasn't sufficient to reach the ceiling high above him. It was swallowed by the blackness. Rounding another twist in the tunnel, be became aware of a dim grey light ahead. Quickly, he covered the moss and made his way round one last corner of rock. Light seemed to pour in from the large cavern as he approached the end of the tunnel, where Will and Halt crouched, surveying the scene before them.

  As Will had told them, the cavern was the size of a small cathedral, with a high, soaring roof that disappeared into the darkness above it. The far end of the high cavern was a blaze of light, where torches and candles were set in brackets. In the middle of the floor was a vast fireplace and the leaping flames from this cast shadows on the walls. Beyond the fire, and lit by what appeared to be scores of torches and candles, was an altar. It was the usual Outsiders' altar, built in gold and silver and decorated with precious gems. Yet if this one ran true to form, the gold was a thin veneer over wood and the silver and gems were fake. The real items would be safely stowed in Tennyson's packs.

  Tennyson was in full flight, arms thrown wide, as he delivered an impassioned appeal to the assembly.

  'Alseiass loves you!' he intoned. 'Alseiass wants to bring light and joy and happiness into your lives.'

  'Praise Alseiass!' the congregation cried.

  'You say the words!' Tennyson told them. 'But are your hearts sincere? For Alseiass only hears prayers from those who believe. Do you truly believe?'

  'Yes!' the crowd replied.

  Malcolm, his mouth close to Horace's ear, whispered, 'More to the point, do people really fall for this claptrap?'

  Horace nodded. 'It never ceases to amaze me how gullible people can be.'

  'There's danger in this land!' Tennyson continued. His voice now was full of foreboding. 'Danger and death and destruction. Who can save you from this danger?'

  'Alseiass!' the crowd roared. Tennyson threw his head back now and looked up above them all, into the dark recesses of the ceiling of the cavern.

  'Show us a sign!' he asked. 'Show us a sign, Golden Alseiass, god of light, that you hear the voices of these people before you!'

  Malcolm eased forward a little to get a better view. He had spent years devising signs and manifestations in the depths of Grimsdell Wood – signs such as the one Tennyson was now asking for from his nonexistent god.

  'This ought to be good,' he said, to no one in particular.

  Forty-nine

  Watching the fake preacher, Will noticed that, as he called for Alseiass to show a sign to the congregation, he glanced up at the jumble of rocks at the rear of the cavern – to a spot some twenty metres from the tunnel entrance where Will and the others crouched, concealed by the shadows.

  Following the direction of his eyes now, Will saw a flicker of movement. Then there was the dull gleam of reflected light among the rocks and he made out the figure of a man there, hidden by the rocks from the worshippers below him.

  He nudged Halt and pointed. As the older Ranger looked, a sudden ball of light seemed to sweep across the cavern's walls behind the altar where Tennyson was standing. There was a quick, collective gasp of surprise from those among the crowd who had noticed it, then a low buzz of excited conversation.

  Then the flash of light travelled across the cavern again, this time in the opposite direction. As it reached a spot behind Tennyson, it described three flashing circles, then darted away again and disappeared. This time, alerted, more of the crowd saw it and there was a louder reaction. Tennyson let it die down a little, then raised his voice to speak over the excited muttering.

  'Alseiass is the god of light and enlightenment!' he intoned. 'His light of mercy can be seen even in the darkest reaches of the earth. Do you see his light?'

  Led by the white robes, the crowd took up the cry again. 'Praise to Alseiass! Praise the god of light!'

  Halt beckoned Will closer and put his mouth near Will's ear to speak.

  'He's got a helper up there with a mirror and a lantern,' he whispered. 'He's reflecting the lantern light on the walls.'

  Will shook his head. 'Pretty basic trick,' he commented. But Halt shrugged.

  'It's working. They can all "see the light".' He gestured to the pile of rocks where the man sheltered. 'Get up there and take care of him. Quietly.'

  Will started to move away, then he hesitated and turned back. 'You want me to knock him out?'

  Halt answered brusquely, wondering what the delay was about. 'No. I want you to invite him to dinner. Of course I want you to knock him out! Use your strikers.'

  Will shrugged unhappily. 'I don't have them. Lend me yours?'

  Halt couldn't believe his ears. He hissed angrily at Will, alarming Horace and Malcolm, who were sure he would be overheard.

  'What do you mean you don't have them? They're part of your kit, for god's sake!' He couldn't believe that Will, a fully qualified Ranger, could be so undisciplined as to forget his strikers. Young people, he thought, shaking his head. What was the world coming to?

  'I lost them,' Will said. He didn't add that he had lost them trying to capture Bacari alive, in order to save Halt's life. But he thought the older Ranger was being unduly harsh under the circumstances.

  'You lost them? You lost them?' Halt repeated. 'D'you think we issue valuable equipment so you can just lose it?'

  Will shook his head. 'No. But I . . .'

  He didn't get any further. Horace interrupted their discussion, an incredulous look on his face.

  'Will you two stop blithering on?' he demanded in a fierce whisper. 'Any minute now, someone will hear you and the fat will really be in the fire!'

  Halt glared at him for a moment, then realised he was right. He thrust his hand into an inside pocket and retrieved one of his own strikers, which he shoved into Will's hand.

  'Here. Take this! And don't lose it!'

  On the altar, Tennyson was again exhorting the crowd to call upon Alseiass to show them another sign. There was a quick flash of light across the cave, followed by more cries of surprise and wonder. Watching carefully, Halt could see Will's dark shape climbing the rock pile, seeming to flow upwards across the jumble of boulders like a giant spider. He reached the spot where Tennyson's helper crouched with his lantern and mirror and paused, concealed from the man, a metre or so below his hiding place.

  'Show us your light again, Alseiass!' Tennyson cried. 'Let these people know they are worthy of you!'

  Halt saw the crouching figure at the lantern move slightly, preparing to send another flash of light across the cavern. Then Will rose behind him. The young Ranger's arm went up, then down, as he crashed the brass striker into the man's head, behind the ear. Tennyson's disciple slumped forward without a sound. Will turned to Halt and gave him a thumbs up. Halt waved acknowledgement, then gestured for Will to remain where he was. It was a good tactical position, with a clear overview of the cavern, but concealed from those below him.

&nbs
p; 'Alseiass!' Tennyson called, a little louder and with a slight edge to his voice. 'Let us see your light!'

  Hidden among the rocks, Will raised the polished metal mirror the man had been using as a reflector and pointed to it, looking interrogatively at Halt. Did the senior Ranger want him to send light flashing across the cavern, the gesture said. Halt shook his head. He had another idea in mind and this seemed to be a perfect opportunity to put it into effect.

  'Alseiass! We need to see your light!' Tennyson called. It was more of a command than a prayer, Halt thought. The people in the congregation were beginning to look restless.

  Halt leaned close to Malcolm and indicated a large boulder a few metres away on their left.

  'I'm going to move over to that boulder,' he said. 'When I call out to Tennyson, lob one of your mudballs in front of me.' Malcolm nodded his understanding. He crouched, gingerly set the wooden case down and opened the lid. Halt slid through the shadows to the boulder he had indicated. Malcolm took one of the balls out of the case, closed the lid and stood upright again. He made eye contact with Halt and the Ranger nodded to him. Malcolm saw Halt discard his cloak and don the leather circlet that Horace had made up – a replica of the simple crown of Clonmel. Using his fingers, he roughly combed his hair to either side, parting it in the middle and holding it in place with the leather loop.

  Malcolm readied the ball for an underarm toss. At that moment, Tennyson chose to implore Alseiass once more.

  'Alseiass! Show us a sign, we beg you!'

  Halt took a deep breath, then shouted in a voice that rang through the cavern, waking the echoes.

  'Tennyson! Tennyson! You are a fake and a liar!'

  Heads turned, seeking the source of the words. As they did, Malcolm tossed the ball underarm, lobbing it high in the air to land on the spot just in front of Halt. The sand covering the cavern floor was relatively soft. But the ball came down from a considerable height and, as Malcolm had pointed out, it was extremely volatile.

  There was a loud BANG! followed by a giant cloud of yellow-brown smoke. A trickle of sand and pebbles, loosened by the vibrations set up by the explosion, slithered down from the ceiling of the cave.

  Then Halt stepped forward, passing through the cloud, and people gasped as he appeared to materialise out of the smoke.

  'Tennyson! Your god is false. And you are a liar!'

  Tennyson was completely startled by this turn of events. He peered through the smoky interior of the cavern to see the slight figure standing at the rear of the cave. He took in the hair, parted in the middle, held back from the face by the simple leather circlet, and the neatly trimmed beard. Suddenly, with a rush of fear, he knew who this was.

  'You!' he cried, before he could stop himself. 'But you're dead! I k–' He stopped, just a little too late.

  'You killed me?' said the figure. 'Yes, you did. But I've come back. And I want my revenge.'

  'No!' Tennyson cried, holding up one hand as if to ward off the apparition before him. Taken by surprise, he was completely unnerved by the sight of the man he had believed dead. He knew to be dead.

  'Say my name, Tennyson. Say my name and I may spare you,' Halt demanded.

  'It can't be you!' Tennyson shouted. But the doubt was obvious in his voice. Aside from one brief meeting, he had never seen Halt at close quarters and then the Ranger's hair and beard had been long and unkempt. But he knew Ferris when he saw him, and the voice, with its distinctive Hibernian accent, was instantly recognisable. And he knew Ferris was dead. The Genovesan assassin had assured him of the fact. He had shot Ferris from behind, with a poisoned crossbow bolt. There was no possibility that the King could have survived. Yet here he was, calling for revenge. And there was only one way that could have happened. Ferris had returned from beyond the grave.

  Halt moved forward, forcing his way through the assembled worshippers. They moved back from him, clearing a path, as they sensed Tennyson's uncertainty and fear.

  'Say my name!' Halt demanded. As he advanced, Tennyson drew back a few paces. He glanced desperately to one of his white robes, a heavily built thug armed with a spiked mace.

  'Stop him!' he cried, his voice breaking in fear.

  His henchman started forward, the mace rising in his right hand. Then his face contorted with pain as his right leg collapsed underneath him. The weapon dropped from his hand as he fell awkwardly to the sand, clutching at the arrow that had suddenly appeared in his thigh.

  'Good boy, Will,' Halt muttered to himself. The people around him whispered fearfully and drew back further. In the dim light of the cavern, none of them had seen the arrow in flight. And only a few of them could see it now. All they knew was that the white robe had suddenly been struck down in agony. Tennyson saw the arrow and now he knew a new fear. The next could well be aimed at him, he knew. And he knew that those mysterious cloaked archers who had dogged his steps from Dun Kilty and through Celtica very rarely missed what they aimed at.

  'Ferris?' he said, uncertainly, 'Please . . . I didn't . . .'

  Whatever he was about to say, he didn't get the chance to finish. Halt stopped and threw his arms wide.

  'You want to stop me, Tennyson? Then ask Alseiass to do it. I'm a ghost. He's a god. Surely he outranks me?' His voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'So come on! Let's ask Alseiass to stop me in my tracks. Ask him to smite me with lightning! Go ahead!'

  Tennyson could do no such thing, of course. He hesitated, looking to his white robes. But they weren't eager to come forward, having seen their companion struck down by an arrow out of the darkness. In addition, those who had followed Tennyson from Hibernia had seen Ferris before, and surely this was him, standing before them in the cavern, challenging Tennyson.

  'You won't ask him?' Halt said. 'Well, I'll do it for you! Come on, Alseiass! You're a fake and a fraud and you don't exist! Prove me wrong and strike me down!'

  A frightened ripple ran through the crowd and those nearest Halt shrank back further, half fearful that Alseiass might in fact strike him with a bolt of lightning. But, as nothing happened, as there was no answer to his blasphemous challenge, they began to look suspiciously towards the prophet who had come among them preaching the word of Alseiass.

  They began to mutter among themselves. The atmosphere in the cavern was suddenly thick with suspicion. Sensing that the moment was right, Halt addressed them directly now, turning his back on the heavy-set figure on the altar.

  'If Alseiass is real, let him strike me now! Let him show his power. Tennyson has told you that Alseiass can protect you from the bandits who are attacking your homes and villages. How can he do that if he can't even answer a simple challenge like this?' He looked up at the roof of the cavern. 'Come on, Alseiass! Let's hear from you! Strike me down! Flash your light at me! Do something! Anything!'

  An expectant hush fell over the people in the cavern. They waited, but nothing happened. Finally, Halt shook his head and looked around the people watching him. He dropped the thick Hibernian brogue he had been using and spoke in his normal voice.

  'People of Araluen, you've seen for yourself that this so-called god has no real power. That's because he isn't a real god. He's a fake. And that man,' he said, jerking a thumb in Tennyson's direction, 'is a fraud and a thief and a murderer. He murdered the King of Hibernia, King Ferris, who, coincidentally, looks a lot like me. You heard him call me Ferris. You saw how terrified he was when he thought that I was Ferris, back from the grave. Why would he feel that way if he hadn't been the one who killed Ferris?'

  Tennyson, who had been cowering before what he believed to be a ghost, slowly drew himself up, leaning forward to look more closely, realising finally that he had been tricked. He could see that Halt's words were reaching the people gathered in the cavern, slowly turning them against him.

  'He's told you that he's here to protect you from the bandits who are raiding in this area. He hasn't told you that those bandits are actually working hand in glove with him. And he's asked you for gold and jewellery to build hi
s altar, hasn't he?'

  He looked at the faces around him. Heads nodded in confirmation. Then the confusion and doubt on their faces slowly began to give way to suspicion and anger.

  'Take a closer look at that altar and you'll find it's plain wood, coated with a thin layer of gold. And the jewels are fake. The real gold and jewels are in Tennyson's saddle bags, ready for the day when he and his friends slip away with them.'

  'He's lying!' Tennyson suddenly found his voice. The stranger had admitted that he was no ghost and Tennyson's confidence began to return. He knew he could sway a mob when it came to a contest of words. After all, this person was a nobody, a nonentity.

  'He's lying! Alseiass has protected you! You know that! Now this stranger comes among you and blasphemes the god and accuses me. You know me. You know Alseiass. But who is he? A stranger. A wanderer. A vagabond!'

  'A King's Ranger,' Halt interrupted and there was a further buzz of interest from the crowd.

  He reached into his shirt and pulled out the silver Oakleaf on its chain, showing it to the people closest to him. They craned forward to look and then confirmed the fact to those further away.

  Tennyson watched the reaction, puzzled. But this wasn't Hibernia, where Rangers were unknown and had no status. This was Araluen, where everyone knew of the Ranger Corps. In Araluen, some people might be nervous around Rangers. But everyone respected them and knew they were the principal protectors of the King's peace.