Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Map of Araluen, Picta and Celtica
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Epilogue
Sneak Preview
About the Author
Also by John Flanagan
Copyright
Book One: The Ruins of Gorlan
Book Two: The Burning Bridge
Book Three: The Icebound Land
Book Four: Oakleaf Bearers
Book Five: The Sorcerer in the North
Book Six: The Siege of Macindaw
Book Seven: Erak’s Ransom
Book Eight: The Kings of Clonmel
Book Nine: Halt’s Peril
Book Ten: The Emperor of Nihon-Ja
Book Eleven: The Lost Stories
Book Twelve: The Royal Ranger
Book One: The Tournament at Gorlan
Book One: The Outcasts
Book Two: The Invaders
Book Three: The Hunters
Book Four: Slaves of Socorro
Book Five: Scorpion Mountain
THE TOURNAMENT AT GORLAN
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19568 8
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2015
Copyright © John Flanagan, 2015
Cover illustrations copyright © Shane Rebenschied, 2015
Cover design by Tony Sahara
First Published in Great Britain
Corgi Yearling 9780440870821 2015
The right of John Flanagan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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THE EVENTS DESCRIBED in this book follow directly from the short story ‘The Hibernian’, published in Book 11 of the Ranger’s Apprentice series, The Lost Stories.
For those who have not read ‘The Hibernian’, it describes how Halt and Crowley first met as younger men when Halt came to the Kingdom of Araluen as a fugitive from his homeland of Hibernia. Halt was the rightful heir to the throne of Clonmel, but his younger twin brother attempted to kill him and seize the throne. Saddened and embittered by his brother’s behaviour, but unwilling to fight his own flesh and blood, Halt chose instead to leave Hibernia behind.
He arrives in Araluen at a time when Morgarath, Baron of Gorlan Fief and the Kingdom’s foremost knight, is engaged upon a carefully planned attempt to seize power. One of his first steps is to weaken and destroy the Ranger Corps, an elite special forces unit who are the eyes and ears of the Kingdom and the most powerful group supporting the existing King. Over a period of several years, Morgarath has organised for the more senior Rangers to be falsely accused of crimes and forced to abandon their posts or flee the country. He has replaced them with his own sycophants and toadies.
Morgarath is an influential figure and has gained King Oswald’s confidence, convincing him that his son, Prince Duncan, is too inexperienced to rule. Prince Duncan has been posted to a fief in the far north-east of the Kingdom.
Crowley, a recently commissioned Ranger, trained in the traditional skills by an old Ranger named Pritchard, is disillusioned by Morgarath’s scheming. Shortly after he meets Halt, he decides to reform the Ranger Corps. He plans to recruit the few remaining members of the original group and seek a royal warrant from Prince Duncan. Crowley discovers that, like himself, Halt has been trained by Pritchard, one of the first of the Rangers to be driven out of the Kingdom by Morgarath. This seals their friendship. The bond between them is reinforced when Halt joins Crowley to fight off an attack by half a dozen of Morgarath’s soldiers.
With Morgarath’s men hot on their heels, Halt decides to join Crowley in his search for Prince Duncan. Together, they set off on their quest, with the ever-present threat of Morgarath’s enmity behind them.
IT HAD BEEN raining for days.
Not heavy rain, but a steady, persistent, soaking rain that finally overcame the protective oil in their woollen cloaks and worked its way into the fabric itself, making it heavy and sodden.
And cold.
As they had done for the previous few nights, Halt and Crowley were camping out in the woods. Halt had suggested that they should avoid towns and villages until they were sure they were clear of Morgarath’s sphere of influence and Crowley had initially agreed. Halt, after all, had more experience of travelling as a fugitive than he did. Now, however, he wasn’t quite so sure about the decision.
They were sitting under a rectangular oilskin sheet that they had spread between four trees, with the lower side angled so that the rain would run off it. The ground beneath them was saturated and they had constructed low cots from tree branches to keep them off the wet earth. Each cot consisted of a rectangular frame, with a series of short crosspieces, and leafy boughs laid across it to form a rough mattress. Each day, they would disassemble the frames and carry the longer timber pieces with them, lashed in a bundle.
A few metres away, their horses were tethered. The animals huddled together, sharing their body warmth and keeping their hindquarters turned to the wind and rain.
Halt shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. As he moved, a runnel of water ran off the cowl and landed on his nose, continuing its downward passage to drip off the end. Seeing it, Crowley laughed.
Halt turned an accusing eye on him. ‘What do you find so amusing?’ he asked coldly.
Crowley, also huddled inside his cloak, nodded his head towards his friend. ‘You sitting there, hunched over and dripping, like an old man with a runny nose,’ he said. Unfortunately, the shrugging movement dislodged a stream of water from his own cowl and the drops ran down his nose. He sniffed, the smile dying on his face.
‘You find it amusing that I’m soaked to the skin and dying of cold?’ Halt asked.
Crowley made as if to shrug, then realised that such a movement would send more water running, and restrained himself. ‘Not amusing, perhaps. But certainly diverting.’
Halt turned, very carefully, to face him. ‘And from what does this sight divert you?’ he asked, with careful attention to his grammar. When Halt was in a bad mood, he invariably paid careful attention to his grammar.
‘From the fact that I’m also sitting here with water running off my nose, cold, wet and miserable,’ Crowley said.
Halt considered that. ‘You’re uncomfortable?’
Crowley nodded, sending more water cascading. ‘Totally,’ he said.
‘Some Ranger you turned out to be,’ Halt told him. ‘I thought Rangers could face the worst discomfort in the line of duty with a smile on their lips and a song in their heart. I didn’t realise they would sit around whining and complaining.’
‘Facing discomfort doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to whine and complain about it. Besides, only a few minutes ago, I was laughing and cheerful.’ Crowley shivered, and pulled his cloak tighter. More water ran off it. ‘These cloaks are good up to a point. But once the water has soaked into them, they’re worse than nothing.’
‘If you were sitting here wrapped in nothing you’d soon see the difference,’ Halt replied. Crowley grunted, and a brief silence fell over the camp site, broken only by the persistent patter of rain on the leaves and the occasional stomp of one of the horses’ hooves.
They were faced with another cold supper. The air was so moisture laden that getting a spark to take from Halt’s flint and steel to ignite a handful of tinder would be beyond his capabilities. And even if he could manage that, there was no dry firewood. Usually, they travelled with an emergency supply of tinder and kindling, but they had run out of both two days previously.
Pity, Halt thought. Even a small fire would have provided some warmth, and the flames would have given them a psychological boost as well. He reached for the pack on the cot beside him and found a piece of beef jerky. He bit some off and began to chew methodically, his jaws working on the tough, flinty meat. Maybe the exercise of chewing the jerky would warm him, he thought. The meat was certainly tough enough to require considerable effort from his jaws. Slowly, the smoked meat flavour began to release from the jerky and fill his mouth. Then, of course, he realised how very hungry he really was, and how little opportunity he would have to relieve that hunger.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Being cold and hungry was miserable. Being wet was equally so. Being all three was well nigh unbearable.
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ Crowley began, leaving the sentence hanging for a few seconds.
Halt shook his head. ‘And here am I without pen or parchment to record this momentous event.’
Crowley raised an eyebrow in his direction. At least, he thought, that didn’t send water cascading down his face. He raised his other eyebrow as well, just to make sure. No cascade, so he relaxed them both.
‘I think we might have crossed the border out of Gorlan Fief,’ he continued. Halt grunted, a noncommittal sound.
Crowley took that as a signal to expound on his theory. ‘That river we crossed late this afternoon, I think that might have been the Crowsfoot River, and that’s the border between Gorlan and Keramon Fiefs.’
‘Equally,’ said Halt, ‘it might have been the Salmon River, and as I recall from the map, that’s still kilometres inside Gorlan.’
But Crowley shook his head. ‘The Salmon is much narrower – much faster running. And it’s further west, closer to Redmont. So unless our navigation is well off the mark, we wouldn’t have come close to it.’
‘Well, you were the one doing the navigating,’ Halt said.
Crowley gave him a hurt look. ‘My map reading and sense of direction aren’t wonderful. But I’m rarely twenty or thirty kilometres offline.’
‘Rarely, of course, implies that sometimes you are,’ Halt pointed out. But Crowley stuck to his point.
‘Not this time. And as I say, the Salmon is narrower and faster running.’
Halt decided to concede. ‘So, if you are right, what point are you making?’
Crowley shifted as cold water ran down inside his cloak. Halt was right, he thought, it might feel miserable sitting huddled in a soaking cloak, but at least it still kept most of the water out – and it did allow some body heat to be retained, damp as it might be.
‘My point is, if we’ve moved out of Gorlan Fief, we might be able to look for an inn in a village and spend a few nights.’
‘You think Morgarath would stop at the border between the two fiefs?’ asked Halt.
Crowley stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Perhaps not Morgarath himself,’ he admitted. ‘But if he had sent some of his men after us – and we don’t even know for sure that he has – they might well decide to turn back once they reached the limits of the fief. Particularly in this sort of weather. They won’t be enjoying it any more than we are.’
‘It’s possible,’ Halt said. ‘So do you have a village in mind?’
Crowley nodded. He’d been studying the map before the light failed. ‘There’s a village called Woolsey,’ he said. ‘I’d guess it’s about ten kilometres away and a little off the beaten track. It’s big enough to have a tavern or an inn. And if it doesn’t, we could always look for lodgings with one of the villagers.’
Halt said nothing, considering the idea. Then a problem occurred to Crowley.
‘Of course, we’d need money,’ he said. ‘Usually when I’m travelling, I pay with a chit that can be reclaimed from the Corps. But I can hardly do that now.’
Since their confrontation with Morgarath, and the fight with his men, they had decided that Crowley should relinquish his identity as a Ranger. Morgarath’s men would be looking for a member of the Corps. So far, Morgarath was probably unaware that Halt had joined Crowley. To this end, Crowley had set aside his mottled Ranger cloak and was wearing a simple wool cloak in a dark grey colour. Halt’s cloak was a forest green. Both colours were adequate for concealment, and not as instantly recognisable as Ranger cloaks.
‘I have money,’ Halt said, and Crowley looked at him with relief. ‘But it’s Hibernian. I’m not sure if innkeepers here will accept it.’
‘Is it gold?’ Crowley asked and, when Halt nodded, he continued. ‘They’ll accept it.’
‘Well then,’ Halt said, ‘tomorrow we’ll head for Woolsey village. It’ll give us a chance to dry out our clothes and our gear. And the horses will benefit from spending a couple of nights in a stable.’
‘Or even a week?’ Crowley suggested optimistically.
Halt turned a baleful eye on him, peering at him through the multiple drips of water that were now running from his cowl.
Crowley shrugged. ‘A couple of nights is good.’
‘Let’s turn in,’ Halt said, yawning. It had been a long day and the thought of a dry bed on the morrow was an attractive one. He lay down carefully and, shivering slightly, wrapped the soaking wet cloak around him, pulling the cowl high up over his head. A gust of wind shook the tarpaulin above them and water cascaded down on three sides. He shivered again.
‘To blazes with Morgarath’s men,’ Halt muttered. ‘I want a nice roaring fire tomorrow night.’
‘And a hearty beef stew,’ came Crowley’s muffled voice.
‘And a hearty beef stew,’ Halt agreed.
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they reached Woolsey. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle but still refused to stop completely.
They rode down the single street of the village, huddled in their cloaks. The two horses plodded stolidly through the thick mud that covered the street, their hooves making sucking, squishing noises as they alternately placed them down, then dragged them free of the clinging, wet ooze.
Crowley pointed to a building halfway down the street, larger than those surrounding it. It was the only two-storey structure in the village, and a painted signboard above the entrance swung erratically in the wind.
He peered closely at the sign. ‘The Yellow Parrot. That does sound jolly.’
‘What’s jolly about a yellow parrot?’ Halt shot him a sidelong look.
Crowley considered the question. Truth be told, he had spoken simply for the sake of saying something, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘parrots are amusing creatures. They talk, don’t they? They say things like “Polly wants a bread crust”. Or, “Who’s a pretty boy then?” And they’re colourful, so they brighten things up.’
‘What’s amusing about a bird wanting a bread crust? Or claiming to be a pretty boy then? After all, the bird doesn’t actually know what it’s saying, does it?’
‘It knows it wants a bread crust,’ Crowley said. ‘I mean, when it says that, and you give it a bread crust, it eats the bread crust, doesn’t it? So obviously, it knows what it’s saying.’
Halt nudged his horse so that it stopped, while he turned to look at his companion. Crowley twitched the reins and his horse halted as well.
‘Are you always so insufferably cheerful?’ Halt asked.
‘I suppose I am,’ Crowley admitted. ‘Do you always travel around as if there’s a big, black thundercloud hanging over your head?’ He liked Halt, despite their short acquaintance. But the Hibernian did tend to be a bit of a Gloomy Gus at times, he thought.
‘What did you say?’ Halt demanded.
Crowley realised that he must have unwittingly muttered the words aloud as he had the thought. Hurriedly, he shook his head. Raindrops scattered around him as he did.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
But Halt was glaring at him. ‘You called me a Gloomy Gus,’ he accused.
Crowley shrugged. ‘It’s a term of endearment in this country.’ He tapped his horse with his heels to start moving again. Squish, suck, squish, suck, ooze, squish, went the hooves.
Halt set his own horse in motion, its hooves spraying mud and water in the air as he hastened to catch up with the Ranger. He was feeling somewhat out of sorts, he realised. But that was because for days they had been travelling with their bows covered by waterproof leather cases to protect the strings. Wet conditions could play merry havoc with a bowstring, reducing its tension and rendering the weapon almost useless. And Halt never felt comfortable when he was in unknown territory without ready access to his bow. It made him feel vulnerable, and that made him feel irritable and ill at ease.
Over the pervading smell of rain and muddy ground, he detected a hint of woodsmoke. He glanced up to see it curling away from the inn’s chimney, weighed down by the rain and the driving wind so that it never rose more than a couple of metres above the roof.
‘Now that’s more cheerful than a yellow parrot,’ he said.
Crowley had already swung down out of the saddle. He tethered his horse to a ring set beside the door of the inn and waited for Halt to join him. Then, together, they pushed through the door, stooping slightly to go under the low lintel.
After the chill of the rain and wind outside, it was delightfully warm in the tap room. It was a wide, low-ceilinged room, with a wooden plank that served as a bar, set on barrels running along the wall facing the doorway. Other barrels, large and small, were ranged on their sides behind the bar, set on racks so that their spigots were within easy reach of the innkeeper and his serving maids. The room was half full of men. Farm workers and labourers, Crowley guessed, seeking refuge from the miserable weather. They fell silent for a few moments as they assessed the newcomers. Then the low buzz of conversation began once more and they turned back to their ale and their meals.
At one end of the room was a large fireplace, with a roasting spit that was hinged to swing right into the hearth itself. There were several ducks on the spit, their skin glistening with fat that fell, dripping and hissing, into the coals. The room was full of a pleasant smell of roasting duck, rich ale and woodsmoke that eddied around the low ceiling, the chimney not quite up to the task of clearing it away.
Halt and Crowley made their way through the tables to the bar, where the innkeeper assessed them briefly.
Woodsmen, he decided. Possibly hunters. Not soldiers, at any rate. Soldiers in this area could mean trouble, he had learned over the past few years. They tended to take without asking and could be loud and demanding, bullying the villagers and farm folk and creating ill feeling and tension among them. And, while they drank a considerable amount, they often paid short measure and frequently started fights.
Soldiers were bad business.
Deciding that Halt and Crowley posed no potential threat, he took his hand away from the heavy, studded cudgel he kept under the bar and reached for two pint tankards hanging overhead.
‘Ale for you, my friends?’
The two men nodded. The one with sandy red hair spoke.
‘That would be very agreeable, innkeeper.’ He unfastened his cloak and threw the cowl back. Already, steam was beginning to rise from the cloth, generated by the heat in the room.
‘And we’ll be needing a room. With a fireplace,’ the dark-bearded one said. He had a pleasant, lilting accent that was unfamiliar to the innkeeper. The innkeeper set down two foaming tankards and the newcomers took grateful sips. The redhead smacked his lips in appreciation.
‘That’s good ale,’ he said and the innkeeper inclined his head in appreciation of the comment.
‘I’m known for it,’ he said. Then, turning his gaze to the darker-haired man, he said, ‘None of my upstairs rooms have fireplaces.’ The man’s eyebrows came together slightly in a look of disappointment. ‘But I have an annex out the back with its own fireplace. There’s no access to it from in here. It opens onto the stableyard.’
The disappointment faded from the man’s face.
‘That sounds just the thing,’ he said. And as he thought about it, Halt decided that it was. A separate entrance, concealed in the stableyard and not visible from the main street, would give them a good degree of privacy and security, just in case Morgarath’s men came looking.
They negotiated a price. Initially, Halt asked for one night, but seeing Crowley’s expression, he relented and made it two.
‘One night will hardly be enough to get our things dry,’ Crowley pointed out, and Halt had to agree.
The innkeeper, conscious that travellers would be few and far between in the current weather, offered to include their meals and the deal was settled.
‘Your horses can go in the stable,’ he said. ‘Plenty of room there for them.’
Halt finished his ale and set the tankard down on the counter.
‘We’ll bring them in now and rub them down,’ he said. He never liked leaving his horse untended for too long – particularly after a long journey in cold, wet weather.
‘They can wait two minutes while I finish my ale,’ Crowley said.
Halt looked at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘You can finish that in two minutes?’
Crowley regarded the large, almost full tankard in his hand. ‘I can finish this in one,’ he said.
He finished his ale and, reluctantly, they went out into the weather once more, leading their horses through the stableyard gate and into the high-roofed stable building. It was clean and airy and there was only one other animal in it – a mule that regarded them with faint interest. They unsaddled the horses and dried them off, rubbing them down with handfuls of clean, dry straw. Then they put them in two adjoining stalls and, while Crowley forked hay into the two mangers, Halt went out into the yard and filled two buckets with clean water. Returning, he noticed that the mule’s water bucket was only half full and the water was green and scummy. Sighing, he took it down from the peg and returned to the pump, filling it with fresh water.
As he replaced the bucket, he noticed Crowley grinning at him.
‘What now?’ Halt said, an irritable tone in his voice.
‘Oh, you pretend to be so grim and grumpy,’ Crowley said. ‘But there you go, fetching fresh water for a mule you’ve never seen before. You amuse me.’
‘Well, I’m always glad to lighten your mood. Although it doesn’t seem to take much to amuse you.’
Halt made a final check on his horse and tack. His saddle blanket was wrinkled over the rail and he spread it out evenly so that it would dry more quickly. Then he jerked a thumb towards the stable door. ‘Let’s see what our lodgings are like.’
Carrying their saddle bags and bow cases, they crossed the muddy yard and opened the door to the annex built against the rear wall of the inn. They were pleasantly surprised when they entered. The room was large and well ventilated and the walls were solidly built from timber, with mud and plaster sealing any cracks left by irregularities in the logs. In the end wall, a fire was already burning. The innkeeper had sent one of his serving maids to lay it and light it. Already, its warmth was filling the room and the yellow, flickering flames sent out a welcoming and comforting light.
Crowley moved to stand by the fire, rubbing his hands together appreciatively. ‘Well, I must say, we’ve certainly fallen on our feet here!’ he said.
Halt nodded briefly. ‘I’ve stayed in worse.’
Crowley shook his head, grinning at his companion. ‘Try not to overwhelm me with your boundless enthusiasm.’
Halt, realising that the room really was quite comfortable and he might have been a little more effusive, grunted an unintelligible reply.
There were two beds in the room, each with three thick woollen blankets and a straw-filled pillow. There were no sheets, but compared to the branch-lined cots they had slept on for the past five nights, this was little short of luxury. A rough linen towel was folded over the foot of each bed and a wash basin and large water jug stood on the plain pine side table.
There were two wooden armchairs, set either side of the fireplace, and a small table with three straight-backed chairs set around it.
Hastily, they stripped off their cloaks, spreading them over the chairs in front of the fire to dry, then did the same with their jerkins and shirts. Soon the room was full of the pervasive odour of damp, drying wool, as steam rose from the sodden garments.
They both had dry shirts in their packs – although dry wasn’t quite accurate. The spare shirts were damp, as was everything they owned. But after they’d been held in front of the fire for a few minutes, they were comfortable enough.
Halt tied the fastening at the neck of his shirt, then re-donned the wide leather belt that carried the scabbards for his saxe knife and throwing knife – one on each hip. He looked around the room, now littered with drying clothing spread on every available surface.
‘Well, we’ve got the roaring fire we wanted,’ he said. ‘Now let’s see about that hearty beef stew.’
THERE WAS NO hearty beef stew. But there was a rich mutton broth – big chunks of tasty meat in a hearty broth of vegetables. And there was fresh crusty bread to mop up the scraps. They ordered a bowl each, and two more pints of ale to drink while they waited.
‘Find a table,’ the innkeeper said, making an all-encompassing gesture around the room. ‘Millie will bring your food.’
Without prior consultation, they both moved towards a table against the wall, at the far side of the room. It was out of the immediate line of sight of anyone entering the tavern, but enabled them to keep a constant watch on new arrivals. The table was well away from the fire, and the nearest oil lantern was several metres away, so they were partially hidden in the gloom.
For Halt, it was second nature to remain unobtrusive. He had spent several months travelling through Hibernia, avoiding recognition and staying away from the search parties his twin brother sent after him. Crowley’s training as a Ranger must have left him with the same sense of reticence. Pritchard had taught Halt that Rangers never sought to stand out from the crowd, preferring to blend in with the background.
Millie, a pleasant-faced woman of about twenty-five, brought them bowls of mutton broth and two wooden spoons. She set a board down in front of them, with a warm loaf on it and a knife. A small crock held rich yellow butter.
Crowley took a sip of the broth and smiled contentedly. ‘Oh, that’s good!’
Halt followed suit and nodded agreement. The soup was hot and rich, and the heat of it seemed to spread through his tired, cold body. He even imagined he could feel the heat spreading down through his chilled and weary legs.
Suddenly conscious of how hungry they were, after days of cold food and hard rations, they set to willingly, rapidly lowering the level in their bowls. Millie strolled past their table and indicated the near empty bowls.
‘More?’ she asked. ‘It costs no extra for a top-up.’
Crowley instantly scooped the last of the mutton out of his bowl and crammed it in his mouth. Then he handed the bowl to Millie, nodding enthusiastically.
‘Mmmm. Yeff pleafe,’ he mumbled round a mouthful of hot mutton and bread.
She smiled and took the bowl, then glanced interrogatively at Halt. ‘How about you?’
He shook his head. The bowl was still a quarter full and that would do him. ‘Not for me,’ he said.
She pointed to his tankard. ‘How about more ale?’
This time they both shook their heads, without any pause to consider the question.
‘We’re fine,’ said Crowley. ‘Thanks.’ He smiled at her and she returned the smile with some interest. He was a good-looking young man, with a cheerful, cheeky light in his eyes.
She glanced at his companion. He was a different kettle of fish, she thought. His eyes were brown, deep-set under dark eyebrows. His face was thin and the beard was dark. There was something vaguely frightening about him, although she sensed no danger to herself from the man. Rather, she felt, there was potential danger for anyone who might cause him trouble.
She realised her smile had faded as she studied the dark-bearded man and she hastily readjusted it. It was professional good sense to smile at customers, she knew, even the ones who had a somewhat frightening aspect to them. She moved away towards the kitchen door, Crowley’s bowl in her hand.
‘I’ll bring you your broth,’ she said.
She was halfway to the kitchen when the entrance door banged open, letting in a swirl of wind and rain and setting the smoke that hung about the rafters drifting uneasily. A stocky figure strode into the tavern, arrogance in every inch of his bearing.
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to the doorway. The atmosphere was instantly heavy with distrust and apprehension.
The newcomer was no farm worker or itinerant traveller. He was wearing a sword at his side and, as he pushed back his black cloak, it could be seen that his black leather surcoat was adorned with a gold slash running from his right shoulder to his left waist, shaped like a lightning bolt. A tight-fitting leather cap covered his head. A smaller rendition of the yellow lightning bolt was on its front.
He wore high riding boots – again in black leather – with his trousers tucked into them. The heels clacked loudly on the floor as he advanced a few paces into the room, allowing the door to close behind him. He looked around, taking in the fourteen people sitting at tables and the innkeeper and his two serving maids behind the bar.
If he was aware of the dislike radiating from the inn’s customers, it didn’t seem to bother him. He was probably used to creating a negative impression wherever he went, Halt thought. The newcomer’s left hand dropped to rest on his sword hilt – a crude reminder of the fact that he was armed.
Crowley leaned closer to Halt and said in a low voice: ‘Black and gold. Morgarath’s colours.’
Halt nodded. He had seen them before, when they had visited Castle Gorlan.
Eventually, the innkeeper broke the awkward silence that had gripped the room.
‘Can I help you, traveller?’ he asked mildly. The newcomer’s face creased with a scowl.
‘It’s Captain,’ he said abruptly. ‘Captain Teezal, in Lord Morgarath’s service.’
He waited for the innkeeper to amend his method of address but no amendment was forthcoming.
‘And . . .?’ said the innkeeper calmly, waiting for the soldier to voice his business. The scowl on Teezal’s face deepened. He was used to cringing deference when he spoke to people he considered to be his inferiors – which included most people he met. But he could see no sign of deference from the innkeeper and he was forced to continue.
‘And,’ he said, placing sarcastic emphasis on the word, ‘I’m searching for two renegade Rangers – criminals who’ve broken Lord Morgarath’s law.’
‘This is Keramon Fief,’ the innkeeper pointed out. ‘The lord here is Baron Carrol. Baron Morgarath has no jurisdiction here.’
‘Lord Morgarath has been offended by these two men. I’m sure Carrol would want to assist him in apprehending them.’
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘I’m sure Lord Carrol would, if they were here. Which they’re not.’
Teezal glared at him, his hand opening and closing on the sword hilt. ‘Do you have any guests at the moment? Have there been any travellers passing through?’
Halt, scanning the room unobtrusively, saw several of the other guests look instinctively to the table where he and Crowley were sitting. Fortunately, Teezal was concentrating his attention on the innkeeper, who was shaking his head.
‘None. Just locals here.’
At his words, Halt saw the other customers hastily avert their eyes from him and Crowley. The innkeeper appeared to be a man of some influence in Woolsey.
‘I’ll take a look around,’ Teezal said brusquely.
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. But there are no Rangers here, renegade or otherwise. Come to think of it,’ he added, ‘I’ve never heard of a renegade Ranger.’
Teezal, who had turned away, swung back on him.
‘They’ve offended Lord Morgarath and broken their oath. They’ve also injured several of his officers. As a result, they’ve been dismissed from the Ranger Corps. These are dangerous times and disloyalty must be punished.’
The innkeeper made a compliant gesture with one hand. ‘I’m sure it must,’ he said. ‘Go ahead and look around if you want to.’
Teezal locked eyes with him for some seconds, trying to stare him down. The innkeeper held his gaze confidently. With men like this, he knew, it was best to remain firm and uncowed. Any sign of weakness or uncertainty would only increase Teezal’s arrogance and overbearing attitude.
Eventually, Morgarath’s man switched his gaze away from the innkeeper and turned to walk among the tables, studying the men seated there. Other than the serving maids, there were no women in the room. His heels clacked loudly on the floorboards as he moved slowly between the tables, stopping from time to time for a closer look. But the inn’s clientele were obviously farmers or farm workers. They wore farmer’s smocks and thick working boots, caked with mud. On several tables, felt hats, rendered shapeless by years of rain and sun, were evident.
His inspection finished, Teezal grunted discontentedly.
Then he noticed the two figures seated at the back of the room, in the shadows. Quickly, he walked towards them, his left hand opening and closing on the hilt of his sword. He stopped a few metres from them, reaching up to the oil lamp that hung from the rafters and tilting it so that its light shone more directly on the two men.
These were no farmers, he could see. They wore leather vests and woollen trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots. Fortunately, however, Halt’s and Crowley’s cloaks were currently spread across the backs of chairs in front of the fireplace in their room. Even without the distinctive mottled pattern, they would have raised his suspicions. And of course, their bows and quivers were in the room as well. Outwardly there was nothing to show that they were Rangers.
‘Names?’ he asked curtly.
Crowley smiled disarmingly. ‘Morris,’ he said. ‘William Morris of Keramon.’
‘I’m Arratay,’ Halt said briefly. He thought it best to keep his answers as short as possible, to conceal his Hibernian accent. Crowley obviously realised what he was doing, as he took the lead in the conversation.
‘We’re foresters, in the service of Baron Carrol,’ he continued pleasantly. He was grateful that the innkeeper had mentioned the local Baron’s name a few minutes prior.
Teezal sniffed. ‘Foresters? A fancy name for poachers if you ask me.’
Crowley shrugged. There was no point answering such a statement.
Teezal waited several seconds for a reaction. When none was forthcoming, he turned abruptly away, releasing the lantern so that it swung wildly back and forth, casting its yellow light in a wide arc.
His heels clumped heavily on the boards as he strode to the door, ill temper obvious in every line of his body. He swung the door open, then turned back to the room, speaking to those present.
‘I’ll be in the neighbourhood,’ he said harshly. ‘If anyone sights these two renegades, he’d be well advised to come find me.’
Silence greeted his statement. He let his gaze sweep the room once more, then abruptly went out, slamming the door behind him. A concerted release of pent-up breath swept the room as the customers relaxed. Gradually, conversations restarted and the atmosphere went back to normal.
Crowley and Halt rose from their table and moved to the bar. The innkeeper was still looking at the entrance where Teezal had left.
‘Thanks for that,’ Crowley said, then added, ‘Not that we’re the ones he’s looking for, of course.’
‘Of course,’ the innkeeper replied, the vestige of a smile touching his lips. ‘But really, we don’t owe Morgarath and his men any favours. He’s been throwing his weight around lately and we’re getting heartily sick and tired of him interfering in this fief.’
‘I can imagine,’ Crowley said.
The innkeeper shook his head in frustration. ‘After all, we’ve got enough on our hands with Duncan and his band causing havoc in the district.’
BOTH HALT AND Crowley took an involuntary step back at the words. They exchanged a quick glance, then Crowley asked:
‘Duncan? You can’t mean Prince Duncan, the King’s son?’
The innkeeper regarded them with renewed interest. ‘The same,’ he said. ‘He’s been in the north for the past few months, with a gang of armed men – none of them the type you’d care to run into on a lonely country road.’
‘Doing what?’ Halt asked.
The innkeeper switched his gaze to him. ‘Anything they please. Robbing, plundering, raiding farms and running off sheep and cattle. Sometimes they move into a town or village for a week or so and terrorise the locals, demanding food and drink and lodging and paying nothing for it.’
‘And they make sure they take only the best,’ added another customer, a farmer by his clothes, who had risen from a nearby table to join the conversation.
‘But . . . he’s the King’s son!’ Crowley protested. ‘He’s the heir to the throne!’
‘Then eventually, we’ll have a robber and a thief for a King,’ the innkeeper said.
The farmer nodded agreement. ‘The gods know what the old King makes of it all. He must be disgusted.’
Halt turned to Crowley. ‘This is the prince you said a man would be proud to follow?’
Crowley shook his head, totally bewildered. ‘I . . . don’t understand,’ he said slowly. ‘I know Duncan. Not well, admittedly, but well enough to know that this is unlike him.’
The farmer nodded sympathetically. ‘I know what you mean. Up until a few months ago, I’d heard nothing but good about the prince. But now this . . .’ He let the sentence hang.
‘There’s another thing,’ the innkeeper added. ‘He and his men have been raiding across the border.’
‘Into Picta?’ Crowley asked, barely able to believe his ears.
The two villagers nodded. ‘Aye. They raid and burn, stealing cattle and horses. If anyone tries to stop them, they kill them.’
‘But that’s madness!’ Crowley said, his voice rising. ‘We have a treaty with the Scotti!’ He knew how long and hard the King had worked to establish that treaty. Duncan had actually handled some of the negotiations. Now the prince’s actions, if they were hearing the truth, would endanger the fragile peace that existed between the two countries, provoking retaliatory raiding and killing.
‘It seems he cares nothing for that,’ the innkeeper said. ‘I suppose he assumes that if the Scotti start raiding back, he’ll be safe behind the walls of Castle Araluen. We’ll be the ones who’ll bear the brunt of the trouble he’s caused.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Crowley said in a low voice. ‘I can’t believe it. Why would he do such things?’
‘Power,’ said the farmer succinctly. ‘A man gets a little power and he starts believing he can do whatever he pleases.’
‘But . . . Duncan? It’s so unlike him. I can’t believe it!’
‘So you keep saying,’ said the farmer. ‘But it’s the truth.’
Crowley made a hasty gesture of apology, aware that he might have offended the man. The farmer shrugged. He understood the stranger’s consternation.
‘Any idea where he is at present?’ Halt asked.
The innkeeper looked towards one of the tables in the middle of the room. The other customers had all been following the conversation and now he addressed one of them, a burly, grey-haired man. ‘Tom? What say you? You were up towards the border this week, weren’t you?’
The man he addressed nodded confirmation. ‘Aye. That I was. Last I heard, Duncan and his men were in Lendsy village. Been there several days, I heard. I left quickly. I had no wish to run into them. No need to either,’ he added.
‘Where’s this Lendsy village?’ Halt asked.
The innkeeper pursed his lips, then answered. ‘A day’s ride from here. Longer if the streams are flooded and the bridges are washed away. It’s to the north-east, a few kilometres from the border.’
Halt took in the information and placed a hand on Crowley’s forearm. The Ranger seemed stunned by what he had been hearing.
‘Come on,’ Halt said. ‘We need to talk.’ He looked at the innkeeper and the farmer. ‘Thanks for the information.’
The innkeeper shrugged away the thanks and held out his hand.
‘We didn’t introduce ourselves,’ he said. ‘My name is Sherrin.’
Halt took the hand. ‘I’m Halt.’
A smile touched Sherrin’s lips. ‘I thought you told Teezal your name was Arratay, or something.’
Halt smiled in his turn. ‘I thought you told him you had no lodgers,’ he replied. Then, turning, he led Crowley towards the door. They had a lot to discuss.
The annex was warm and a little stuffy, and redolent with the smell of drying wool. Halt checked his cloak where it was spread over an armchair by the fire. The fabric was still slightly damp, but it was a big improvement on its former state.
‘Be dry by morning,’ he said. ‘And a good thing. We’d best be on our way.’
They had planned on staying for two nights. But Teezal’s appearance, and the news they’d just received, dictated otherwise. Crowley was staring into the flames of the fire, his face set in grim lines.
‘There has to be some mistake,’ he said. ‘Prince Duncan isn’t a thief or a bully. He’s a fine young man and he’ll make a great king.’
‘A wise man once told me, don’t believe anything you hear until you’ve seen it with your own eyes,’ Halt said.
Crowley looked up at him. ‘Who said that? Pritchard?’ It sounded like the sort of thing their old mentor might say.
Halt affected to think for a few seconds, then gave a slight smile. ‘No. I think it was me, actually. I can be very wise at times.’
‘This is no time for joking,’ Crowley said. ‘If this is true, our plans to revive the Corps are finished. I was depending on a royal warrant from Duncan to give me the authority. If he’s turned rogue, he won’t be likely to give that sort of permission.’
His heart was heavy. He hadn’t realised how much he was depending on Duncan’s warrant to reform the Rangers. The idea had sustained him over the past weeks. Now he knew that Morgarath’s enmity would spell an end to his time in the Corps. Without Duncan to overrule the Baron, his plan was finished before it had even begun.
‘Then I suggest we ride north and see what’s actually happening,’ Halt said. ‘Unless you simply want to give up here and now.’
There was an element of challenge in the last few words and Crowley reacted immediately to it, looking up at Halt with an angry frown.
Redheads, Halt thought. Quick to anger, quick to forgive.
With an effort, Crowley forced down the anger.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We need to see for ourselves.’
Sherrin gave them a hearty breakfast of thick, nourishing porridge laced with honey. He also provided a large pot of coffee and Halt downed three cups in quick succession.
The innkeeper raised his eyebrows. ‘Pity you don’t like coffee,’ he said mildly.
Halt shrugged. ‘We’ve been travelling on hard rations and cold water with all this rain. I’m making up for lost opportunities.’
They settled their bill with Sherrin and were on the road a few minutes after sun-up. The clouds were breaking up, creating large patches of clear sky above them. In light of the drier weather, they had unpacked their bows, checked their strings and restrung the weapons. With the long yew stave settled comfortably over his left shoulder, and the fletching of the arrows tickling the back of his neck from time to time, Halt felt more at ease than he had for the past week.
They rode in silence. There was no point in discussing Duncan any further. Halt knew that any such conversation would mainly consist of Crowley repeating the fact that he couldn’t believe the turn of events. And, since there was no point to that topic, they remained silent.
They had to detour several times to bypass bridges that had washed away or fords that were still running too deep to cross safely. The countryside around them steamed with the rainwater evaporating under the sun. It made for humid conditions and by midmorning they had discarded their cloaks, rolling them tightly and tying them behind their saddles. At noon they stopped for a quick meal. Sherrin had provided them with a fresh-baked loaf of bread and slices of cured ham. They had also brought with them a supply of dry firewood and kindling from the stack in his stable. Halt built a fire and boiled water for coffee.
He ate and drank with relish, enjoying the fresh food after the hard bread and dried beef they had been eating for days. Crowley didn’t seem to notice the difference. He picked idly at his food and barely touched the coffee. His thoughts were elsewhere.
By midafternoon, they realised they were getting close to Lendsy village. They had passed a fork in the road and descended into a small valley. Now, as they rode up to the ridge at the far side, Halt raised his head and sniffed experimentally.
‘Smoke,’ he said. ‘Do you smell it?’
Crowley sniffed as well, then shrugged. ‘We must be nearly there. I imagine they have their kitchen fires alight.’
They crested the rise at that point and looked across a shallow valley. Above the next ridge, a thick pall of smoke rose into the air. Halt shook his head, frowning. ‘That’s more than a few cook fires,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
He urged his horse into a canter – no sense in galloping and arriving with their horses exhausted. Crowley was a few strides behind him and their horses’ hooves thudded dully on the damp mud and leaf mould that covered the road surface. Then they were into the trees at the bottom of the ridge and weaving their way along the narrow path, riding in single file.