Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup (37 page)

There was no time to put the plan into action that night – dawn was less than an hour away. At one stage, Will had suggested that Horace and Evanlyn should leave him behind to burn the bridge, while they rode to take the news to Araluen. But Horace had refused.

‘If we go now, we won't know if you've succeeded or not, so what do we tell the King? There might be a bridge or there might not be?' he said, in another example of the solid commonsense that had become part of his thinking. ‘And besides, destroying a bridge this size might be a little more than you can manage alone – even a famous Ranger like yourself.'

He smiled as he said the last words, to let Will know he meant no insult. Will conceded the point. Secretly, he was glad they would be with him. He shared Horace's doubt that he might not be able to handle the task alone.

They slept fitfully until dawn, finally woken by the sounds of shouting and whips as the Wargals drove the
miners back to their task of finishing the bridge. Throughout the day, they watched with alarm as the completed footway crept closer and closer to the side of the ravine where they lay hidden. With a sinking feeling, Will realised that the estimate given them by the dying miner was not to be relied upon. Perhaps the extra numbers of slaves were the reason, but it was obvious that the bridge would be all but completed by the end of the following day.

‘We'll have to do it tonight.'

He breathed the words in Evanlyn's ear. The two of them lay prone on the rocks, overlooking the building site. Horace was a few metres away, dozing quietly in the cold morning sun. The girl shifted her position so that her mouth was closer to his ear and whispered back.

‘I've been thinking, how will we get this fire started? There's barely enough wood around here for a decent camp fire.'

The same question had been taxing Will's brain throughout the night. Then the answer had come to him. He smiled quietly as he watched a group of Celt miners hammering pine boards onto the bridge framework to form the roadway.

‘There's plenty of good firewood here,' he replied. ‘If you know where to look for it.'

Evanlyn glanced at him, puzzled, then followed the line of his gaze. The frown on her forehead disappeared and she smiled slowly.

As dusk fell, the Wargals herded their weary, starving slaves back from the bridge and into the tunnel. Will
noticed that by the end of the afternoon, the work of enlarging the tunnel seemed to have been completed. They waited an hour longer, until full darkness. During that time, there had been no sign of any activity from the tunnel. Now that they knew to look for it, they could see the loom of the firelight from the valley at the other end of the tunnel, reflecting on the low, scudding clouds.

‘I hope it doesn't rain,' said Horace suddenly. ‘That'd put paid to our idea all right.'

Will stopped in his tracks and looked up at him quickly. That unpleasant thought hadn't occurred to him. ‘It isn't going to rain,' he said firmly, and hoped he was right. He continued on then, leading Tug gently to the unfinished end of the bridge. The little horse stopped there, ears pricked and nostrils twitching to the scents of the night air.

‘Alert,' said Will softly to the horse, the command word that told him to give warning if he sensed approaching danger. Tug tossed his head once, signifying that he understood. Then Will led the way across the framework of the bridge to where the footway was completed, stepping lightly as he crossed the narrow beams above the dizzying drop. Horace and Evanlyn followed, more carefully. But this night, to Horace's relief, there was less distance to travel before they reached the firm and comforting surface of the completed bridge. He realised that Will was right. Another day would see the bridge completed.

Will unslung his bow and quiver and laid them on the planking. Then he drew his saxe knife from its scabbard and, dropping to his knees, began to prise up one of the nearest planks from the bridge walkway. The wood was
soft pine, roughly sawn, and perfect firewood. Horace drew his dagger and began prising up the planks in the next row. As they loosened them, Evanlyn moved them to one side, stacking them in a pile. When she had six planks, each over a metre long, she gathered them up and ran lightly to the far side of the bridge, stacking them on the far bank of the fissure, close to where the massive, tarred cables were fastened to wooden pylons. By the time she returned, Will and Horace were well on the way to removing another six. These she took to the other cable. Will had explained his plan to them earlier in the day. To make sure there was no remaining structure on the far side, they would need to burn through both cables and pylons at that end, letting the bridge fall into the depths of the Fissure. The Wargals might be able to span the Fissure with a small, temporary rope affair, but nothing substantial enough to permit large numbers of troops to cross in a short time.

Once they had burnt the bridge, they would ride full speed to alert the King's army to the threat in the south. Any small numbers of Wargals who might cross the Fissure could then be easily dealt with by the Kingdom's troops.

The two boys continued levering the planks free and setting them to one side for Evanlyn. In her turn, she maintained her constant ferrying back and forth across the bridge, until the stacks by each pylon were piled high. In spite of the cold night, both boys were sweating freely with the effort. Finally, Evanlyn laid a hand on Will's shoulder as he prised up one board and began immediately on another.

‘I think it's enough,' she said simply and he stopped, rocking back on his heels and wiping his forehead with the
back of his left hand. She gestured towards the other end of the bridge, where there were at least twenty planks piled up on either side of the road. He eased the cramps out of his neck, rolling his head from side to side, then stood up.

‘You're right,' he told her. ‘That should be enough to get the rest of it burning.'

Gesturing for the others to follow, he picked up his bow and quiver and led the way to the far side of the bridge. He looked critically at the two piles of wood for a moment or two.

‘We'll need kindling,' he said, glancing around to see if there were any small trees or bushes in the vicinity where they might find light wood to help them start their fire. Of course, there were none. Horace held out his hand for Will's saxe knife.

‘Lend me that for a moment,' he asked and Will handed it to him. Horace tested the balance of the heavy knife for a moment. Then, taking one of the long planks, Horace stood it on end and, in a bewilderingly fast series of flashing strokes, sliced it into a dozen thin lengths.

‘It's not quite sword practice,' he grinned at them. ‘But it's close enough.'

As Will and Evanlyn began forming the thin pine strips into two small pyres, Horace took another plank and whittled more carefully, carving off thin curls from the pine to catch the first sparks from the flint and steel they would use to light the fire. Will glanced once to see what Evanlyn was doing. Satisfied that she knew what she was about, he turned back to his own task, accepting the shaved pine from Horace as the other boy passed it to him in handfuls and stacking it around the base of the kindling.

As Will moved across to Evanlyn's side to do the same with her fire, Horace split a few more planks in halves, then snapped the thinner lengths in two. Will looked up nervously at the noise.

‘Keep it down,' he warned the apprentice warrior. ‘Those Wargals aren't exactly deaf, you know, and the sound might carry through the tunnel.'

Horace shrugged. ‘I'm finished now anyway,' he said.

Will paused and studied both pyres. Satisfied that they had the right combination of kindling and light wood to get them going, he motioned the others to cross back to the other side.

‘You two get going,' he told them. ‘I'll start the fires and follow you.'

Horace needed no second invitation. He didn't want to have to run across the bare beams of the bridge with the fire licking around the cables behind him. He wanted plenty of time to negotiate the gap. Evanlyn hesitated for a moment, then saw the sense in what Will had said.

They crossed carefully, trying not to look down into the agonising depths below the bridge as they negotiated the last ten metres. There was a wider gap now, of course, as they'd removed some of the boards that formed the road surface. Safe on the other side, they turned and waved to Will. They saw him, a crouched, indistinct figure in the shadows beside the right-hand bridge support. There was a bright flash as he struck his flint and steel together. Then another. And this time, a small yellow glow of light formed at the base of the piled wood as the pine shavings caught fire and the flame grew.

Will blew on it gently and watched the eager little yellow tongues spread out, licking at the rough pine, feeding on the flammable resin that filled the grain of the wood and growing larger and more voracious by the second. He saw the first of the thin stakes take fire, then the flames shot up, licking greedily around the rope balustrade of the bridge and beginning to reach for the heavy cable. The tar began sizzling. Drops melted and fell into the flames, flaring up with a bright blue flash each time.

Satisfied that the first fire was well under way, Will ran to the opposite side and went to work with his flint and steel once more. Again, the watchers saw the bright flashes, then the small, rapidly growing pool of yellow.

Will, now silhouetted clearly by the light of the two fires, stood erect and stepped back, watching to make sure that they were both properly alight. Already, the right-hand pylon and cable were beginning to smoke in the heat of the fire. Satisfied at last, Will gathered his bow and quiver and ran back across the bridge, barely slowing when he reached the narrow beams.

Reaching their side, he turned to look back at his handiwork. The right-hand cable was now blazing fiercely. A sudden gust of wind sent a shower of sparks high into the air above it. The left-hand fire didn't seem to be burning nearly as well. Perhaps it was a trick or an eddy of the wind that stopped the flames reaching the tar-soaked rope on that side. Perhaps the wood they had used was damp. But as they watched, the fire beneath the left-hand cable slowly died away to a red glow of embers.

Gilan dropped his eyes from the tortured gaze of his King. Everyone in the tent could see the pain there as Duncan realised that his daughter had been killed by Morgarath's Wargals. Gilan looked around the other men, seeking some form of support from them. None of them, he saw, could bring themselves to meet their monarch's eyes.

Duncan rose from the chair and walked to the doorway of the tent, looking to the south-west as if he could somehow see his daughter across the distance.

‘Cassandra left to visit Celtica eight weeks ago,' he said. ‘She's a good friend of Princess Madelydd. When all this business with Morgarath started, I thought she'd be safe there. I saw no reason to bring her back.' He turned away from the door and his gaze held Gilan's. ‘Tell me. Tell me everything you know …'

‘My lord …' Gilan stopped, gathering his thoughts. He knew he had to tell the King as much as possible. But he also
wanted to avoid causing him unnecessary pain. ‘The girl saw us and came to us. She recognised Will and myself as Rangers. Apparently, she had managed to escape when the Wargals attacked their party. She said the others were …'

He hesitated. He couldn't go on.

‘Continue,' Duncan said. His voice was firm. He was in control once more.

‘She said the Wargals had killed them, my lord. All of them,' Gilan finished in a rush. Somehow, he felt it might be easier if he said it quickly. ‘She didn't tell us details. She wasn't up to it. She was exhausted – mentally and physically.'

Duncan nodded. ‘Poor girl. It must have been a terrible thing to witness. She's a good servant – more of a friend to Cassandra, in fact,' he added softly.

Gilan felt the need to keep talking to the King, to give the King whatever detail he could about the loss of his daughter. ‘At first, we almost mistook her for a boy,' he said, remembering the moment when Evanlyn had walked into their camp. Duncan looked up, confusion on his face.

‘A boy?' he said. ‘With that mass of red hair?'

Gilan shrugged. ‘She'd cut it short. Probably to conceal her appearance. The Celtic foothills are full of bandits and robbers at the moment, as well as Wargals.'

Something was wrong, he sensed. He was bone-weary, aching for sleep, and his brain wasn't functioning as it should. But the King had said something that wasn't right. Something that …

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and swayed on his feet, glad of Halt's ready arm to steady him. Seeing the movement, Duncan was instantly apologetic.

‘Ranger Gilan,' he said, stepping forward and seizing his hand. ‘Forgive me. You're exhausted and I've kept you here because of my own personal sorrow. Please, Halt, see that Gilan has food and rest.'

‘Blaze …' Gilan started to say, remembering his dust-covered, weary horse outside the tent. Halt replied gently.

‘It's all right. I'll look after Blaze.' He glanced at the King once more, nodding his head towards Gilan. ‘With your majesty's permission?'

Duncan waved the two of them out.

‘Yes, please, Halt. Look after your comrade. He's served us well.'

As the two Rangers left the tent, Duncan turned to his remaining advisers. ‘Now, gentlemen, let's see if we can put some reason to this latest move by Morgarath.'

Baron Thorn cast a quick glance at the others, seeking and gaining their assent to act as spokesman. ‘My lord,' he said awkwardly, ‘perhaps we should give you some time to come to terms with this news …' The other councillors all mumbled their agreement to the idea but Duncan shook his head firmly.

‘I'm the King,' he said simply. ‘And for the King, private matters come last. Matters of the Kingdom come first.'

‘It's gone out!' said Horace, in an agony of disappointment.

The three of them looked, desperately hoping that he was wrong, that their eyes were somehow deceiving them. But he was right. The fire under the left-hand pylon had died away to a small, glowing heap of embers.

By contrast, the other side was well and truly alight, with the fire running fiercely up the tarred rope side rails to the massive cable supporting the right side of the bridge. Indeed, as they watched, one of the three ropes forming the cable burned through and the right-hand side of the bridge creaked alarmingly.

‘Maybe one side will be enough?' Evanlyn suggested hopefully, but Will shook his head in frustration, willing the second fire to flare up again.

‘The right-hand pylon is damaged, but it's still useable,' he pointed out. ‘If the left-hand side survives, they can still get across to this side. And if they can do that, they might be able to repair the whole thing before we can get warning to King Duncan.'

Resolutely, he hitched his bow over his shoulder and started across the bridge once more.

‘Where are you going?' Horace asked him, eyeing the structure with distrust. The bridge had taken a definite lean to one side now that part of the right-hand cable had burned through. As he put the question, the structure trembled again, settling a little further towards the bottom of the abyss.

Will paused, balanced on the bare beam that stretched across the gap.

‘I'll have to relight it,' he said. ‘We've got to make sure there's nothing left on that side for them to salvage.'

And, so saying, he ran to the far side. Horace felt queasy watching him move so quickly across that massive drop, with nothing but a narrow beam beneath him. Then he and Evanlyn watched in a fever of impatience as Will crouched by the embers. He began fanning them, then
leaned down and blew on them until a small tongue of flame flickered inside the pile of unburnt kindling.

‘He's done it!' Evanlyn cried, then the triumph in her voice died as the flicker faded. Once again, Will leaned down and began to blow gently on the embers. Something else gave on the right-hand side cable and the bridge lurched, sinking further to that side.

‘Come on! Come on!' Horace said over and over to himself, his hands clenching and unclenching as he watched his friend.

Then Tug gave a quiet whinny.

Both Horace and Evanlyn turned to look at the small horse. If it had been either of their own mounts, they wouldn't have reacted. But they knew Tug was trained to remain silent, unless …

Unless! Horace looked to where Will was crouched over the remains of the fire. Obviously, he hadn't heard Tug's warning. Evanlyn seized Horace's arm and pointed.

‘Look!' she said and he followed her pointing finger to the mouth of the tunnel, where a glimmer of light was showing. Someone was coming! Tug pawed the ground and whinnied again, a little louder this time, but Will, close to the noise of the burning right-hand cable, didn't hear. Evanlyn came to a decision.

‘Stay here!' she told Horace, and started out across the wooden beam framework. She inched her way carefully, her heart in her mouth as the weakened bridge structure lurched and swayed. Below her was blackness, and, at the very bottom, the silver glimmer of the river that ran wildly through the base of the Fissure. She swayed, recovered,
then went on. The roadway was only eight metres away now. Now five. Now three.

The bridge swayed again and she hung there for an awful moment, arms spread to hold her balance, teetering over that horrific drop. Behind her, she heard Horace's warning cry. Taking a deep breath, she lunged for the safety of the boardwalk, falling full length on the rough pine floor of the bridge.

Heart pounding with the reaction of her near miss, she came to her feet and raced across the bridge. As she drew closer, Will sensed her movement and looked up. Breathlessly, she pointed to the mouth of the tunnel.

‘They're coming!' she cried. And now, the reflected glow of light from within the tunnel was revealed to be the flare of several burning torches as a small group of figures emerged. They paused at the tunnel mouth, pointing and shouting as they saw the flames reaching high above the bridge. She counted six of them, and from their shambling, clumsy gait, she recognised them as Wargals.

The Wargals began to run towards the bridge. They were just over fifty metres away, but covering the ground quickly. And she knew there must be more behind them.

‘Let's get out of here!' she said, grabbing at Will's sleeve. But he shook her hand off, grim-faced. He was already scooping up his bow and quiver, slinging the quiver over his shoulder and checking that the bowstring was firmly anchored.

‘You get back!' he told her. ‘I'll stay and hold them off.'

Almost as he spoke, he nocked an arrow to the string and, barely seeming to aim, sent it hissing towards the lead
Wargal. The arrow took in the chest and it fell, crying out once, then lay silent.

His companions halted in their tracks, seeing the arrow. They looked warily around them, trying to see where it had come from. Perhaps this was a trap, their primitive, single track minds told them. As yet, they couldn't see the small figure at the end of the bridge. And even as they looked, another three arrows came hissing out of the darkness. The steel heads of two of the arrows struck sparks as they smashed into the rocks. The third took one of the Wargals at the rear of the party in the lower arm. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees.

The Wargals hesitated uncertainly. Seeing the light and smoke of the fire above the hill that separated their camp area from the bridge, they had come to investigate. Now unseen archers were firing at them. Coming to a decision, and with no one to order them forward, they retreated quickly to the shelter of the tunnel mouth.

‘They're going back!' Evanlyn told Will. But he'd already seen the movement and he was on his knees again, trying to frantically rebuild the fire.

‘We'll have to reset the whole thing!' he muttered. Evanlyn dropped to her knees beside him and began shaping the half-burnt strips and heavier pieces into a conical pyre.

‘You watch the Wargals!' she said. ‘I'll look after this.'

Will hesitated. After all, this was the fire she had set in the first place. He had a moment of doubt as he wondered if she'd done the job correctly. Then he looked up to the tunnel mouth, saw movement there once again and realised she was right. Grabbing his bow, he started to
move towards the cover of some rocks nearby, but she stopped him.

‘Your knife!' she said. ‘Leave it with me.'

He didn't ask why. He slid the saxe from its scabbard and dropped it onto the planking beside her. Then he moved to the rocks. As he left the bridge, he felt it tremble again as the right-hand cable gave a little more. Silently, he cursed the caprice of wind that had fanned one fire and extinguished the other.

Encouraged by the lack of arrows whistling around their ears in the past few minutes, the four remaining Wargals had emerged from the tunnel again and were moving cautiously forward. Without any real intelligent leadership, and with a false sense of their own superiority, they stayed grouped together, an easy target. Will fired three times, carefully aimed shots.

Each one found its mark. The surviving Wargal looked at his fallen comrades, then lumbered into the cover of the rocks. Will sent another arrow skating off the granite directly above his head, to encourage him to stay where he was.

He checked his quiver. There were sixteen arrows left. Not a lot if the Wargals had sent for reinforcements. He glanced at Evanlyn. She seemed to be maddeningly slow with her efforts to rebuild the fire. He wanted to yell at her to hurry, but realised he would only distract her and slow her down if he did. He looked back to the tunnel, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the bow.

Four more figures emerged, running fast and fanning out so that they weren't grouped together. Will brought the bow up, sighted quickly and released at the one
furthest to the right. He let go a little cry of exasperation as the arrow flew behind the running figure. Then he was obscured by the rocks.

Blessing the weeks and months of practice that Halt had insisted on, Will had another arrow out of the quiver and ready nocked, without even looking at it. But the other three runners had gone to ground as well.

Now one of them rose in the middle of the line and darted forward. Will's snapshot cleaved the air above his head as he dived for cover. Then another was moving on the left, dropping into cover before Will could fire. His heart was beating rapidly as they made their quick rushes and he forced himself to breathe deeply and think calmly. The time to shoot would be in the last thirty metres, where there was less cover and where the arrows, with a shorter distance to cover, would be travelling faster and so be harder to dodge. Will's heart hammered inside his ribs. He was remembering the last time – only a few weeks ago – when fear had made his shots go wide. His face hardened as he determined that it would not happen again.

‘Stay calm,' he told himself, trying to hear Halt's voice saying the words. Another of the figures made a short rush and this time, as the firelight illuminated him more clearly, Will held his fire as his eyes confirmed what he had begun to suspect.