Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup (40 page)

The four Skandians and their prisoners had trudged across the bleak, windswept plateau for the rest of the day and into the evening. It wasn't until several hours after dark that Erak called a halt, and Will and Evanlyn sank gratefully to the rocky ground. The ache in Will's head had receded somewhat through the day, but it still throbbed dully in the background. The dried blood on the wound where the jagged rock had hit him itched abominably, but he knew that if he scratched at the irritation, he would only open the wound and set the blood flowing once more.

At least, thought Will, Erak hadn't kept them tied or restrained in any way. As the Skandian leader put it, there was nowhere for the two prisoners to run.

‘This plateau is full of Wargals,' he'd told them roughly. ‘You can take your chances with them if you choose.'

So they'd kept their position in the middle of the party, passing bands of Wargals throughout the day, and heading
constantly to the north-east, and Three Step Pass. Now, the four Skandians eased their heavy packs to the ground and Nordel began to gather wood for a fire. Svengal tossed a large copper pot at Evanlyn's feet and gestured towards a stream that bubbled through the rocks close by.

‘Get some water,' he told her gruffly. For a moment, the girl hesitated, then she shrugged, took up the pot and rose, groaning softly as her tired muscles and joints were called upon once more to take her weight.

‘Come on then, Will,' she said casually. ‘You can give me a hand.'

Erak was rummaging in his open pack. His head snapped round as she spoke.

‘No!' he said sharply, and the entire group turned to look at him. He pointed one blunt forefinger at Evanlyn.

‘You, I don't mind wandering off,' he said. ‘Because I know you'll come back. But as for that Ranger, he might just take it into his head to make a run for it, in spite of things.'

Will, who had been thinking of doing just that, tried to look surprised.

‘I'm no Ranger,' he said. ‘I'm just an apprentice.'

Erak gave a short snort of laughter. ‘You may say so,' he replied. ‘But you dropped them Wargals at the bridge as well as any Ranger might. You stay where I can keep an eye on you.'

Will shrugged, smiled wanly at Evanlyn and sat down again, sighing as he leaned his back against a rock. In a few moments, he knew, it would become hard and knobbly and uncomfortable. But right now, it was bliss.

The Skandians went ahead making camp. In short order, they had a good fire going, and when Evanlyn returned with the pot full of water, Erak and Svengal produced dried provisions which they added to the water as it heated to make a stew. The meal was plain and fairly tasteless, but it was hot and it filled their bellies. Will thought ruefully for a few minutes of the pre-prepared food that came from Master Chubb's kitchen. Sadly, he realised that such thoughts of Master Chubb's kitchen and his times in the forest with Halt were no more than memories now. Images sprang into his mind, unbidden: of Tug, and Gilan and Horace. Of Castle Redmont, seen in the last rays of the setting sun, with its ironstone walls glowing dull red, seeming to hold an inner light. Tears formed behind his eyes, stinging and aching for release. Surreptitiously, he tried to wipe them away with the back of his hand. The meal was suddenly even more tasteless than before.

Evanlyn seemed to sense his deepening sadness. He felt her warm, small hand cover his and he knew she was looking at him. But he couldn't meet those vivid green eyes with his own, feeling the tears welling up in them.

‘It'll be all right,' she whispered. He tried to talk, but couldn't form the words. Silently, he shook his head, his eyes downcast, staring intently at the scratched surface of the wooden bowl the Skandians had given him to use.

They were camped some metres from the side of the road, at the top of a slight rise. Erak had stated that he liked to see anyone who might choose to approach. Now, rounding a bend in the road several hundred metres away, came a large group of horsemen, followed by a troop of Wargals, running to keep up with the horses' trot. The
sound of the Wargals' chant came to them on the breeze once more and Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

Erak turned swiftly to the two of them, gesturing them back into the cover of the rocks behind their camp site.

‘Quick, you two! Behind them rocks if you value your lives! That's Morgarath himself on the white horse! Nordel, Horak, move into the light to screen them!'

Will and Evanlyn needed no second bidding. Staying low, they scrambled into the cover provided by the rocks. As Erak had commanded, two of the Skandians stood and moved into the glare of the firelight, drawing the attention of the approaching riders away from the two small figures in the half light.

The chant, mingled with the clatter of hooves and the chink of harness and weapons, came closer as Will lay on his stomach, one arm covering Evanlyn in the darkness. As he had done before, he scooped the hood of his cloak over his head, to leave his face in deep shadow. There was a tiny gap between two of the rocks and, knowing he was taking a terrible risk but unable to resist, he pressed his eye to it.

The view was restricted to a few metres of space. Erak stood on the far side of the fire, facing the approaching riders. Will realised that by doing so, he had placed the glare of the firelight between the new arrivals and the spot where he and Evanlyn lay hidden. If any of the Wargals looked in their direction, they would be staring straight into the bright firelight. It was a lesson in tactics he filed away for future reference.

The sounds of horses and men stopped. The Wargal
chant died abruptly. For a second or two, there was silence. Then a voice spoke. A low voice, with a slight, snake-like sibilance to it.

‘Captain Erak, where are you bound?'

Will glued his eye to the crack in the rocks, straining to see the speaker. Without a doubt, that cold, malevolent voice had to belong to Morgarath. The sound of it was the sound of ice and hatred. The sound of nails scraping on tile. The blood ran cold to hear it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and, beneath his hand, he felt Evanlyn shiver.

If it had a similar effect on Erak, however, he showed no sign of it.

‘My correct title is “Jarl”, Lord Morgarath,' he said evenly, ‘not “Captain”.'

‘Well then,' replied the cold voice, ‘I must try to remember that, in case it is ever of the slightest interest to me. Now … Captain,' he said, laying stress on the title this time, ‘I repeat, where are you bound?'

There was a jingle of harness and, through the crack in the rocks, Will saw a white horse move forward. Not a glossy-coated, shining white horse such as a gallant knight might ride, but a pale horse without sheen or life to its coat. It was huge, dead white and with wild, rolling eyes. He craned slightly to one side and managed to make out a black gloved hand holding the reins loosely. He could see no more of the rider.

‘We thought we'd join your forces at Three Step Pass, my lord,' Erak was saying. ‘I assume you will still go ahead with your attack, even though the bridge is down.'

Morgarath swore horribly at the mention of the bridge. Sensing his fury, the white horse sidestepped a few paces and now Will could see the rider.

Immensely tall, but thin, he was dressed all in black. He stooped in the saddle to talk down to the Skandians and the hunched shoulders and his black cloak gave him the look of a vulture.

The face was thin, with a beak of a nose and high cheekbones. The skin on the face was white and pallid, like the horse. The hair above it was long, set to frame a receding hairline, and white-blond in colour. By contrast, the eyes were black pools. He was clean-shaven and his mouth was a thin red slit in the pallor of his face. As Will looked, the Lord of Rain and Night seemed to sense his presence. He looked up, casting his gaze beyond Erak and his three companions, searching into the darkness behind them. Will froze, barely daring to breathe as those black eyes searched the night. But the light of the fire defeated Morgarath and he returned his gaze to Erak.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘The attack will go ahead. Now that Duncan has his own forces deployed and in what he thinks is a strong defensive position, he'll allow us to come out onto the Plains before attacking.'

‘At which point, Horth will take him in the rear,' Erak put in, with a chuckle, and Morgarath stared at him, head slightly to one side as he considered him. Again, the birdlike pose made Will think of a vulture.

‘Exactly,' he agreed. ‘It would be preferable if there were two flanking forces as I'd planned originally, but one should be enough.'

‘My thoughts too, my lord,' Erak agreed and there was a long moment of silence. Obviously, Morgarath had no interest in whether Erak agreed with him or not.

‘Things would be easier if your other countryman had not abandoned us,' Morgarath said eventually. ‘I've been told that your compatriot Ovlak has sailed back to Skandia with his men. I had planned that they should come up the southern cliffs to reinforce us.'

Erak shrugged, refusing to take blame for something outside his sphere of influence. ‘Ovlak is a mercenary,' he said. ‘You can't trust mercenaries. They fight only for profit.'

‘And you … don't?' the toneless voice said with scorn. Erak squared his shoulders.

‘I'll honour any undertaking I've made,' he said stiffly. Morgarath stared at him again for a long, silent moment. The Skandian met his gaze and, finally, it was Morgarath who looked away.

‘Chirath told me you took a prisoner at the bridge – a mighty warrior, he said. I don't see him.' Again, Morgarath tried to look through the light into the further gloom. Erak laughed harshly.

‘If Chirath was the leader of your Wargals, neither did he,' he replied sarcastically. ‘He spent most of his time at the bridge cowering behind a rock and dodging arrows.'

‘And the prisoner?' Morgarath asked.

‘Dead,' Erak replied. ‘We killed him and threw him over the edge.'

‘A fact that displeases me intensely,' Morgarath said and Will felt his flesh crawling. ‘I would have preferred to make
him suffer for interfering in my plans. You should have brought him to me alive.'

‘Well, we would have preferred it if he hadn't been whipping arrows around our ears. He could shoot, that's for sure. The only way to take him was to kill him.'

Another silence as Morgarath considered the reply. Apparently, it was not satisfactory to him. ‘Be warned for the future. I did not approve of your actions.'

This time, it was Erak who let the silence stretch. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if Morgarath's displeasure was a matter of absolutely no interest to him. Eventually, the Lord of Rain and Night gathered his reins and shook them, heeling his horse savagely to turn it away from the camp fire.

‘I'll see you at Three Step Pass, Captain,' he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned his horse back. ‘And Captain, don't get any ideas about deserting. You'll fight with us to the end.'

Erak nodded. ‘I told you, my lord, I'll honour any bargain I've made.'

This time, Morgarath smiled, a thin movement of the red lips in the lifeless white face. ‘Be sure of it, Captain,' he said softly.

Then he shook the reins and his horse turned away, springing to a gallop. The Wargals followed, the chant starting up again and ringing through the night. Will realised that, behind the rocks, he'd been holding a giant breath. He let it go now, and heard a corresponding sigh of relief from the Skandians.

‘My god of battles,' said Erak, ‘he doesn't half give me the creeps, that one.'

‘Looks like he's already died and gone to hell,' put in Svengal, and the others nodded. Erak walked round the fire now and stood over where Will and Evanlyn were still crouched behind the rocks.

‘You heard that?' he said and Will nodded. Evanlyn remained crouching, face down, behind the rock. Erak stirred her with the toe of his boot.

‘And you, missy,' he said. ‘You heard too?'

Now she looked up, tears of terror staining tracks in the dust on her face. Wordlessly, she nodded. Erak glanced away, in the direction where Morgarath and his Wargals had gone.

‘Then remember it if you plan to escape,' he said. ‘That's all that awaits you if you get away from us.'

The Plains of Uthal formed a wide open space of rolling grasslands. The grass was rich and green. There were few trees, although occasional knolls and low hills served to break the monotony. Some distance behind the position occupied by the Araluan army, the Plains began to rise gradually, to a low ridgeline.

Closer to the fens, where the Wargals were forming up, a creek wound its way. Normally a mere trickle, it had been swollen by the recent spring rains so that the ground ahead of the Wargals was soft and boggy, precluding any possible attack by the Araluan heavy cavalry.

Baron Fergus of Caraway shaded his eyes against the bright noon sun and peered across the Plains to the entrance to Three Step Pass.

‘There are a lot of them,' he said mildly.

‘And more coming,' Arald of Redmont replied, easing his broadsword a little in its scabbard.

The two barons were slowly walking their battlehorses
across the front of Duncan's drawn-up army. It was good for morale, Arald believed, for the men to see their leaders relaxed and engaging in casual conversation as they watched their enemies emerging from the narrow mountain pass and fanning out onto the Plains. Dimly, they could hear the ominous, rhythmic chant of the Wargals as they jogged into position.

‘Damned noise is quite unnerving,' Fergus muttered and Arald nodded agreement. Seemingly casual, he cast his glance over the men behind them. The army was in position, but Battlemaster David had told them to remain at rest. Consequently, the cavalry were dismounted and the infantry and archers were sitting on the grassy slope.

‘No sense in wearing them out standing at attention in the sun,' David had said and the others had agreed. By the same token, he had set the various Kitchenmasters the task of keeping the men supplied with cool drinks and fruit. The white-clad servers moved among the army now, carrying baskets and water skins. Arald glanced down and smiled at the portly form of Master Chubb, his chef from Redmont Castle, supervising a group of hapless apprentices as they handed out apples and peaches to the men. As ever, his ladle rose and fell with alarming frequency on the heads of any apprentice he deemed to be moving too slowly.

‘Give that Kitchenmaster of yours a mace and he could rout Morgarath's army single-handed,' commented Fergus, and Arald smiled thoughtfully. The men around Chubb and his apprentices, distracted by the fat cook's antics, were taking no notice of the chanting from across the Plains. In other areas, he could see signs of restlessness
and evidence that the men were becoming increasingly ill at ease.

Looking around, Arald's eye fell on an infantry captain seated with his company. Their minimal armour, plaid cloaks and two-handed broadswords marked them as belonging to one of the northern fiefs. He beckoned the man over and leaned down from the saddle as he saluted.

‘Good morning, Captain,' he said easily.

‘Morning, my lord,' replied the officer, his heavy northern accent making the words almost unrecognisable.

‘Tell me, Captain, do you have pipers among your men?' the Baron asked, smiling. The officer answered immediately, in a very serious manner.

‘Aye, sir. The McDuig and the McForn are with us. And always so when we go to war.'

‘Then perhaps you might prevail upon them to give us a reel or two?' the Baron suggested. ‘It might be an altogether more pleasant sound than that tuneless grunting from over yonder.'

He inclined his head towards the Wargal forces and now a slow smile spread over the captain's face. He nodded readily.

‘Aye, sir. I'll see to it. There's nothing like a skirl or two on the pipes to get a man's blood prancing!' Saluting hurriedly, he turned away towards his men, shouting as he ran: ‘McDuig! McForn! Gather your wind and set to the pipes, men! Let's hear “The Feather Crested Bonnet” from ye!'

As the two barons rode on, they heard behind them the preliminary moaning of bagpipes coming to full volume. Fergus winced and Arald grinned at him.

‘Nothing like the skirl of the pipes to get the blood prancing,' he quoted.

‘In my case, it gets the teeth grinding,' replied his companion, surreptitiously nudging his horse with his heel to move them a little further away from the wild sound of the pipes. But, when he looked at the men behind them, he had to agree that Arald's idea had worked. The pipes were successfully drowning out the dull chanting and, as the two pipers marched and countermarched in front of the army, they held the attention of all the men in their immediate vicinity.

‘Good idea,' he said to Arald, then added, ‘I can't help wondering if that's an equally good one.'

He gestured across the plain to where the Wargals were emerging from the Pass and taking up their positions. ‘All my instincts say we should be hitting them before they have a chance to form up.'

Arald shrugged. This point had been hotly debated by the War Council for the past few days.

‘If we hit them as they come out, we simply contain them,' he said. ‘If we want to destroy Morgarath's power once and for all, we have to let him commit his forces in the open.'

‘And hope that Halt has been successful in stopping Horth's army,' Fergus said. ‘I'm getting a nasty crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder to make sure there's no one behind us.'

‘Halt has never let us down before,' Arald said mildly.

Fergus nodded unhappily. ‘I know that. He's a remarkable man. But there are so many things that could have gone wrong. He could have missed Horth's army
altogether. He may still be fighting his way through the Thorntree. Or, worse yet, Horth may have defeated his archers and cavalry.'

‘There's nothing we can do about it but wait,' Arald pointed out.

‘And keep an eye to the north-west, hoping we don't see battleaxes and horned helmets coming over those hills.'

‘There's a comforting thought,' said Arald, trying to make light of the moment. Yet he couldn't resist the temptation to turn in his saddle and peer anxiously towards the hills in the north.

Erak had waited till the last few hundred Wargals were moving down Three Step Pass to the Plains, then forced his small group into the middle of the jogging creatures. There were a few snarls and scowls as the Skandians shoved their way into the living stream that was flowing through the narrow, twisting confines of the Pass, but the heavily armed sea raiders snarled back and handled their double-sided battleaxes with such easy familiarity that the angry Wargals soon backed off and left them alone.

Evanlyn and Will were in the centre of the group, surrounded by the burly Skandians. Will's easily recognisable Ranger cloak had been hidden away in one of the packs and both he and Evanlyn wore sheepskin half capes that were too large for them. Evanlyn's short hair was covered by a woollen cap. So far, none of the Wargals had taken any notice of them, assuming them to be servants or slaves to the small band of sea raiders.

‘Just keep your mouths shut and your eyes down!' Erak had told them as they shoved their way into the crowd of jogging Wargals. The narrow confines of the Pass echoed to the tuneless chanting that the Wargals used as a cadence. The sound ebbed and flowed about them as they half-ran with the stream. Erak's plan was to move eastwards as soon as they had cleared the Pass, ostensibly with the purpose of taking up a position on the right flank of the Wargal army. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, the Skandians would break off and escape into the swampy wilderness of the fenlands, travelling through the bogs and grassy islands to the beaches where Horth's fleet lay at anchor.

They shuffled along, twisting and turning with the convolutions of the Pass. The narrow trail led down through the sheer mountains for at least five kilometres and Will could understand why it had always been a barrier to both sides. Morgarath's men couldn't move out in any large numbers unless Duncan held back and allowed them to. Similarly, the King's army couldn't penetrate the Pass to attack Morgarath on the plateau.

Black walls of sheer, glistening-wet rock towered above them on either side. The Pass saw sunlight for less than an hour each day, right on high noon. At any other time, it was cold and damp and shrouded in shadow. All of which served to help conceal the presence of the two younger members of the party from prying eyes.

Will felt the ground beneath his feet beginning to level out and realised they must be in the last extremities of the Pass – down at the level of the Plains. There was no way he could even see the ground ahead of him, trapped in the seething, jostling crowd. They rounded a final bend and a
lance of sunlight stabbed into the Pass, forcing him to throw up a hand to shield his eyes. They had reached the entrance, he realised. He felt a shove from his left.

‘Get over to the right!' Erak told them and the four Skandians formed a human wedge, forcing their way through the crowd until they were on the extreme right-hand side of the Pass. There were growls and angry grunts from the Wargals they shoved, several of them being sent sprawling and then trampled before they could regain their feet. But the Skandians gave as good as they got in terms of threats and abuse.

The sunlight hit them like a physical barrier as they emerged from the darkness of the Pass and, for a moment, Will and Evanlyn hesitated. Erak shoved them on again, more anxious now as he could hear a familiar voice calling commands for the Wargals to deploy.

Morgarath was here, directing operations.

‘Curse him!' muttered Erak. ‘I'd hoped he'd be out with the vanguard of the army. Keep moving, you two!' He shoved Will and Evanlyn along a little faster. Will glanced back. Above the heads of the Wargals, he could see the tall, thin form of the Lord of Rain and Night, now clad entirely in black mail armour and surcoat, still seated on his white horse and calling instructions to the milling, chanting Wargals.

Gradually, they were moving into ordered formations, then taking their position with the main army. As Will looked back, the pale face turned towards the group of hurrying Skandians and Morgarath urged his horse towards them, unmindful of the fact that he was trampling through his own men to reach them.

‘Captain Erak!' he called. The voice wasn't loud, but it carried, thin and cutting, through the chanting of the Wargals.

‘Keep going!' Erak ordered them in a low voice. ‘Keep moving.'

‘Stop!' Now the voice was raised and the cold anger in it instantly silenced and stilled the Wargals. As they froze in place around them, the Skandians reluctantly did the same, Erak turning to face Morgarath.

The Lord of Rain and Night spurred his horse through the throng, Wargals falling back to make way for him, or being buffeted out of the way if they failed to do so. Slowly, his eyes locked on those of Erak, he dismounted. Even on foot, he towered over the bulky Skandian leader.

‘And where might you and your men be bound today, Captain?' he asked in a silky tone. Erak gestured to the right.

‘It's normal for me and my men to fight on the right wing,' he said, as casually as he could manage. ‘But I'll go wherever you need me if that doesn't suit.'

‘Will you?' replied Morgarath with withering sarcasm. ‘Will you indeed? How terribly kind of you. You …' He broke off, his gaze on the two smaller figures whom the other Skandians had been trying, unsuccessfully, to shield from his gaze.

‘Who are they?' he demanded. Erak shrugged.

‘Celts,' he said easily. ‘We took them prisoner in Celtica and I'm planning to sell them to Oberjarl Ragnak as slaves.'

‘Celtica is mine, Captain. Slaves from Celtica are mine as well. They're not for you to take and sell to your barbarian of a king.'

The Skandians surrounding Will and Evanlyn stirred angrily at his words. Morgarath turned his cold eyes on them, then looked away at the thousands of Wargals who surrounded them – every one ready to obey any command of his without question. The message was clear.

Erak tried to bluff his way through the situation.

‘Our agreement was we fought for booty and that includes slaves,' he insisted, but Morgarath cut him off.

‘If you fought!' he shouted furiously. ‘
If!
Not if you stood by and let my bridge be destroyed.'

‘It was your man Chirath who was in command at the bridge,' Erak flashed back at him. ‘It was he who decided no guard was to be left on it. We were the ones who tried to save it while he was hiding behind rocks!'

Morgarath's gaze locked with Erak's once more and now his voice dropped to a low, almost inaudible level.

‘I am not spoken to in that fashion,
Captain
Erak,' he spat. ‘You will apologise to me at once. And then …'

He stopped in mid-sentence. He seemed to possess almost unnatural peripheral senses. Although he had been staring, unblinkingly, into Erak's eyes, he had apparently sensed something off to one side. Those black eyes now turned and trained on Will. One white, bony finger was raised, pointing at the boy's throat.