The Tournament at Gorlan (16 page)

T
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THE
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ANGER
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campsite when they stopped for the night.

Halt and Crowley continued to share the lean-to tarpaulin they had been using since they began their journey. The others each had a small one-man Ranger tent, which they pitched in a semicircle facing the fireplace each night.

Their horses, being Ranger trained, didn't need restraining at night but were left to wander free and graze in the vicinity of the campsite. But the extra numbers meant that they needed to be more organized than they'd been before, so Crowley assigned camp tasks to each of them.

He and Halt volunteered to continue with the preparation of meals. And, since they were good cooks, the others agreed readily. The more menial tasks of gathering firewood, building a fireplace and fetching water were all assigned on a rotating roster to the others, as was the cleaning of pots and pans used for cooking. Each Ranger cleaned his own plate and eating utensils and all of them contributed to the pot by hunting.

The weather continued fine, although the nights were chilly. But camping outdoors was no hardship to such seasoned travelers and, in the evenings, after they had eaten, Berrigan would usually sit and coax pleasant melodies from his gitarra.

Norris, it turned out, was an expert fisherman and he loved to spend the last hour of daylight sitting beside a stream, with a long, limber fishing pole extended over the water. He had an uncanny knack of sensing where fish might lie and often supplemented their larder with fresh river trout or the occasional succulent salmon. When such opportunities arose, he was excused from the daily chores of setting up camp. The prospect of fresh fish for dinner more than compensated for the extra work the
others had to undertake.

All in all, Halt thought, if it weren't for the deadly serious reason underlying their journey, it would have been a very pleasant interlude.

On this particular evening, Norris had managed to land a three-kilogram salmon for their supper. Halt and Crowley had wrapped the cleaned fish, liberally covered in butter and slices of wild-growing onion and lemon, in bark and large leaves so that it was completely sealed, then created an earth oven by shoveling red-hot coals from the fire into a small trench they dug next to the fireplace proper. They laid the wrapped fish into the trench, then covered it with more coals. Finally, they heaped earth over the layer of coals and left the fish to steam and roast inside the leaves while they sliced potatoes and fried them in butter in a cast-iron pan, with mushrooms and wilted wild greens to go with them.

The group sat round the fire when the meal was served, eating steadfastly, without too much conversation to slow down the eating process. Finally, Berrigan leaned back after his third helping, licked his buttery fingers and sighed contentedly.

“It's a pleasure to have you aboard,” he said to Norris, who frowned, not understanding.

“Aboard?” he said. “Aboard what? We're not on a ship.”

As has been stated, Norris tended to take things literally.

Berrigan simply smiled at him. “I mean it's a pleasure to have you around, if you can produce fish like that one.”

“Oh. Thank you,” said Norris. He smiled awkwardly. He wasn't a man who was used to compliments. Berrigan cleaned his greasy fingers on a convenient piece of cloth, realized too late that it was the hem of his cloak and shrugged. A few stains and
smears on one's clothes never hurt anyone. In fact, he thought, as he looked down his nose at the irregular, greasy stain, it might well add to the camouflage qualities of his cloak. He glanced across the fire to where Leander was absentmindedly wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. Beside him, Crowley belched gently.

“We're a refined lot, aren't we?” Halt said. “We'd be a big hit at a formal dinner at Castle Araluen.”

Crowley shrugged. “We're not at a formal dinner party. We're in camp. Camp manners and castle manners are two different things.”

“So I've noticed,” Halt said, then he belched as well. Raised in Castle Dun Kilty in Clonmel, he had been taught to behave with strict table manners and politeness in his youth and he was enjoying the freedom of being on the road with such an easygoing group. The belch was a long and resounding one and he smiled in satisfaction.

“Better out than in,” he said.

Egon gave him a sidelong glance. “Not for those of us who are out here with it.”

Halt considered that and nodded. He couldn't argue with it.

The beauty of cooking the salmon the way they had done was that there was no pot to clean afterward. The cast-iron pan in which they had cooked the potatoes needed cleaning and scouring, however. So Egon checked the water bucket and saw it was only a quarter full.

“I'll get water,” he said, and moved off into the shadows, soon being lost among the trees. Even on such a mundane task as fetching water, Rangers tended to be as unobtrusive as possible, instinctively moving from one patch of shade or cover to the
next. It was a lifelong skill that they practiced constantly, and unthinkingly. On more than one occasion, a Ranger's life had been saved by the practice.

“We should reach Redmont tomorrow,” Crowley said. “I'll be interested to see how Baron Arald greets us.” They were currently in Eagleton Fief and had spent the past two days inquiring about one of the dismissed Rangers—a man named Samdash. But they had had no success. People in the villages they had passed through had given them no word of the Ranger's present whereabouts. Crowley's inquiries were met with blank looks and stony silence. Finally, they had decided to abandon the search for Samdash and proceed to the adjoining Redmont Fief.

“Who's the Ranger at Redmont again?” Halt asked. He had been told, but he was full of delicious food and a little drowsy so the effort of searching his memory for the man's name seemed too much.

“Farrel,” Crowley told him.

Berrigan looked up at the name. “He's a good man.”

Leander nodded agreement. “One of the best. He'll be a great addition to the group. He's fought in more than one battle on the northern frontier when he was assigned to Norgate Fief. I hear he uses a battleax in close combat. Frightened the lights out of more than one Scotti warrior, I believe.”

“Is that allowed?” Halt asked. “I didn't think Rangers were encouraged to use heavy, close-range weapons like axes and swords.”

“Technically we're not. But who's going to tell a man with a battleax?” Berrigan said, his eyes half closed as he leaned back and enjoyed the heat radiating from the fire.

Crowley yawned hugely. “We should start thinking of
turning in,” he said, trying to remember whose turn it was for the first watch. The prospect of his bedroll was a very pleasant one. He looked up curiously as Cropper emerged from the trees and emitted a low-level grunting noise. “What is it, boy?”

Then understanding dawned and he started to his feet, his hand reaching for the saxe knife, where it lay in its scabbard on the fallen tree trunk he had been using for a backrest.

Before he could draw the weapon, however, an arrow hissed across the clearing and slammed, quivering, into the log, a few centimeters from his hand.

“Don't anybody move,” a harsh voice said out of the darkness. “There are four of us and we all have arrows ready nocked.”

Four indistinct figures moved out of the shadows under the trees. Crowley, his night vision ruined by staring into the glowing coals of the fire, squinted to see them more clearly. As they came into the circle of light thrown by the fire, he could see they were all dressed in Ranger cloaks and carried massive longbows.

As the speaker had said, each one of them had an arrow nocked on the string, drawn back about thirty centimeters. There was an air of competence and quiet confidence about them that told him they could draw fully and shoot in less than a second if necessary.

Slowly, Crowley moved his hand away from the saxe.

“Take it easy,” he said, his voice calm and untroubled. “We're not your enemies.”

“We'll decide that,” said the speaker. His face was hidden in the shadow of his cowl, with only the lower third visible. Crowley, Halt and the others were caught at a disadvantage, lying relaxing against the trunk of the tree.

Halt studied the four figures. He rolled slightly to one side
and used his fingertips to slide his throwing knife out of its scabbard, keeping it concealed beneath his body.

As he moved, the second figure from the right turned to cover him, the partly drawn arrow shaft pointing in his direction.

“Don't do anything stupid,” the man warned him. His voice sounded younger than that of the original speaker but his features too were concealed in the shadow of his cowl.

Halt held his hands up in submission. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said mildly.

“Who are you?” Crowley asked.

The original speaker turned to face him directly, although his face was still hidden by the cowl. “That's funny,” he said. “I seem to be the one with the bow. So I would have thought I'd be the one asking the questions.” He paused a few seconds, letting that sink in, then continued in a harder tone. “Who are you?”

“My name is Crowley. I'm a former Ranger, as I'm guessing you are. And these are my companions, Halt, Berrigan—”

He got no further. The cowled man interrupted roughly. “Actually, I don't really care who you are. I want to know why you've been asking about me.”

A look of understanding came over Crowley's face. “You're Samdash?”

The other man made a peremptory gesture with the point of his arrow. “You're fond of answering a question with one of your own, aren't you?” he said. “Yes. I'm Samdash. Now why have you been asking about me? Did Morgarath send you to hunt us down?”

“Morgarath?” Crowley said with a hollow laugh. “Far from it! I'm no friend of his. None of us are.”

“So you say. Nevertheless—”

“Put your weapons down . . . now!” Egon's voice came from the darkness behind the four men. Samdash tensed and began to turn around, but Egon spoke again.

“No. Don't turn around or I'll shoot,” he said calmly.

Samdash stopped the movement and cursed under his breath. He hadn't been told how many men were in the group who were asking about him. The villagers who had told him had been hazy on that point—five or six, they'd said. Obviously, he realized now, it had been six. But he didn't let his sense of frustration show as he spoke again.

“You do realize there are four of us and only one of you?” he said. “We could easily—”

He flinched violently as two arrows slammed in quick succession into a tree stump by his knee.

“You couldn't easily do anything,” Egon said. “But I could easily take down two of you before you could turn—as you just saw.”

In spite of himself, Samdash looked down at the two shafts quivering in the stump. That had been extremely fast shooting. Ranger-trained shooting, he thought.

“In addition, I'm behind you and in the dark, whereas you're outlined against the fire, where I can see you. Before your other two men could locate me, I'd have plenty of time to hit them as well.” He paused, then added, “Of course, that won't be of much interest to you, because you'll be the first one to die.”

Samdash ground his teeth together in frustration and anger. He had been careless, he realized. They had spent the afternoon searching for the small group who were asking after him, finally locating them by the glint of their fire through the trees. Then, instead of waiting and watching to ascertain how many of them there were, he had led his men forward impulsively. And now they had been outflanked. Taking a deep breath, he glanced sideways at his three companions.

“Ease your strings, boys,” he said, “and lay your bows down as he says.”

Four bowstrings were let down with a series of slight creaks. The bows were set on the ground and the arrows returned to their quivers. Crowley waited until the threat was removed, then rose slowly and walked forward. To Samdash's slight bewilderment, he held his hand out in greeting.

“As I was saying, I'm Crowley and I'm delighted to meet you.”

S
O
NOW
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ERE
WERE
TEN
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R
GROWING
PARTY
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former Rangers. Samdash's companions were Lewin, Berwick—which he pronounced “Berrick”—and Jurgen. They were all names on Crowley's list—Rangers who had been dismissed by orders purporting to come from the King. Samdash, however, was suspicious and, by dint of some judicious investigation, had determined that Morgarath was probably behind their dismissal. The four had banded together and their plan was to travel to Gorlan Fief and turn outlaw, preying on the couriers and traders serving Castle Gorlan.

“If nothing else,” Berwick said, “we can be an infernal nuisance to Morgarath.”

Crowley confirmed their suspicions about Morgarath's hand in their dismissal. And he offered them a far more effective way of getting their revenge. When the newcomers heard of his plan to release Prince Duncan and face Morgarath at the Gorlan tournament, they were eager to join Crowley's group.

There was one problem, however. Samdash was unwilling to accept Crowley's leadership. They discussed it long into the night, without reaching an agreement. A vote would have settled it—after all, there were six in Crowley's group and four in Samdash's. But Crowley feared that if Samdash lost the vote, he would depart, with his followers.

“After all,” Samdash said, after some time, “I've been leading this group for the past four weeks.”

“And you led them straight into trouble tonight,” said Halt, who had so far refrained from speaking. “You didn't take the time to find out how many men you were stalking. You just rushed in and let Egon get behind you. That's not good leadership. That's the sort of impulsive behavior that gets men killed.”

Crowley looked quickly at Samdash, whose face was flushed with anger. He felt it best to say nothing, but to see how the other ex-Ranger reacted. Surprisingly, it was Jurgen who spoke next, and he agreed with Halt.

“The Hibernian's right. You're a good man, Samdash, but you're too impulsive to be a good leader. You're impatient to get things done and that leads to mistakes.”

Samdash went to answer, but he was cut off by Lewin. Lewin had only been a Ranger for two years. He was one of the least experienced of the group. But now that the subject was raised, he was ready to add his contribution.

“I agree with Jurgen,” he said quietly. “You take too many risks, Samdash. On top of that, Crowley and his men have a real plan to take the fight to Morgarath. We were simply going to be a nuisance to him. I say we stay with them, and accept Crowley as our leader.”

Samdash, growing more flushed by the moment, looked to Berwick. Berwick was an older man. His beard was flecked with gray. He was steady and reliable and Samdash valued his advice. Berwick pursed his lips and shrugged. He knew Samdash wasn't going to like what he had to say, but he also believed that he should hear it.

“If it comes to a vote, I'll vote for Crowley,” he said. He inclined his head toward the redheaded Ranger. “You've got a good head on your shoulders, young man. And you were trained by a great Ranger.” He looked back at his former leader. “Sorry, Samdash, but he's the better choice.”

“Well, that settles it, I suppose,” Samdash said, throwing his hands wide apart. “Crowley is leader.” He wasn't happy about it. His ego was bruised by his friends' rejection. But he realized
that if he disagreed and left, he would be on his own. At least, by staying with the group, he would have a chance to strike back at Morgarath, and he wanted that more than anything else.

He leaned over and shook hands with Crowley, accepting his leadership. Crowley looked him in the eyes and judged that he was a man of his word. Samdash didn't like the way things had turned out, but he'd accept Crowley's orders.

“Thank you,” Crowley said simply. There was no point in making a speech. It was best just to let matters proceed.

Shortly after, they turned in for the night. Lewin volunteered to take the first watch. Berwick went to fetch their horses, which they had left in a glade five hundred meters away. The two groups of horses greeted each other and then moved quietly to graze close to the camp. The Rangers doused the fire and settled into their blankets. Like the others, the new members of the group had one-man tents. Soon the little campsite was quiet, except for the occasional gentle snore from one of the tents.

They moved on the following morning, riding in two files along the narrow forest track that led to the high road to Redmont. Crowley was pleased to see that their new recruits made a point of splitting up, not forming a clique but mixing with the established members of the group. Round the middle of the morning, he dispatched Jurgen and Berrigan to hunt. The two rode off together, rejoining them a couple of hours later with half a dozen plump mallard ducks.

Halt and Crowley rode together, some ten meters ahead of the others, where they could talk without being overheard.

“I've been wondering, why didn't Cropper alert us earlier last night?”

“He would have if he'd caught their scent. But they came
from downwind. By the time he heard them, it was too late.”

“Do you think Samdash will be all right?” Halt asked. There was an edge of doubt in his voice. Crowley considered the question for some seconds before answering.

“I think so,” he said carefully. “Though he does seem a little arrogant, and his ego took a blow last night.”

“More fool him for letting Egon sneak up behind them like that,” Halt said.

Crowley nodded slowly before answering. “That was careless. But then again, so was I. I should have posted a sentry to make sure we weren't surprised.”

Halt shrugged. “We may have been at fault there—”

Crowley interrupted him. “Not we. I. I was at fault. I'm the leader. I should have known better.”

“All right,” Halt conceded. “But there's a big difference between being a little careless and planning an attack without proper reconnaissance or preparation. He just barged in without taking the trouble to see how many of us there were.”

“Still, I'll need to bear it in mind for the future. But you are right. Samdash does act too hastily. He sees himself as a leader of men but he acts without thinking. And he had no real plan as to what he and his men might do in the future. Mounting nuisance raids against Morgarath's patrols wasn't going to achieve too much.”

“The important question is, do you trust him?” Halt asked.

Crowley considered his reply for several seconds. “Yes. I do. When I explained what we had in mind last night, I could see he was impressed. He'd never thought it through that far.”

“I'd be surprised if he thought anything through.”

“I think you're being too hard on him. If he's given a detailed
plan of action, he'll carry it out, I'm sure.”

“If you say so,” Halt said reluctantly. He respected Crowley's ability to judge character. The young Hibernian tended to make quick judgments based on first impressions and he knew they often turned out to be mistaken as time went by. Crowley, he knew, had a more measured view. That's what made him a better leader than Halt. So if he felt Samdash could be relied upon, Halt was prepared to accept his decision.

They stopped for a quick midday meal of bread and dried meat and fruit, then proceeded onto the high road, where Crowley pushed the pace up to a steady canter. He kept glancing around nervously as they ate up the miles to Castle Redmont. As its name suggested, the high road was built on elevated ground, with extensive views over the surrounding farm and forestland.

“I feel very exposed here,” Crowley muttered to Halt. “We can see for miles, but that means we can be seen for miles. And we're becoming a rather noticeable group.”

“Maybe we should split into two or three groups,” Halt suggested.

Crowley shook his head. “After we're done with Baron Arald,” he said. “I think we're relatively safe here in Redmont Fief.”

They topped a rise around four o'clock and found themselves looking across a small, shallow valley to Castle Redmont. In the late afternoon light, it glowed a dull red. The party stopped to study the land, spreading themselves out on either side of Halt and Crowley.

“That's magnificent,” Halt breathed, looking at the massive red-hued building rearing up above the surrounding countryside.

“It's quite something, isn't it?” Crowley said. He had visited Redmont as an apprentice. “It's built of ironstone. That's why it
glows red in the westering sun. It's not as beautiful as Castle Gorlan or Castle Araluen. But I prefer it somehow. It's more . . . businesslike.” He rode forward out of the line and turned so that he was facing the others.

“Halt and I will go ahead to talk to the Baron,” he said. “And to see if the Ranger Farrel will join us. But there's no sense in letting the world know how many of us there are now. The rest of you head down to those trees”—he indicated a densely growing section of forest at the bottom of the slope—“and make camp there. We'll join you after we've spoke to Arald and Farrel.”

There was a mumble of assent from the others. Samdash looked vaguely disappointed. He wanted to go with them into the castle. But he recognized the sense of what Crowley was saying and reluctantly agreed. He also knew he wouldn't have thought of keeping their numbers a secret. He would have barged in with all the others. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps he was a little too impulsive, he thought, and, for the first time, he accepted the fact that Crowley was a better, more thoughtful leader than he would have been. But there was something that needed to be said.

“What happens if you're wrong about Arald and he claps you in the dungeon?”

Crowley smiled at him. “It's a good point. After we've made contact, and we see how matters lie, we'll send a signal from the battlements—there, above the main gate.”

They all looked at the spot as he pointed to it. “We'll have someone wave a red flag there. So one of you stay up here to keep watch for it while the others make camp. If you don't see it within an hour or two, you'll know we've been captured.”

“What should we do then?” Leander asked.

“Two choices,” Crowley told him. “Either disband and go home or break into the castle and get us out. I know which choice I'd prefer you to make,” he added, with a half smile. “Egon, I'll leave you to work out how that's done.”

The others looked at Egon. Crowley had chosen him because he was the oldest and steadiest member of the group. He wouldn't run any silly risks. He nodded back at Crowley.

“I'll wait here for the signal then,” Samdash said, determined to have some role to play. “I'll give it an hour after you've gone through the castle gate.”

“Better make it an hour and a half,” Crowley told him. “These days, there's a lot of searching and questioning going on at castles like Redmont. We could be left cooling our heels for some time.”

Samdash nodded. “An hour and a half then,” he agreed. “I'll time it from the moment you enter the gate.”

“Very well.” Crowley looked round the line of grim faces once more to see if everyone understood their role. Then he twitched the reins and faced Cropper toward the slope leading
down into the valley. “Come on, Halt,” he said.

As Halt urged Abelard forward to join him, Crowley turned back in his saddle. “No fire,” he said. “Let's not let the world know where we are. Make sure the camp is well hidden.”

Cropper would find them, he knew. The others wheeled their horses and began to ride single file down the other side of the hill toward the trees. Only Samdash remained behind. He slipped from his saddle and led his horse to a small copse of trees, where he would be concealed by the shadows. There was a patch of sunlight and he selected a straight branch from the deadfalls lying around. He drove it upright into the ground, noting where its shadow lay. Then he made a mark at a point that he knew the shadow would reach in a little over an hour. Making sure he had a clear view of the castle and his improvised shadow clock, he settled down to wait.

Crowley and Halt rode down the gentle slope. The castle was set at the top of a hill, dominating the landscape, but in the foreground, they could make out the roofs of buildings that marked a village. Several thin spires of smoke rose from among them. Cook fires, Halt thought.

“That's the village of Wensley,” Crowley told him, and he nodded. “And there's the Tarbus River, running between the village and the castle.”

They could see the river twisting and turning, glinting silver gray in the late afternoon sun. There was a timber bridge across it and Halt could see that the center section was removable. If the village came under attack, the people could retreat to the safety of the castle, removing the center section of the bridge as they went to impede the progress of any pursuers.