The Tournament at Gorlan (5 page)

“No. That's true,” Yorik agreed. “Although I'd give them free passage through here if they'd go after Duncan.”

“Where was Duncan headed when he left?” Halt asked.

“They went west. Nearest village of any size in that direction would be Kirkton-Lea. And God help them if Duncan decides to visit.”

“Have you thought of sending to Castle Araluen to ask for the King's help?” Crowley asked. “After all, he'd hardly condone what Duncan is up to.”

But Yorik shook his head. “Haven't you heard? The King is no longer at Araluen. There was an attempt on his life and Baron Morgarath insisted that he move into Castle Gorlan, where he could keep him safe.”

Halt and Crowley exchanged a surprised look. They both had the same thought but it was Halt who expressed it.

“Or keep him prisoner,” he said.

T
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enough room for four in the headman's house. The following morning, they set out on the road to Kirkton-Lea.

“Sometimes I get the feeling that we'll spend the rest of the year trailing Duncan from one village to the next,” Halt said ill-temperedly.

Crowley's gaze was fixed doggedly on the road ahead. The more he heard about Duncan's exploits, the more he believed there was some terrible mistake being made.

“I want to talk to him myself,” he said. “I can't understand why he would turn like this.”

Halt shrugged. “Why do I sense Morgarath's interfering hand in all of this?” he asked.

Crowley looked at him in surprise. “Morgarath? Why would he have anything to do with Duncan?”

Halt shook his head thoughtfully. “Morgarath is hungry for power. Having Duncan discredited, and possibly disinherited, would work in his favor. And now we find that the King is in Castle Gorlan, under Morgarath's dubious protection. That's terribly convenient for our favorite baron, isn't it?”

Crowley looked a little surprised. “I hadn't thought of it in those terms,” he said. “But there could be something in what you say.”

Halt laughed scornfully. “I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't cooked up the assassination plot in the first place. I have an uncomfortable feeling about Morgarath. And if I've learned anything over the years, it's not to ignore that sort of feeling.”

Halt and Crowley paused on a small wooded knoll overlooking the village of Kirkton-Lea. They had sunk into the long grass at
the edge of the small copse of trees. Their horses were tethered farther back in the woods behind them. Since Duncan was accompanied by at least twenty armed men, they had both thought it wiser to spy out the lay of the land before entering the village.

They could hear raised voices from the inn, with an occasional burst of ribald singing and, once, the sound of breaking furniture and a startled woman's scream.

“Nobody on the streets,” Halt observed.

Crowley nodded, his brow furrowed by a frown. “Staying indoors, most like, to keep out of harm's way.”

“Let's take a closer look,” Halt said, gesturing toward the rear laneway running behind the houses on the left-hand side.

Without waiting for Crowley's reply, he rose to a crouch and ghosted through the long grass, moving instinctively from one piece of vestigial cover to the next, using bushes and small trees to conceal him as he went. Crowley allowed Halt to establish a lead of thirty meters or so, then rose in his turn and slipped through the waist-high grass after him, barely seeming to disturb the long stems, only remaining visible for seconds at a time. For the purpose of this exercise, he had resumed his camouflaged cloak, and the mottled green-and-gray material helped him blend almost completely into the landscape as he passed across it.

When he reached the lane at the outskirts of the village, Halt continued to move stealthily, going deeper and deeper into the cluster of buildings, now using the lean-tos and barns for cover. Better to keep moving at a constant pace than to stop and start continually, he knew. Variations in pace would almost
certainly draw the attention of any eyes in the vicinity, whereas a constant, steady movement was more likely to go unremarked.

He glanced back once or twice but saw no sign of Crowley, even though he knew the redheaded Ranger would be following him.

From the knoll, Halt had marked a house that stood opposite the tavern. He reached it now and flattened himself against the rear wall, listening keenly for any sound of people moving within. For a few seconds there was nothing, then he heard a man cough and a low murmur of conversation inside—too low to make out the words.

If people were whispering inside their own homes, he thought, that indicated they were nervous. He peered round the corner of the house, looking down the littered alley to the front door of the tavern opposite. Without the bulk of the building to block the sound, the noise of shouting, roistering men was once more apparent. Scanning the sidewall of the house, he could make out one window facing into the alley. Most likely it would be covered with oiled cloth—glazed windows were a rarity in country villages. But the cloth would show a shadow moving outside, so it would be wise to move past the window in a crouch.

There was a large barrel at the far end of the alley, set to collect rainwater runoff from the roof, and several broken pieces of farm equipment lying around as well. He heard a slight movement beside him and turned to find that Crowley had arrived. Halt indicated for the Ranger to take a look. When he did, Halt leaned close, so that his mouth was almost against Crowley's ear.

“We'll move down to the main street to take a look,” he
breathed. “The water barrel will give us cover in case someone comes out of the tavern.”

Crowley nodded assent and Halt continued. “There's a small window halfway down the alley. Keep below the sill level as you go past it.”

Again, Crowley nodded. Then, without further discussion, Halt moved out from behind the house, crouching low as he half ran down the alley. As he reached the window, he crouched lower still, staying well below the level of the sill. As he ghosted past the window, he heard another mutter of voices from the inside. This time, he thought he could make out the word Duncan, and he was sure it was spoken in tones of contempt.

He took up a position behind the water barrel, where he could see through the triangular gap left between it and the wall by the tapered top of the barrel. Crowley joined him, standing a little taller so he could peer over Halt's shoulder. The shadows were deep in the alley, and as long as they didn't move, Halt was confident their cloaks would keep them concealed from a casual viewer.

They had been in position for several minutes when the door of the tavern was flung open and four men staggered out. Halt's heart lurched initially, but the men were looking into bright sunlight and the chances that they would see the two crouching figures in the shadows of the alley were slim.

They were all dressed in red surcoats over chain-mail shirts and they all wore swords at their belts. Short swords, noted Halt. Not long weapons such as those carried by knights or cavalrymen. These were simple men-at-arms then. Their mail coifs were folded down over their collars. None of them wore helmets.

Their red surcoats were dirty and stained with mud and food. On their right breasts, they carried the insignia of a red, stooping hawk in a white circle.

Crowley touched his shoulder gently, the contact barely noticeable.

“Red hawk,” he breathed. “That's the symbol for the heir to the throne. These are Duncan's men, all right.”

The four men were carrying tankards, beer slopping out as they moved. Obviously, they had been drinking for some time. There was a bench set against the wall of the tavern and they sank onto it, legs sprawling out toward the street, raising the tankards to their mouths to drink deeply. In the few seconds that the door had remained open to emit them, the sound of shouting and singing had intensified, only to be cut off again as the door shut.

“Not fair,” one of them slurred loudly. “It's our turn to relax, not to keep watch. Tiller's playing favorites again.”

Two of the others grunted agreement. The fourth man looked scornfully at the one who had spoken.

“Shut up and drink your ale. If he hears you complaining, you'll be in for it.”

Scowling, the first man finished his ale, then viciously tossed his empty tankard into the street, where it bounced and rolled before coming to a halt.

“Let him try something with me,” he said, with the belligerence of the drunk. “I'll soon show him what's what.”

The others laughed derisively at his boast and he glared at them, his temper surging at their ridicule.

“I tell you,” he continued angrily, “I'm sick of this. I've seen
precious little in the way of loot. Tiller keeps it all for his favorites. I'm of a mind to cut loose and leave this band, first chance I get.”

Unfortunately for him, the door to the inn opened as he said the last few words, and a tall, bearded figure in a red surcoat emerged. Halt stiffened instinctively. The man's clothes and chain mail were of a better quality than those of the men-at-arms. For a second or two, he was facing them and Halt could see that he wore the red hawk symbol in the center of his breast, not offset to the right like theirs.

Plus the sword at his waist was at least a meter in length, and jewels glittered on its pommel. His right hand dropped to the hilt of the sword as he turned on the man who had spoken.

“Looking to cut loose, are you?” he shouted. “I'll cut you loose, you worthless piece of dog's droppings.”

There was a hiss of metal on leather as he drew the sword and advanced on the men sprawled on the bench. The one who had spoken last lurched to his feet, his hands held out in supplication, panicked by the sight of the naked blade.

“Steady on, Tiller—”

“Duncan, you ignorant swine! Call me Duncan!” The tall man shoved the speaker viciously, sending him sprawling in the street. He was half turned away from the two watchers in the alley and his face was obscured. But his rage was all too apparent.

He whipped the sword over and struck the prone man across the legs with the flat side of the blade. The man howled in pain, then howled again as the blow was repeated, this time across his shoulders. He crouched, trying to protect himself with his hands as the taller man rained blows down on him repeatedly, his voice
rising in anger with each stroke, the blows punctuating his words.

“I told . . . you ignorant fools . . . to stand guard on the road! Not sit out here drinking! Now . . . get . . . to . . . your positions!”

“Yes, Captain! Yes, Lord Duncan!” the other men chorused. They rose hurriedly from the bench and, staying well outside the reach of the long blade, moved down the main street. Two of them went north. The third helped the unfortunate fourth man to his feet, then they half ran, half shambled their way to the south end of the village.

Satisfied that they were complying with his orders, the tall man sheathed his sword with a gesture of annoyance. Then he turned back toward the entrance of the inn. For a moment, he was facing the two observers in the alley. Neither man moved, knowing that with the bright sun full in his eyes, it would be virtually impossible for him to see into the shadows where they crouched, unmoving. Then, with a muttered curse, he flung open the door of the tavern and went back inside.

Halt had been crouching, every muscle tense as he leaned forward to watch. Now he relaxed, letting out a long-held breath
with a low sigh.

“Well,” he said softly. “What do you make of that?”

For a moment there was no reply and he turned to look at Crowley, who was staring fixedly at the tavern door, shaking his head slowly. Then the Ranger spoke.

“That's not Duncan.”