Kings of Clonmel (17 page)

He reined Tug in, sniffing the air experimentally. There was a trace of something on the faint breeze—something that was just a little unexpected, just a little out of place. He turned his head from side to side, still sniffing, trying to determine what it was. Then he had it.

Smoke. Or rather, ashes. The wet ashes of a dead campfire. They moved on, the smell becoming stronger and more pungent. A hundred meters farther along the track, he found its source, in a spot where the trail widened out to form a substantial clearing. There was ample evidence that the raiders had camped here for the night—the blackened circles of four fires, and flattened spaces on the grass where men had rolled into their blankets and slept. More dung showed where the band’s half dozen horses had been picketed.

Will sat on a tree stump and considered the scene as Tug watched him with intelligent eyes.

“They camped here, so we can’t be too close to their eventual destination,” he said. That made sense when he thought about the escarpment he had seen earlier. It must still be a good half day’s ride away from their current position. If darkness had been closing in when they reached this point, it would have been an ideal place for them to camp.

“At least we know we’re on the right trail,” he told Tug, and the little horse cocked his head to one side.

Will grinned at him. Sometimes, he wondered how accurate his interpretations of Tug’s unspoken messages were. And he wondered if other Rangers talked to their horses the way he did when they were alone. He had a suspicion that Halt did, but he’d never seen proof of the fact.

He stood, looking at the sky. There were still three or four hours of daylight left. If the trail remained as easy to follow as it had been so far, there was no reason why he shouldn’t reach the raiders’ camp that evening.

He rode on. The path widened a little, and although it was still gradually climbing uphill, it tended to wind and twist less than it had previously. There was no need to proceed slowly. He could see where the trail led and there was no chance in the next hour or two of catching up with the raiders. They were at least two hours ahead of him. So he let Tug fall into an easy lope, eating the kilometers beneath them.

As the day wore on, the black cliffs came closer. The sun dropped behind them, throwing the surrounding countryside into shadow. When he estimated that the escarpment was an hour’s ride away, Will eased Tug to a halt. He dismounted and rested the little horse for ten minutes, splashing some water from his canteen into a small folding leather bucket so the horse could drink. He took a mouthful himself and chewed on a piece of dried smoked beef. He smiled quietly as he thought of Horace’s grumbling over such rations. Will quite liked the taste of smoked beef. The chewing, of course, was another matter altogether. He might like the taste, but the consistency was similar to an old boot.

He remounted and walked Tug forward. From here on, it would pay to proceed cautiously. On the evidence so far, it was unlikely that the raiders would have an outer screen of sentries around their headquarters, but it never hurt to be careful. He nudged Tug in a signal, and the horse walked soft-footed, picking his way carefully as he had been trained to do, his hoofs making barely a sound on the damp earth of the track.

Once again, it was Will’s nose that gave him warning. The unmistakable, penetrating smell of fresh wood smoke wafted through the trees to him. They were riding along the crest of a gully and the black cliffs were ahead, seeming close enough to touch. They were only one or two hundred meters high, he saw. Not the biggest cliffs he’d ever come across. But their sides were sheer, glistening black rock. They’d be unclimbable if there wasn’t some tenuous winding track leading to the top. The smell of smoke was stronger now, and he thought he caught the faint sound of voices. He brought Tug to a stop and slipped down from the saddle.

“Stay here,” he said, and moved silently up to the next bend in the trail. He had resumed his Ranger’s cloak when he left camp that morning. Now he ghosted among the trees, taking advantage of the uncertain afternoon light that made him almost impossible to discern.

At the bend, he stayed in the shadow of the trees and found himself looking across the wide gully to an open space at the foot of the cliffs. Tents were set out in uneven, ragged lines, and fires gleamed among them. He could see men moving and others sitting around the fires. He estimated there must be at least one hundred and fifty men camped below him. Armed men, he saw. He thought about the way the people of Craikennis had dismissed the threat of a raid, and their confidence in their own numbers. If a band this size attacked a town like Craikennis, the defenders would have little chance of resisting.

He slid to the ground, his back against a tree, and studied the camp for the next hour, until night fell. He gradually identified the largest, central tent in the camp. Judging by the number of men coming and going there, it must be the leader’s headquarters. Equally important, as dusk was falling, he watched the picket line being set—a half circle of sentries who took up their positions where the open ground gave way to the tree line again. Even this group, overconfident as they might be, wouldn’t settle for the night without some form of guard.

He noted one man who had moved a little farther into the trees than his neighbors. From his elevated position, Will could see him easily. And he could see that the man wouldn’t be visible to his fellow sentries. Perhaps he had found a more comfortable spot to spend his hours on watch. Or perhaps he preferred not to be constantly under the eye of the guard commander.

Either way, it was a mistake—one that Will planned to take advantage of.

AFTER WILL HAD LEFT FOR DUFFY’S FORD, HALT AND HORACE broke camp and took the high road that headed northwest to Mountshannon. They saw only a few other travelers along the way: a single rider on a tired-looking, elderly horse and a small group of traders walking alongside a wagon pulled by a mule.

Halt greeted the traders politely as they rode past. There was no response. Four pairs of eyes followed the two riders suspiciously. Halt’s bow and the fact that Horace wore a sword and rode a battlehorse were sufficient reasons for their mistrust.

The gray-bearded Ranger sighed, and Horace looked at him, a question in his eyes. It was unlike Halt, he thought, to show emotion so easily.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking,” Halt said. “This used to be such a friendly place. People would stop and chat on the road if they met. And a road like this would be covered in travelers, all with important things to be done. Now look at it.”

He indicated the long empty road. It ran in a straight line at that point and Horace could see for perhaps a kilometer in either direction. Ahead of them, the road was deserted. Behind, there was only the plodding cart and its four attendants, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing minute.

If they expected traffic on the road to increase as they neared Mountshannon, they were disappointed. The wide, dusty highway continued to stretch empty before them.

Gradually, the forest on either side of the road gave way to open farmland. Here, the fields were in slightly better shape than those they’d passed when they first arrived in Clonmel. And the farms themselves weren’t deserted. They could see occasional figures moving in the farmyards, although the yards themselves were barricaded in the now familiar way and it was rare to see anyone moving too far from the farm buildings.

“Things don’t look quite as bad here,” Horace ventured.

“There haven’t been any raids in this area so far,” Halt reminded him. “People are a little more confident this close to a large village like Mountshannon. And the farms themselves aren’t so isolated.”

There was a warning shout from a farmhouse they were passing and they glanced across at it in time to see two men running in from a field where they had been stacking hay to take shelter behind the barricaded farmyard wall. They still carried their pitchforks, Halt noticed.

“A
little
more confident,” he repeated. “Not a lot.” Mountshannon was similar to Craikennis, although considerably larger. One main street held the principal buildings of the village—an inn and the buildings of the various traders that would be found in any sizable center: blacksmith, wheelwright, farrier, toolmaker, harness maker and general store where the ladies of the town could buy cloth and yarn and dried foodstuffs while their menfolk could buy seed, tools, oil and those hundred and one items that were always needed on a working farm.

The store was only a stopgap measure, of course; the main trading would take place in a weekly market.

Small lanes ran off the main street, linking to a network of back-streets that ran more or less parallel to the high road. These were lined by houses, where the town’s population lived. As in Craikennis, the majority of the houses were single-story, roofed with thatch and constructed with whitewashed clay set over timber frameworks. The inn was two stories, as was the farrier’s building. There was a hayloft there, with a derrick projecting over the street to raise and lower the heavy hay bales stored inside.

Once again, the two riders had to submit to an examination when they approached the town. There was no barricade here, but a small stream ran past the village at right angles to the road and a guard post had been established at the bridge that crossed it. As in Craikennis, it was a simple canvas pavilion with a couple of chairs and beds inside and a charcoal-burning stove for warmth at night. It was manned by two members of the town watch, both armed with heavy clubs and with long daggers in their belts. They stepped out onto the road now, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. As before, Halt had tossed the cowl back from his face.

“What’s your business in Mountshannon?” the taller of the two men asked. Horace eyed them critically. They were both big men, probably reasonably competent fighters, he thought. But, judging from the self-conscious way they handled their weapons, it was obvious that fighting wasn’t their principal business. They weren’t warriors.

“I’m looking to buy sheep,” Halt said. “A ram and a pair of ewes. I need to replace my breeding stock. You’ll have a market here, no doubt?”

The man nodded. “Saturday,” he said. “You’re a day early.”

Halt shrugged. “We’ve come from Ballygannon,” he said, naming an area that was well to the south, where the Outsiders had been active for some time. “Better a day early than a day late.”

The watchman frowned thoughtfully at the name. He’d heard rumors of what had been going on in the south. Everyone had. But Halt was the first person he’d seen in some weeks who had actually been through the troubled area.

“How are things in Ballygannon?” he asked.

Halt eyed him bleakly.“As I said, I need to replenish my breeding stock. They didn’t all drop dead of old age at the same moment.”

The watchman nodded understanding. “Aye, we’ve heard tales of dark doings in the south.” He looked now at Horace. Like the man in Craikennis, he could see the broad-shouldered young man didn’t have the look of a farmer or woodsman. Besides, there was a long sword at his hip and a round buckler strapped at the back of his saddle. “And who’s this?” he asked.

“My nephew Michael. He’s a good boy,” Halt told him.

The other man spoke now for the first time. “And would you be a farmer too, Michael?” he asked.

Horace gave him a cold look. “A soldier,” he said briefly.

“And what’s a soldier going to do at the markets?” the second man asked.

Halt hurried to answer. Horace’s accent was foreign and he didn’t want the youth saying more than the odd word.

“I’m here to make sure I get the sheep home,” he said. “Michael is here to make sure I get home.”

The watchman considered them for a few moments. It made sense, he thought. “And he looks like the boy who could do it,” he said, a faint smile thawing his features a little.

Horace said nothing. He simply met the man’s gaze and nodded once, strong and silent.

The two watchmen seemed satisfied. They both drew back to the side of the road, waving Halt and Horace into the town.

“Ride in,” said the one who had spoken first. “There’s an inn in the main street or, if you’ve a mind to save a few pennies, you can pitch camp in the market ground at the far end of the village. Stay out of trouble while you’re here.” He added the last statement almost as an afterthought. It was something all watchmen felt the need to say.

Halt touched a finger to his forehead in an informal salute and urged Abelard forward. Then he stopped, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, calling to the two men as they headed back to their pavilion.

“One thing,” he said, and they turned back to face him.“I’ve heard talk along the road of a man called Tennyson—some kind of priest?”

The watchmen exchanged skeptical glances. “Yes,” said the leader, “he’s some kind of priest, all right.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“Is he—” Halt began, but the second man answered the question before he could ask it.

“He’s here. He and his followers are at the market ground too. Chances are you’ll hear him preaching this afternoon if you’ve a mind.”

“Chances are,” his companion put in with now unmasked sarcasm, “you’ll hear him preaching
every
afternoon.”

Halt maintained a noncommittal expression, appearing to think over their words. “Perhaps we’ll listen in.” He looked at Horace. “It’ll break the monotony, Michael.”

“Break your eardrums, more like,” said the second watchman. “You’d do better to spend your time at the inn, you ask me.”

“Maybe,” Halt agreed. “But we’ll give the man a hearing at any rate.”

He nodded to them again and urged Abelard on. Horace, who had been waiting a few meters down the track, fell in beside him.