Kings of Clonmel (24 page)

Even though the tents were designed for one man, it was possible to squeeze two people into one. And of course, at any time, one of the group was on watch.

Will had the final shift, and as dawn was slowly spreading over the countryside and birds were waking up in the trees and bushes, he saw Halt crawling out of the low tent.

The older Ranger looked with annoyance at the damp patches on his knees. It was impossible to emerge from a low tent like that on wet ground without getting your trousers wet, he reflected. He stretched and walked to where Will was watching the road, wrapped in his cloak.

“Any sign of them?” he asked.

Will shook his head. “Not so far,” he said. Then he added, “I thought you said a dawn attack would be too obvious and they probably wouldn’t attack until midday?”

Halt picked up Will’s canteen and took a swig of cold water, rinsing it around his mouth, then spitting it out.

“I did. But then they might decide to do the obvious thing after all,” he said.

“Oh, it’s a case of
they think I’ll think that they’ll do A, so they’ll do B because I wouldn’t think they’d think of that but then because I might think I know what they’re thinking they’ll do A after all because I wouldn’t think they’d think that way
,” Will said.

Halt looked at him for a long moment in silence. “You know, I’m almost tempted to ask you to repeat that.”

Will grinned. “I’m not sure I could.”

Halt moved away to rummage in Will’s pack for the coffeepot.

“Might as well light a small fire,” he said. “They won’t see it among the trees, and if they smell the smoke, they’ll think it’s from Craikennis.”

Will cheered up at the words. He’d assumed they’d have a cold camp. The idea of hot coffee was a pleasant surprise. A few minutes later, Horace crawled out of the tent. He made sure he emerged on hands and toes, not letting his knees touch the wet ground. Halt scowled at him as he saw him spring athletically to his feet.

“I hate young people,” he said to himself.

Horace wandered over and took a cup of coffee to Will, then went back for one for himself. The three stood, sipping the hot, restoring drink, easing the cramps from their muscles after a night spent on the hard, damp ground. It took a little longer for Halt to manage this.

He muttered darkly about young people again. Horace and Will, wisely, chose to ignore him.

After a few minutes, Horace asked, “So what’s the drill for today, Halt?”

Halt pointed to a small knoll a few meters from the tree line.

“That’s our position there. Will and I will see if we can’t thin out Padraig’s numbers a little.” He looked at his former student. “Don’t take any chances, but whenever you can, shoot to wound or disable.” He saw the unspoken question in Will’s eyes and continued, “I know, these men are killers and murderers, and I have no compunction about shooting to kill. But a wounded man takes another man out of the battle—he has to tend to him.”

Horace smiled. “I thought you were getting sentimental in your old age, there, Halt.”

The Ranger said nothing. He glared at Horace for a long moment, and the big warrior wished he could take back the phrase “old age.” Over the past weeks, he’d noticed that Halt was a little prickly about the fact that he wasn’t getting any younger.

“Sorry,” he mumbled eventually. Halt said nothing. He snorted angrily, and Horace suddenly found it necessary to take a great interest in adjusting his belt buckle until it was just right. Halt let him suffer for a few moments, then beckoned him to follow.

“I want you mounted and ready, Horace. But stay back out of sight till I call you. And I want you to put this over your shield.”

He searched in his saddlebags and brought out a folded piece of heavy linen, handing it to the younger man.

Horace spread it out and found it to be a circular piece, a little larger than his shield, with a drawstring around the edge. It would slip over the shield and the drawstring would pull tight to hold it in position. Sometimes, he knew, knights used these covers in tournaments, when they wanted to cover their insignia and fight incognito.

But this wasn’t blank. It had a strange and rather striking design in the center. It was a reddish-orange circle, with the bottom third of its arc cut off by a straight black line that protruded a few centimeters on either side. It reminded Horace of something, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s the insignia of the Sunrise Warrior,” Halt told him. Horace cocked his head to one side interrogatively, and the Ranger continued. “He’s a figure of Hibernian myth. The story goes that when the kingdoms are in peril, the Sunrise Warrior will rise up from the East and restore order within the kingdoms.”

“And you want me to be him?” Horace said. Now that Halt had mentioned the word
sunrise
, he realized that was what the design had reminded him of.

Halt nodded. “Your legend begins today, when you save the village of Craikennis from two hundred men.”

“Eighty,” Will said. He had strolled over to watch as Horace fastened the cover over his shield. For this trip, Horace’s normal green oakleaf insignia had been painted over and his shield was blank.

Halt looked up at the interjection.

“There’ll be two hundred by the time I finish telling it,” he told Will. “We might even get you to compose a ballad of praise to the Sunrise Warrior.”

Horace smiled. “I think I’d like that,” he said. Will gave him a pained look, but he pretended not to notice it and went on, “But really, Halt, what’s all this legend and myth got to do with anything?”

“We’ll fight fire with fire.Tennyson is claiming the support of Alseiass, the almighty Golden God. Says Alseiass is the only hope for the kingdom, the only hope of protection from these outlaws. And people are buying his message. So we’ll enlist the Sunrise Warrior and offer him as an alternative. Sooner or later, Tennyson will have to challenge us. When he does, we’ll see him off.”

“Couldn’t we just capture him and get rid of him without all this rigmarole?” Will asked.

“We could. But we have to break his power, his hold over the people. We have to destroy the myth of the Outsiders. And we have to be seen to do it. Otherwise, he’ll be seen as a martyr and one of his followers will simply rise up and continue this damned business.

“The whole Outsiders plan works because there’s a power vacuum. The King is weak and incapable, so Tennyson can step into the gap to provide strong leadership and a symbol to rally round. We have to discredit both Tennyson and Alseiass, and provide a viable, visible alternative—and that’s the Sunrise Warrior.”

“You mean I’m going to have my own cult?” Horace asked, and Halt nodded reluctantly.

“In a way. Yes.”

Horace beamed. “Then perhaps you two might start showing a little more respect. I rather like the idea of having you as acolytes.”

Halt and Will exchanged a glance.

“Don’t push it,” they both said at the same time.

 

The morning wore on. After the sun had dried out his tent, Will packed it away, along with most of his camping equipment. He left out only their basic needs for cooking and, of course, the ever-present coffeepot.

While his friend attended to these details, Horace cleaned and sharpened his weapons, running a stone down the already razor-sharp edges of his sword with a pleasing
zzzzing
sound. He laid out his mail shirt and helmet, ready to put them on at short notice, and saddled Kicker. He checked every inch of his harness but left the girth straps loose for the time being. There was no point in subjecting his horse to the discomfort of a tightly cinched saddle while they waited.

During the next few hours, they were conscious of considerable movement inside the nearby village. The sentry post outside the barricade was left unmanned, but they could see men moving behind the barricade itself, in greater numbers than they’d seen on previous occasions, and the low buzz of voices carried across the field to them. From time to time, the bright morning sun reflected off weapon blades or the occasional helmet as the defenders moved from one place to another.

“Looks as if Conal is taking your warning seriously,” Will said.

Halt, who had spent the morning watching the road, hunkered down with his back against a tree, glanced at the village and nodded.

“He struck me as a reasonable man,” he said. “I hope he doesn’t tip his hand too soon. It’d be better if Padraig wasn’t aware that the entire garrison is expecting him.”

“That might be too much to hope for,” Will said. “It’s more likely Conal will be hoping that a show of force will avoid a fight.”

“It won’t,” Halt said grimly.

“You know it, and I know it,” Will said. “But does Conal?”

But in spite of his cynicism, it appeared that Conal did understand the value of surprise, and the inevitability of an attack. As the sun rose closer to the overhead position of noon, they saw a distinct decrease in the amount of visible activity at the barricade. The men on duty no longer craned over the top of the makeshift wall to see if the enemy were coming. And the babble of voices died away. The village appeared to be sleepy and peaceful. There was no sign of any defenders, no indication that Craikennis was expecting an attack. An observer would think that the villagers were relaxing over their midday meal, with perhaps a little nap to follow afterward. The sun was hot, and insects buzzed drowsily. There was even a slight shimmer of heat haze along the high road. It was a peaceful, restful, normal day in the country—up to the point when Halt spoke.

“Here they come,” he said.

WILL AND HORACE HAD BEEN DOZING CLOSE BY THE TREE HALT was leaning against. They were seasoned campaigners, and they knew there was nothing to gain by remaining tensed up, waiting for the action to start. Far better to conserve energy and rest while they could. As Halt spoke, they both snapped awake, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.

“Relax,” Halt told them. “It’s only the advance scouts.”

He indicated a point several hundred meters away, where the road passed over a crest. Three armed men had suddenly come into view, moving furtively, as if they could avoid being seen by stooping. They stopped, peering at the peaceful-looking village. One of them shaded his eyes with his hands. Nothing stirred in Craikennis, and the leader of the three scouts, apparently deciding that the village was unaware of their approach, faced back down the road and waved his so-far unseen companions forward.

Gradually, the raiders came into view over the crest.

They moved in two files on either side of the road. The watchers in the tree line could hear the faint jingle of weapons and equipment. Most of them were on foot, although Padraig and four of his senior commanders rode horses. They were small animals, however, not bred for fighting like Horace’s massive battlehorse.

Horace moved quickly back into the trees and tightened Kicker’s girth straps. The big horse, sensing imminent combat, shifted expectantly from one foot to the other, tossing his head and snorting softly while Horace soothed him and patted him, keeping a firm hold on his bridle. Horace felt a familiar tightening in his stomach now. Not fear. More expectation and nervous energy. He knew that once he mounted Kicker and charged at the enemy, he would relax. It was the waiting that got him tensed up. He wondered if Will and Halt felt the same way as the older Ranger led his apprentice toward their vantage point on the knoll. Horace smiled to himself. Even though Will was a fully fledged Ranger in his own right, Horace always thought of him as Halt’s apprentice. Will thought the same way, he knew.

“We’ll stay below the crest of the knoll,” Halt was saying. “With just our heads and shoulders visible, chances are they’ll never see where we’re shooting from, or how many of us there are.”

“Or how few,” Will suggested, and Halt considered for a few seconds before agreeing.

“Or how few,” he said. He glanced back at Horace, standing calmly beside Kicker, talking in a low, soothing voice to the horse. “Horace looks calm enough,” he said.

Will glanced back at his friend. “He always does. I don’t know how he manages it. This is the time when I’ve got butterflies in my stomach the size of fruit bats.” He had no compunction about admitting his own nervousness. Halt had taught him long ago that a man who doesn’t feel nervous before a battle wasn’t brave, he was foolish or overconfident—and either condition could prove to be fatal.

“He’s a good man to have at your back,” Halt agreed. Then he nodded his head toward the enemy. “Hullo. They’re getting ready.”

The outlaws had stopped their advance fifty meters from the village. The two files now began to spread out in two extended lines. Padraig and his companions remained behind the formation. From the village, a shout of alarm was heard, then someone began ringing a bell. A man appeared on the barricade. Even from this distance, Will and Halt could recognize him as Conal.

“Stop there!” he called. “Come no farther!”

Now there were growing sounds of panic and alarm within the village. The bell continued to toll, and men were taking up positions on the barricade. But they were pitifully few, and they appeared alarmed and surprised. Padraig obviously knew his business and understood that nothing would be gained by parleying. That would only give the villagers more time to organize their defenses. He drew his sword and held it above his head.

“Forward!” he called, his voice ringing clearly across the field. His men responded, moving forward at a steady walk. There was no point in running at this stage. They’d only arrive out of breath and exhausted at the barricade that way.

From their secluded position, Halt and Will had a side-frontal view of the battle line as the outlaws advanced. It was a perfect position for an assault. The two ranks began to increase their pace, jogging now as they approached the barricade.