The Tournament at Gorlan (13 page)

I
N
LATER
YEARS
, H
ALT
WOULD
LOOK
BACK
ON
THE
DAYS
spent traveling with his new friends as a particularly happy time of his life. Up until this point, he had been a solitary person, suspicious of strangers and, as a result of the events that had led him to leave Hibernia, even his own family. But now, as they crisscrossed the country in search of other Rangers to join their band, he found himself in the company of men whose friendship and camaraderie he valued.

They were all driven by a common purpose and they were all men to be admired for their mastery of the Ranger's craft.

They shared the same skills, of course, and all of them were expert in each one. But some were more skilled than the others at certain disciplines. Crowley, for example, was an absolute adept in the art of moving silently and without being seen. Leander's ability to track and read and understand signs on the forest floor was far above that of his companions. Berrigan's accuracy with both his knives—the big, heavy saxe and the lighter, smaller throwing knife—was uncanny. Halt found himself asking the others for advice and tips on how to improve his skill in these areas, and he found his companions always willing to share their knowledge with him. As a result, his ability improved with each passing day. As he told himself, he was learning from the best.

Halt himself was by far the finest archer in the group. His speed and accuracy were unmatched by any of the others, and since they had left Saddler's farm he had practiced the extra skill Bob had mentioned—shooting while Abelard was moving at a full gallop—every day when they stopped to camp. Before long,
he was almost reproducing the accuracy he showed when shooting from a standing position. The others were fascinated by this technique and they tried to copy it, with mixed results. Crowley was the most successful, but even he couldn't match Halt. Of course, the redhead didn't admit that this was due to any inferiority on his part.

“Abelard's obviously got such a smooth gait that it's easy for you to gauge his motion and adjust your shooting to it. He moves like silk,” he said to Halt as they discussed it one evening. “Poor old Cropper”—he indicated his horse—“is such a tanglefoot it's a wonder he manages to stay upright when he's galloping.”

Halt regarded Crowley's horse, who was watching them with an interested expression. He hadn't noticed any tendency for him to stumble or lurch unexpectedly when he was galloping. On the other hand, he had noticed a tendency for Crowley to try to rush his release when shooting from horseback. He didn't do it all the time. Three out of five times, his shots would fly true, which was a more-than-acceptable average. But Halt managed to do it five out of five times—and ten out of ten times.

He decided, however, to allow his friend this little conceit.

They were approaching Seacliff Fief, a small barony set on an island off the southeast coast. The island, and the castle built on it, was accessed by a flat-bottomed punt that spanned the narrow waterway separating it from the mainland. Crowley, who was in the lead, raised a hand to stop the others as they approached the little strip of sand where the ferry was beached. They were still inside the fringe of trees and, so far, they hadn't been noticed by anyone at the ferry station.

“Question is,” he said in a low voice as they formed a semicircle around him, “do we all go across, or just one of us?” He
paused, then added in explanation, “We're becoming quite a noticeable group, after all.”

Berrigan shrugged. “So people notice us. What harm does that do?”

“People notice. People talk,” Halt said. “Word could get back to Morgarath that there's a group of renegade Rangers recruiting their former comrades. If that happens, he'll start to wonder what we're up to.”

“He'll do that sooner or later anyway,” Berrigan pointed out, but Leander joined in, agreeing with Halt.

“The later, the better. The more we can surprise him, the easier our task is going to be.”

“You think it's going to be easy?” Berrigan asked, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“I didn't say easy. I said easier,” Leander replied doggedly.

Berrigan nodded agreement. “Fair enough. It's a good point, I suppose. So who gets to ride aboard the ferry?”

There was a pause, then Halt said, in a voice that brooked no argument, “Crowley. This whole business has been driven by him. He's the one to do it.”

Seeing there was no disagreement from the others, Crowley prepared to ride out onto the sand. “Set up a camp back in the trees,” he said. “I'll find you when I've made contact with Egon.” Egon was the Seacliff Ranger, who had been on the list of those to be dismissed.

“Don't get seasick,” Berrigan admonished.

Crowley regarded the narrow neck of water that separated Seacliff Island from the mainland. The surface was as still as a millpond.

“I'll do my best,” he said. He urged Cropper forward and
rode out into the sunlight.

They had all decided to do away with their camouflaged cloaks for the time being. The distinctive pattern marked them out as Rangers—or, to be accurate, former Rangers. They all wore long cowled cloaks in dull colors of brown or gray or green. But even without the camouflage pattern, a band of four cloaked men, carrying longbows and armed with saxes and throwing knives, would be easy to recognize as Rangers of the old school, whereas one man in a brown cloak might well be taken for a forester or gamekeeper.

Cropper's hooves made virtually no sound in the fine dry sand of the beach, aside from a light squeaking as the tiny grains were compressed and rubbed against one another.

Crowley was nearly up to the ferry master's small house, built on pilings above the high tide mark, before he was noticed.

“Da! Traveler coming!” It was a young voice and Crowley saw that there was a boy of about ten or twelve watching him from behind the railing of the small verandah that spanned two sides of the house. A deeper voice answered from inside, the words muffled and indecipherable. Then a door onto the verandah creaked open and a short but powerfully built man emerged into the light.

“Welcome, traveler!” the ferry master called. He stepped heavily down the four stairs that led up to the verandah, buckling on a thick leather belt as he came. Crowley could see a long-bladed dagger in a scabbard on the right-hand side, and as the man reached the first step, he casually took up a blackwood quarterstaff that was leaning against the railing.

As welcoming as the ferry master might seem, Crowley was still a stranger and, in these times, no stranger was accepted
without some precaution.

“I'm looking to cross to the island,” Crowley said. The ferry master regarded him for a few seconds, taking in the longbow and the shaggy-coated, small horse. He said nothing but Crowley sensed he had been recognized for what he was. Then the man glanced at the flat-bottomed punt pulled up on the beach and the island beyond.

“Then I'd say you're in the right place to do it,” he said pleasantly. He gestured to Crowley to move toward the punt. “Wait while I get the boat in the water, then you can come aboard.”

Crowley swung down from the saddle and led Cropper toward the water's edge. “I'll give you a hand moving her,” he offered, but the ferry master shook his head.

“I can manage,” he said.

Crowley took in the thick, heavily muscled arms and massive shoulders. He had no doubt the man could move the ferry by himself. The ferry master leaned his shoulder against a padded post at one corner of the clumsy vessel and heaved. The punt slid easily down the sand and into the water. Flat bottomed and wide beamed as she was, she floated easily in a few inches. Crowley
dismounted and led Cropper aboard as the ferry master lowered the ramp. “That'll be one royal for the two of you,” the ferry master said. Crowley paid and the man began to haul on the thick rope that drew the flat-bottomed craft across to the far beach.

After a few minutes, they glided into the shallows and the tapered bow ran up onto the sand, grating against it as it came to rest. The ferry master lowered the bow ramp and Crowley led Cropper ashore. He paused as he came level with the heavy-set man, who was leaning against the railing by the ramp.

“The Ranger Egon,” he said. “Where would I find him?”

The ferry master considered the question for a second or two. There was a knowing look about him as he studied Crowley once more. The mention of Egon's name seemed to confirm his earlier supposition that Crowley was a Ranger.

“Most likely in the tavern,” he replied eventually. “That's where he spends most of his time these days, since the unpleasantness with the new man.” His tone was even, without any note of censure in it.

Crowley nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “How do I reach it?” he asked. He had never visited Seacliff before.

The ferry master gestured to an opening in the trees some thirty meters down the beach. “That's the track to the top. It winds up to the castle at the top of the hill. The village is a hundred meters from the castle and the tavern is there.”

Crowley held up a hand in a gesture of thanks, mounted Cropper and began to walk him toward the track. After a few paces, he turned and called back.

“How do I . . . ?” he began but the man anticipated the rest of the question.

“Hit that gong on the tree there.” He indicated a metal hoop
hanging from a tree branch, alongside a heavy wooden mallet. “I'll come across to fetch you.”

He moved to the hawser at the stern of the boat—although in truth, the bow and the stern were interchangeable, and depended on the direction of travel. Seizing the rope, he heaved and the boat slid smoothly into deeper water, the wavelets battering at the square bow as she slid forward. Crowley watched him go for a second or two, then turned back toward the entrance to the track.

He was frowning as he rode into the shade under the trees. So far, the dismissed Rangers they had encountered had shown a sense of rebellion and defiance. The news that Egon was likely to be found in the tavern this early in the day was troubling. It indicated that the former Ranger had simply given up when he had been replaced.

“Don't like the sound of that,” he said softly to Cropper. The horse shook its head, rattling his mane and ears as horses tend to do.

Apparently, he didn't like the sound of it either.

T
HE
VILLAGE
OF
S
EACLI
FF
WAS
SET
ON
A
NATU
RAL
PLATEAU
at the top of the hill, alongside the castle itself. Crowley rode slowly into the village as he emerged from the tree line. Several of the villagers looked curiously at him as he passed. He nodded greetings to them and they responded awkwardly, a little embarrassed to have been caught staring. But he was a stranger, and in spite of the lack of mottled camouflage on his cloak, there was something about him that marked him as a Ranger.

And, since the position of Ranger in the fief had recently been usurped by an overdressed fop, Crowley's arrival might well signify trouble.

He could see the tavern halfway along the main street. There were several tables and benches set out in the open air in front of the building, with a canvas awning above them to provide shelter from the sun. The awning bellied and flapped in the light sea breeze, alternately filling with air like a sail, then drooping once more as the breeze gusted.

There was a solitary figure seated at one of the benches, his back resting against the tavern wall. A pottery jug and a pewter tankard were on the table in front of him and he turned an incurious gaze on the rider approaching down the street. As he came closer, Crowley took in the leather jerkin, the green woolen shirt and trousers tucked into knee-high boots. It was typical Ranger garb, matched by his own, and he was confident he had found Egon, former Ranger of Seacliff Fief. A cloak was lying, folded carelessly, on the table in front of him.

Egon wasn't a young man. His hair and beard were gray, turning white in places. His face was lined and showed the marks of a hard life. He must have been close to taking the gold oakleaf of retirement, Crowley thought, which would have made
his dismissal even harder to bear. His advancing years were probably the reason he'd been assigned to Seacliff—a small fief where nothing much happened, other than the occasional raid by a Skandian wolfship. Seacliff was often a young Ranger's first assignment or an older Ranger's final one.

His clothes were rumpled and stained with the marks of food and wine. His hair was matted and untidy and his beard was untrimmed. Egon looked like a man who simply didn't care anymore.

Crowley eased down from the saddle, knotted Cropper's reins and let them fall across the horse's neck. That, if nothing else, marked him as a Ranger. Ranger horses were never tethered. There was no need for it. A Ranger horse would never stray and, as Halt had discovered, could not be stolen. And, in the event of the need for a quick departure, a Ranger didn't have to waste any time untying his mount.

Egon looked up at the new arrival, recognizing him for what he was. His lip curled in a sneer.

“What are you looking at?”

The words were slurred. The tone was aggressive. Egon had obviously been here for some time. There were wet rings and spilled liquor on the table to attest to the fact.

Crowley removed his riding gauntlets and dropped them lightly on the table. “Mind if I join you?”

The other man snorted an unintelligible reply.

Crowley shrugged his bow off his shoulder, leaned it against the table and took a seat. Egon grunted again, peered into his tankard, frowned at it, then upended the jug over it. A small trickle of liquid ran from the jug to the tankard. The former Ranger glared at it through bleary, befuddled eyes, then rapped
the tankard loudly on the table.

“Jervis!” he shouted. “Bring me more brandywine.”

Crowley's eyebrow arched. Brandywine was a potent spirit. Had Egon been drinking ale, there might have been some explanation or excuse. But brandywine? And at this early hour? No wonder the man was slurring his words. He wondered if this might turn out to be a fool's errand. Egon, at first glance, seemed an unlikely recruit to their cause. He sighed. Everything had gone well to date. He'd begun to feel complacent, assuming that every former Ranger they approached would be willing to join them.

The door to the tavern swung open and a bald man, wearing a long apron over his shirt and trousers, emerged, looking with some pity at the disheveled figure slouched on the bench. He placed another jug down in front of him and took the empty one. Then he noticed Crowley, with a small start of surprise.

“Greetings, stranger,” he said.

Egon snarled another incomprehensible comment at the words and hastily poured his tankard full to the brim.

“Good afternoon,” Crowley said quietly. He was at the same table as Egon, but sitting far enough away for the innkeeper not to assume that they were together.

“Can I get you something?” Jervis asked, gesturing to the jug in front of Egon.

Crowley shook his head at the offer of alcohol. “Do you have any coffee?”

The innkeeper couldn't prevent a look of relief touching his features. Two customers drinking ardent spirits this early in the afternoon could turn out to be trouble.

“I've got a pot just brewing. Be ready in a minute or two.”

“I'll have a mug then. A big mug,” Crowley said. He'd been riding since early morning and breakfast was a long time in the past. He glanced at Egon again. The man had his head sunk over his tankard and was muttering to himself. Crowley decided that before he spoke further to the man, he needed information. The innkeeper's pitying look seemed to indicate that he had some sympathy for the Ranger. In any event, there was no one else available to ask.

“Where's the privy?” Crowley inquired.

Jervis jerked his head toward the door. “Through the bar, out the back in the stableyard,” he said.

Crowley rose and followed him back through the door. Egon watched him go, snarled something to himself and refilled his tankard.

Once in the taproom, the innkeeper pointed to a rear door that led to the stableyard. But Crowley shook his head.

“I wanted a word in private,” he said, “without Egon hearing us.”

Jervis raised an eyebrow at the mention of the name. “You know him, do you?”

Crowley dismissed the question with a negative gesture. “I know his name. I know who he is. Or rather,” he amended, “who he was.”

“He was the Ranger of this fief,” Jervis told him. “But then a new Ranger arrived out of the blue, with papers that said Egon was to be dismissed from the service and turned out of his cabin.”

“On what grounds?” Crowley asked.

Jervis shrugged. “They said he'd stolen a necklace and a purse
from a widow on the mainland, and when her fourteen-year-old son tried to intervene, Egon beat him half to death.”

Crowley frowned. “And you believe this?”

Jervis shook his head sadly. “Egon's been the Ranger here for seven years,” he said. “In all that time, I've known him to be a good, gentle man. The people of the fief loved and respected him. I can't believe he'd do such a thing. But the papers were given under the King's seal, so they must be true.”

Crowley looked long and hard at him. Not necessarily, the look said. The innkeeper shifted uncomfortably. Denying the King's authority was a dangerous path to follow. Crowley let him off the hook with a further question.

“You say he was turned out of his cabin,” he said and, when Jervis nodded in confirmation, he added, “So where does he live? And how does he pay you for the brandy he's drinking?” Brandywine was usually brought into the country by Gallican smugglers and was an expensive tipple.

“I let him sleep out in the stables,” Jervis said, obviously feeling that the arrangement was an unfortunate one. “And the Baron pays for his drinks. I send him an account each week.”

“That's generous of him,” Crowley remarked, but Jervis shook his head, frowning.

“More self-serving than anything else. There was a lot of bitterness between them when he dismissed Egon from service. I think he decided it was safer to keep him well and truly drunk. That way, there's less chance of trouble. Egon may be getting on, but he was trained as a Ranger, after all.”

Crowley took in all this information, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Finally, he looked up at Jervis. “Thanks for that,” he said, and turned toward the door again.

Egon was still sitting slumped at the table. He glanced up when Crowley reemerged. He snorted again—it seemed to be his favored form of communication—and reached for the wine jug.

“Put that down,” Crowley said and, for a moment, the note of command in his voice made Egon pause. Then his misery got the better of him and he tilted the jug over the tankard. Crowley noted that he had to tilt quite a way now that the jug was nearly empty. He reached out and pried the jug out of the old Ranger's hand, placing it on the table out of reach.

“You won't find the answer to your problems in a jug of brandywine,” he said quietly.

Egon went white with rage. Then his right hand shot to the hilt of his saxe and he drew the big knife with a ringing hiss.

But Crowley was younger, faster and sober. He caught Egon's hand and slammed it down hard onto the tabletop, catching his knuckles between the wood of the table and the hilt of the saxe.

Egon howled with pain and rage. He released the saxe, lurched to his feet and aimed a wild, swinging right fist at Crowley. The redhead swayed back and the fist passed harmlessly in front of his face.

“I'll allow that once,” Crowley said. “And once only.”

But Egon was beyond reason and, still wildly off balance, he
aimed another jaw-crushing right hand at Crowley. This time, the young Ranger chose not to duck. He blocked the punch with a rigid left arm, then drove his own fist into Egon's solar plexus.

The punch only traveled thirty centimeters or so. But it was lightning fast and it had all of the force of Crowley's arm and shoulder and upper body behind it. It sank deep into Egon's gut and the breath hissed out of him. He doubled over, staggering, then began to retch, vomiting up the brandywine he had consumed that afternoon. The rank smell assailed Crowley's nostrils. He waited, watching like a hawk, ready in case Egon was foxing. But the older Ranger sank to one knee, continuing to retch, even though his stomach was now empty.

Slowly, he toppled over and lay on the dirt, knees drawn up, hands clutching his midsection. There was a rainwater butt nearby. Crowley took the brandy jug, tossed the remaining liquid out of it and filled it with cold water. He proceeded to throw that over Egon's head. He refilled the jug and repeated the dose, while Egon spluttered and snuffled.

The door jerked open with a bang and Jervis emerged, taking in the scene outside with wide eyes. He saw the discarded saxe on the table, looked down at the writhing, groaning form of Egon and shook his head.

“Drunk or not,” he said, “I wouldn't try to take his saxe away from him.” He looked at Crowley with a great deal of respect, mixed with a little fear.

“Does he have a horse?” Crowley asked.

Egon nodded, pointing to the rear of the building. “In the stable, with the rest of his gear.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Would you mind fetching it for me?” he said. “I'll keep an eye on our friend.”

Eyes wide, Jervis backed away from the redheaded stranger. After a few paces, he turned and dashed through the door. Crowley heard his footsteps pounding across the taproom, then the slam of another door. Egon groaned and Crowley turned to look down at him. The older Ranger was still doubled up, clutching his stomach.

“I'll . . . kill . . . you . . . for . . . that,” he snarled, the words forcing their way past the skeins of drool and spittle hanging from his lips. The smile faded from Crowley's normally cheerful face.

“You already tried,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And it didn't work out so well for you, did it?”