The tournament at gorlan, p.4
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       The Tournament at Gorlan, p.4

           John Flanagan
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  “That’s enough,” said Crowley, lowering his bow. He had no wish to shoot at men who were retreating and, effectively, defenseless.

  Halt nodded agreement. “They’ll keep running until they reach the border.”

  They turned their horses and began to walk the remaining fifty meters to the barricade. As they approached, the villagers straggled out from behind the tangle of tables, chairs, handcarts and the other paraphernalia they had thrown up to stop the attackers.

  A ragged cheer went up as the two riders stopped and dismounted.

  A tall, heavily built man in his mid-thirties stepped forward. He was one of the better armed and equipped among the villagers, with a single-bladed battleax in one hand and a large wooden shield on his other arm. He wore an iron helmet, a simple piece in the shape of an acorn.

  He leaned his ax against a nearby handcart and greeted them, right hand outstretched.

  “Can’t tell you how glad we are to see you,” he said, smiling broadly. “We were on our last legs here. You arrived just in time. I’m Yorik, headman of the village.”

  Halt deferred to Crowley, motioning for him to step forward. The Ranger did so, shaking the headman’s hand and grinning at the other villagers who were clustering around.

  “Glad to be of service,” he said. “My name’s Crowley, and this cheerful chap with me is named Halt.”

  Halt nodded a greeting as Yorik appraised them keenly. He took in the cowled cloaks, the dual sidearms—saxe and throwing knife—and, of course, the mighty longbows both men carried.

  “Judging by the way you shoot,” he said, “you’re King’s Rangers.”

  Crowley nodded. “I am. He’s as good as.” He gestured around the village, taking in the still figures lying in the street and the burning and smoldering buildings. “What caused all this?”

  Yorik’s face clouded over. “Prince Duncan caused it. He went raiding with his men over the border and stirred up the Scotti. Then he moved on before they could retaliate, leaving us to face the music. Curse his criminal hide,” he said bitterly. Then a look of sudden fear swept over his face. These were King’s Rangers, after all, and likely to owe their allegiance to Prince Duncan as a member of the royal household. “Forgive me,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I spoke without thinking.”

  Crowley shook his head. “No forgiveness necessary,” he said. “We’ve been hearing some strange tales about Duncan. Sounds like they’re true.”

  Yorik nodded warily. He still wasn’t totally sure of his ground.

  Halt entered the conversation. “We heard he’d been throwing his weight around—stealing and helping himself to anything he fancied.”

  Yorik seemed a little reassured by the note of censure in Halt’s voice. “Aye, that’s right. And when he’d taken everything of value, he moved on. We were glad to see him go—until the Scotti turned up, of course. Duncan has twenty men-at-arms with him. They would have made short shrift of these brutes.”

  He gestured at the two dead Scotti lying in the street. Already, the other villagers were beginning to dismantle the barricade and return the items of furniture to the homes they had come from. Of course, the inn was totally destroyed, so several pieces that had come from the taproom were left to one side. Yorik looked gloomily at the smoldering wreckage of the inn. As they watched, a final section of the roof collapsed in on the rest. Sparks flew in a shower, then settled slowly.

  “We’ll give you a hand clearing things away,” Crowley said, and he and Halt joined the villagers in their work, returning the carts and furniture to where they had come from, and laying the bodies of those villagers killed in a row by the side of the road. The dead Scotti were piled separately, and with considerably less care.

  “We’ll bury our people later,” Yorik told them. “The Scotti we’ll burn.”

  Crowley dusted off his hands and looked around. The barricade had been dismantled and removed. The funerals, he sensed, would be a private matter for the villagers, where outsiders like him and Halt would be intruding.

  “Thanks for your help,” Yorik said. “If you hadn’t turned up, we’d have been finished.”

  Crowley and Halt shrugged diffidently. There was nothing to say, really. It was an awkward moment and Yorik smoothed it over with his next words.

  “Come join my wife and me for a glass of cider and a bite to eat,” he said. “She’s the best cook in the village.”

  They followed him toward one of the larger houses—a single-story wattle-and-daub structure with a thatched roof.

  “I thought the Scotti might try something like this,” Yorik said. “So I’d posted lookouts along the road to the border. They caught one but the second got here in time to give us warning. We managed to throw up the barricade before they arrived.” He glanced down the road to where two men were lifting one of the still figures sprawled in the rapidly drying mud. “Not that it did young Merrick and his brother any good,” he added heavily.

  Crowley dropped a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Still, you held them off long enough for us to get here,” he said.

  Yorik nodded gratefully. “That’s true. You certainly taught those murdering Scotti a thing or two.”

  He opened the door to the house and they went inside ahead of him.

  “Maeve,” he said, “we’ve guests joining us.”

  His wife was the woman Crowley had saved with his first shot. She nodded a greeting to them and began to set food on the table.

  “You’re welcome in our home,” she said warmly.

  There was a cold roast of beef on the table and a crock of yellow pickles stood beside it. Maeve was cutting thick slices of bread while Yorik poured three mugs of cider. She smiled and gestured to the chairs by the table.

  “Seat yourselves, Rangers,” she said.

  “I’m actually not a—” Halt began, but Crowley cut him off.

  “You ride and shoot and fight like a Ranger and you were taught by one of the best of the old breed. Let’s just take it as read that you are one.”

  Halt shrugged in acquiescence and reached for a piece of bread, piling several slices of beef on it and spreading a generous helping of pickles over the top. He bit into the food and sighed contentedly.

  “So tell us about Duncan,” Crowley said.

  Yorik paused, gathering his thoughts. “He and his men turned up here four days ago. Around noon, wasn’t it, Maeve?”

  “Aye,” said Maeve. “Close enough to noon.”

  “They marched into the tavern across the way, kicking everybody else out and helping themselves to the best wine and ale that Tilson had in the cellar.”

  “They seemed to have an eye for the best,” Maeve said heavily.

  Yorik glanced at her, nodded agreement and helped himself to bread and beef before he continued. “Young Jemmy Mandell was driving his father’s prize sow out to the green when they arrived. They took her and slaughtered her, right in the street. When the boy tried to stop them, they beat him something savage. Then they started roasting joints of pork over a fire, laughing all the while. Thought the whole thing was right amusing, they did.”

  “And Duncan said nothing about this?” Crowley asked.

  Yorik shook his head sadly. “Prince Duncan was laughing the loudest. He was cheering his men on. And he kept doing so while they stole and beat people and terrorized some of the womenfolk. He’s the worst of the lot of them, if you ask me.”

  “It sounds like it,” Halt said.

  “When did they raid across the border?” Crowley asked.

  “That was the day before yesterday. They headed out around midmorning. We thought they were gone for good. Then they arrived back next day and told us what they’d been up to. ‘You can expect a return visit from the Scotti,’ Duncan told us. ‘They seemed quite annoyed when we left.’

  “Then, yesterday, they finally left us in peac
e. Except, of course, that we knew the Scotti would retaliate. Which they did, as you saw.”

  “I doubt you’ll see the Scotti again,” Crowley told him. “They won’t be too quick to follow a war leader who comes back from a raid empty-handed, with a third of his men dead or wounded.”

  “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.


  THEY SPENT THE NIGHT IN YORIK’S BARN—THERE WASN’T 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. T
here 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.


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