Burning Bridge (7 page)

T
HE GIRL WAS SMILING AT HIM AGAIN
. H
ALT SENSED IT
. I
T
was as if he could actually
feel
the smile radiating at him. He knew if he were to glance sideways at her, where she was riding just a few paces away from him, he would see it once more.

But he couldn’t help himself. He looked and there it was. Wide, friendly and infectious. In spite of himself, it made him want to smile back in return and that would never do. Halt hadn’t spent years cultivating a grim, unapproachable manner just to have it dispelled by this girl and her smile.

He glared at her instead. Alyss’s smile widened.

“Why, Halt,” she said cheerfully, “what a grim face that is to ride alongside.”

They had left Castle Redmont the previous day for the short ride to Cobram Castle. He had agreed readily when Lady Pauline had asked him to escort Alyss on her first assignment—in point of fact, he would have agreed to most things suggested by the head of the Diplomatic Corps. Of course, as a Diplomatic Courier, Alyss rated an official guard of two mounted men-at-arms, and they rode a few yards to the rear. But Pauline had suggested that Alyss might need advice or counsel in dealing with Sir Montague. Halt had agreed to provide it if necessary.

What Lady Pauline hadn’t mentioned was Alyss’s innate friendliness and the fact that she was so eminently
likable.
And cheerful, he thought, and that reminded him of someone else. He had been missing Will’s lively presence over the past week or so, he admitted. After years of living by himself, attending to the secret and sometimes frightening business of the kingdom, he had enjoyed the light and laughter that Will brought to his life. Now Will was far away, on his way to the Celtic court, and Halt himself had sent him there. He realized that the boy’s absence left a void in his life. Reluctantly, he told himself that he must be growing old—and sentimental.

Now here was this girl, barely sixteen but already poised and sure of herself, chiding him gently for his black mood and grim countenance and fixing him with that damned smile.

“And such a silent face as well,” she mused to herself. He realized that he had been ill-mannered and she didn’t deserve that.

“My apologies, Lady Alyss,” he said curtly. Traveling on official business, Alyss was entitled to be addressed as “Lady Alyss.” She frowned at his formality.

“Oh, come now, Halt. Is that any way for friends to speak to each other?”

He glanced at her now. The smile was still lurking there at the corners of her mouth. The frown was an artifice. She was gently teasing him, he realized, and he determined that he would not give her the satisfaction of rising to her bait.

“Are we friends, Lady Alyss?” he said, and she inclined her head thoughtfully. The action reminded him of Lady Pauline and he realized how much this girl was like her mentor. He remembered Pauline when she was much younger. It could have been her riding beside him, he thought.

“I would hope so, Halt. After all, I am a friend of Will’s and I’m apprenticed to one of
your
oldest friends, I believe. Doesn’t this give us some kind of…special relationship?”

“I am your escort, Lady,” he replied and his tone left no doubt that the conversation should end there.

With most people, that would have been the result. Halt could be quite a forbidding figure when he chose. And many people clung to the belief that Rangers dabbled in black magic, and so, were people who should not be annoyed. Obviously, however, this girl wasn’t one of those people.

“As you say, you’re my escort. And I’m very grateful that you are. But that’s not to say that we can’t be friends as well. After all, it’s quite daunting to be on my first assignment.” She paused, and then said quietly, “I’m not altogether sure that I’m up to it, as a matter of fact.”

“Of course you are!” Halt said immediately. “Pauline knows her business. If you weren’t ‘up to it,’ as you put it, she would never have entrusted the mission to you. She thinks very highly of you, you know,” he added.

“She’s an amazing woman,” Alyss said, and the admiration in her voice was obvious. “I’ve looked up to her for years, you know. She’s succeeded so well in what is generally regarded as a man’s world.”

Halt nodded agreement. “Amazing is a good word for her. She’s courageous, honest and enormously intelligent. Smarter than most men too. Baron Arald saw those qualities in her years ago. She was the one who convinced him that women are more suited to the diplomatic role than men.”

“I’ve heard people say that. Why does he think that way?”

Halt shrugged. “He feels women are more inclined to talk things through, whereas men tend to resort to physical methods more quickly.”

“So, for example, Lady Pauline would never resort to throwing someone into a moat if they were being objectionable?” she said, and Halt glanced up at her sharply. Her face was totally deadpan. Pauline had trained her well, he thought.

“No,” he agreed. “But I didn’t say that she’s always right. Some people deserve to be thrown into moats.”

He realized now that he had been chattering on with her for some minutes, in spite of his determination to maintain his usual grim, tight-lipped manner. She had drawn him out like an angler luring a fish to the hook, he realized, and he wasn’t sure how she had done it. And now she was smiling at him again. He harrumphed noisily and turned away to scan the woods on either side.

This far to the west, there was little danger to be expected. And his horse Abelard would alert him if there were any enemies or wild beasts lurking in the bushes nearby. But scanning the terrain gave him an opportunity to break off the conversation.

Alyss watched him curiously. She had seen him around Redmont for years, of course. But when Lady Pauline had introduced them the day before, she had been surprised to realize that he was at least a head shorter than she was. A lot of men were, though. She was an exceptionally tall girl and she carried herself erect. But Halt had an amazing reputation—a seven-foot-tall reputation, she mused. He was famous throughout the kingdom and one tended to think of him as a larger-than-life character. Seen close-up, he was surprisingly small in stature. Like Will, she thought, and that set her to wondering.

“What qualities does a Ranger need, Halt?” she asked.

He glanced back at her. Once bitten, twice shy, he thought. She wasn’t going to draw him out into an extended conversation again.

“A propensity for silence is a good one,” he said, and she smiled, genuinely amused at something.

“Somehow I can’t see Will managing that,” she said. She and Will had grown up together as orphans in the Castle Ward. He was probably her oldest friend. In spite of himself, Halt’s lips twitched in what was almost a smile.

“No. He does tend to chatter, doesn’t he?” he agreed. Then, realizing that she might think he was criticizing the boy, he continued quickly, “But that’s part of being a Ranger as well. He’s always asking questions. He’s always curious, always ready to learn more. A good Ranger needs that. Eventually, he’ll learn to curb his tongue a little.”

“Not entirely, I hope,” said Alyss. “I can’t imagine Will becoming grim and forbidding and taciturn, like”—she hesitated and amended what she was about to say—“some people.”

Halt raised one eyebrow at her. “Some people?” he repeated, and she shrugged.

“Nobody particular in mind,” she said. Then, changing tack, she said, “He’s very brave, isn’t he? I mean, you must be proud of what he’s done.”

Halt nodded. “He has true courage,” he said. “He can feel fear, he can be afraid. But it doesn’t stop him from doing what he has to. Mindless courage isn’t any sort of real courage at all.”

“You’ve trained him well,” Alyss said, but Halt shook his head.

“The training is important. But the qualities have to be there from the beginning. You can’t teach courage and honesty. There’s a basic openness and lack of malice in Will.”

“You know,” she said confidentially, “when I was a child, I always said I was going to marry him.”

Inwardly, he smiled at her words.
When I was a child.
She was barely more than a child now, he thought. Then he changed his mind. She was a Courier. A Diplomatic apprentice. She wore the bronze laurel branch and that meant she was very much more than a child.

“You could do a lot worse,” he said finally, and she glanced across at him.

“Really?” she said. “Do you think diplomats and Rangers make a good match, Halt?” Her tone was just too innocent, too casual. He knew exactly what she was getting at and this time he wasn’t going to be drawn. He was not going to discuss any relationship that might or might not have existed between himself and the beautiful Lady Pauline.

He met her gaze very evenly for some moments, then said, “I think we might stop here for lunch. This is as good a place as any.”

Alyss’s mouth twitched with a smile again. But this time it was a slightly rueful one.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said.

W
ILL FELT
H
ORACE’S HAND ON HIS SHOULDER AS THE BIGGER
boy began to pull him back from the two bandits.

“Back away, Will,” Horace said quietly.

The man with the club laughed. “Yes, Will, you back away. You stay away from that nasty little bow I see over there. We don’t hold no truck with bows, do us, Carney?”

Carney grinned at his companion. “That we don’t, Bart, that we don’t.” He looked back at the two boys and frowned angrily. “Didn’t we tell you to drop those sticks?” he demanded, his voice rising in pitch and very, very ugly in tone. Together, the two men began to advance across the clearing.

Horace’s grip now tightened and he jerked Will to one side, sending him sprawling. As he fell, he saw Horace turn to the rocks behind him and grab up his sword. He flicked it once and the scabbard sailed clear of the blade. That easy action alone should have warned Bart and Carney that they were facing someone who knew more than a little about handling weapons. But neither of them was overly bright. They simply saw a boy of about sixteen. A big boy, perhaps, but still a boy. A child, really, with a grown-up weapon in his hand.

“Oh, dear,” said Carney. “Have we got our daddy’s sword with us?”

Horace eyed him, suddenly very calm. “I’ll give you one chance,” he said, “to turn around and leave now.”

Bart and Carney exchanged mock terrified looks.

“Oh, dear, Bart,” said Carney. “It’s our one chance. What’ll us do?”

“Oh, dear,” said Bart. “Let’s run away.”

They began to advance on Horace and he watched them coming. He had the practice stick in his left hand now and the sword in his right. He tensed, balanced on the balls of his feet as they advanced on him, Carney with the rusty, ragged-edged sword snaking in front of him and Bart with the spiked cudgel laid back on his shoulder, ready for use.

Will scrambled to his feet and began to move toward his weapons. Seeing the action, Carney moved to cut him off. He hadn’t gone a pace when Horace attacked.

He darted forward and his sword flashed in an overhead cut at Carney. Startled by the sheer speed of the apprentice warrior’s move, Carney barely had time to bring his own blade up in a clumsy parry. Thrown off balance and totally unprepared for the surprising force and authority behind the stroke, he stumbled backward and sprawled in the dust.

In the same instant, Bart, seeing his companion in trouble, stepped forward and swung the heavy club in a vicious arc at Horace’s unprotected left side. His expectation was for Horace to try to leap back to avoid the blow. Instead, the apprentice warrior stepped forward. The practice stick in his left hand flicked up and outward, catching the heavy cudgel in its downward arc and deflecting it away from its intended line. The club’s spiked head thudded dully into the stony ground and Bart let go a deep “whoof” of surprise, the impact jarring his arm from shoulder to wrist.

But Horace wasn’t finished yet. He continued the forward lunge, and now he and Bart stood shoulder to shoulder. It was too close for Horace to use the blade of his sword. Instead, he swung his right fist, hammering the heavy brass pommel of his sword hilt into the side of Bart’s head.

The bandit’s eyes glazed and he collapsed to his knees, semiconscious, head swaying slowly from side to side.

Carney, backpedaling furiously through the sand, had regained his feet. Now he stood watching Horace, puzzled and angry, unable to grasp the fact that he and his companion had been bested by a mere boy. Luck, he thought. Sheer dumb luck!

His lips formed into a snarl and he gripped the sword tightly, advancing once more on the boy, mouthing threats and curses as he went. Horace stood his ground, waiting. Something in the boy’s calm gaze made Carney hesitate. He should have gone with his first instincts and given the fight away then and there. But anger overcame him and he started forward again.

By now, he was paying no attention to Will. The Ranger’s apprentice darted around the campsite, grabbing his bow and quiver and hastily stepping his right foot through the recurve to brace the bow against his left while he slid the string up into its notch.

Quickly, he selected an arrow and nocked it to the string. He was about to draw back when a calm voice behind him said:

“Don’t shoot him. I’d rather like to see this.”

Startled, he turned to find Gilan behind him, almost invisible in the folds of his Ranger cloak, leaning nonchalantly on his longbow.

“Gilan!” he began, but the Ranger made a sign for silence.

“Just let him go,” he said softly. “He’ll be fine as long as we don’t distract him.”

“But,” Will began desperately, looking to where his friend was facing a full-grown, very angry man. Sensing his concern, Gilan hurried to reassure him.

“Horace will handle him,” he said. “He really is very good, you know. A natural, if ever I saw one. That bit with the practice stick and the hilt strike was sheer poetry. Lovely improvisation!”

Shaking his head in wonder, Will turned back to the fight. Now Carney attacked, hacking and lunging and cutting with a blind fury and terrifying power. Horace gradually gave way before him, his own sword moving in small, semicircular actions that blocked every cut and hack and thrust and jarred Carney’s wrist and elbow with the strength and impenetrability of his defense. All the while, Gilan was whispering an approving commentary beside Will.

“Good boy!” he said. “See how he’s letting the other fellow start proceedings? Gives him an idea of how skillful he might be. Or otherwise. My God, Horace has the timing of that defensive swing just about perfect! Look at that! And that! Terrific!”

Now Horace had apparently decided not to back away any farther. Continuing to parry Carney’s every stroke with obvious ease, he stood his ground, letting the bandit expend his strength like the sea breaking on a rock. And as he stood, Carney’s strokes became slower and more ragged. His arm was beginning to ache with the effort of wielding the long, heavy sword. He was really more accustomed to using a knife to the back of most of his opponents and he hadn’t looked for this engagement to go past one or two crushing, hacking strokes to break down the boy’s guard before killing him. But his most devastating blows had been flicked aside with apparent contempt.

He swung again, losing his balance in the follow-through. Horace’s blade caught his, spun it in a circle, holding it with his own, then let it rasp down its length until their crosspieces locked.

They stood there, eye to eye, Carney’s chest heaving, Horace absolutely calm and totally in control. The first worm of fear appeared in Carney’s stomach as he realized that, boy or not, he was hopelessly outmatched in this contest.

And at that point, Horace went on the attack.

He drove his shoulder into Carney’s chest, unlocking their blades and sending the bandit staggering back. Then, calmly, Horace advanced, swinging his sword in confusing, terrifying combinations. Side, overhead, thrust. Side, side, backhand, overhead. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Forehand. Backhand. One combination flowed smoothly into the next and Carney scrambled desperately, trying to bring his own blade between himself and the implacable sword that seemed to have a life and an inexhaustible energy all its own. He felt his wrist and arm tiring, while Horace’s strokes grew stronger and firmer until finally, with a dull and final clang, Horace simply beat the sword from his numbed grasp.

Carney sank to his knees, sweat pouring off him and running into his eyes, chest heaving with exertion, waiting for the final stroke that would end it all.

“Don’t kill him, Horace!” called Gilan. “I’d like to ask him some questions.”

Horace looked up, surprised to see the tall Ranger standing there. He shrugged. He wasn’t really the type to kill an opponent in cold blood anyway. He flicked Carney’s sword to one side, way out of reach. Then, setting one boot against the defeated bandit’s shoulder, he shoved him over in the dust on his side.

Carney lay there, sobbing, unable to move. Terrified. Worn-out. Physically and mentally defeated.

“Where did you come from?” Horace asked Gilan indignantly. “And why didn’t you give me a hand?”

Gilan grinned at him. “You didn’t seem to need one, from what I could see,” he replied. Then he gestured behind Horace to where Bart was slowly rising from his kneeling position, shaking his head as the effect of the hilt strike began to wear off.

“I think your other friend needs a little attention,” he suggested. Horace turned and casually raised his sword, swinging it to clang, flat-bladed, against Bart’s skull.

Another small moan and Bart went facedown in the sand.

“I really think you might have said something,” Horace said.

“I would have if you were in trouble,” Gilan said. Then he moved across the clearing to stand over Carney. He seized the bandit by the arm and dragged him upright, frog-marching him across the clearing to throw him, none too gently, against the rock face at the far side. As Carney began to sag forward, there was a hiss of steel on leather and Gilan’s saxe knife appeared at his throat, keeping him upright.

“It seems these two caught you napping?” Gilan asked Will.

The boy nodded, shamefaced. Then, as the full import of the comment sank in, he asked: “Just how long have you been here?”

“Since they arrived,” Gilan said. “I hadn’t gone far when I saw them skulking through the rocks. So I left Blaze and doubled back here, trailing them. Obviously they were up to no good.”

“Why didn’t you say something then?” Will asked incredulously.

For a moment, Gilan’s eyes hardened. “Because you two needed a lesson. You’re in dangerous territory, the population seems to have mysteriously disappeared and you stand around practicing sword craft for all the world to see and hear.”

“But,” Will stammered, “I thought we were supposed to practice?”

“Not when there’s no one else to keep an eye on things,” Gilan pointed out reasonably. “Once you start practicing like that, your attention is completely distracted. These two made enough noise to alert a deaf old granny. Tug even gave you a warning call twice and you missed it.”

Will was totally crestfallen. “I did?” he said, and Gilan nodded. For a moment, his gaze held Will’s, until he was sure the lesson had been driven home and the point taken. Then he nodded slightly, signifying that the matter was closed. Will nodded in return. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Now,” said Gilan, “let’s find out what these two beauties know about the price of coal.”

He turned back to Carney, who was now going quite cross-eyed as he tried to watch the gleaming saxe knife pressed against his throat.

“How long have you been in Celtica?” Gilan asked him. Carney looked up at him, then back to the heavy knife.

“Tuh-tuh-tuh-ten or eleven days, my lord,” he stammered eventually.

Gilan made a pained face. “Don’t call me ‘my lord,’” he said, adding as an aside to the two boys, “These people always try to flatter you when they realize they’re in trouble. Now…” He returned his gaze to Carney. “What brought you here?”

Carney hesitated, his eyes sliding away from Gilan’s direct gaze so that the Ranger knew he was going to lie even before the bandit spoke.

“Just…wanted to see the sights, my…sir,” he amended, remembering at the last moment Gilan’s instruction not to call him “my lord.” Gilan sighed and shook his head with exasperation.

“Look, I’d just as soon lop your head off here and now. I really doubt that you have anything useful to tell me. But I’ll give you one last chance. Now let’s have THE TRUTH!”

He shouted the last two words angrily, his face suddenly only a few inches away from Carney’s. The sudden transition from the languid, joking manner he had been using came as a shock to the bandit. Just for a few seconds, Gilan let his good-natured shield slip and Carney saw through to the white-hot anger that was just below the surface. In that instant, he was afraid. Like most people, he was nervous of Rangers. Rangers were not people to make angry. And this one seemed to be very, very angry.

“We heard there were good pickings down here!” he answered immediately.

“Good pickings?” Gilan asked, and Carney nodded dutifully, the floodgates of conversation now well and truly open.

“All the towns and cities deserted. Nobody there to guard them, and all their valuables left lying around for us’n to take as we chose. We didn’t harm nobody though,” he concluded, a little defensively.

“Oh, no. You didn’t harm them. You just crept in while they were gone and stole everything of value that they owned,” Gilan told him. “I should think they’d be almost grateful for your contribution!”

“It was Bart’s idea, not mine,” Carney tried, and Gilan shook his head sadly.

“Gilan?” Will said tentatively, and the Ranger turned to look at him. “How would they have heard that the towns were deserted? We didn’t hear a thing.”

“Thieves’ grapevine,” Gilan told the two boys. “It’s like the way vultures gather whenever an animal is in trouble. The intelligence network between thieves and robbers and brigands is incredibly fast. Once a place is in trouble, word spreads like wildfire and they come down on it in their scores. I should imagine there are plenty more of them through these hills.”

He turned back to Carney as he said it, prodding the saxe knife a little deeper into the flesh of his neck, just holding it back so that it didn’t draw blood.

“Aren’t there?” he asked. Carney went to nod, realized what might happen if his neck moved, gulped instead and whispered:

“Yes, sir.”

“And I should imagine you’ve got a cave somewhere, or a deserted mine tunnel, where you’ve stowed the loot you’ve stolen so far?”

He eased the pressure on the knife and this time Carney was able to manage a nod. His fingers fluttered toward the belt pouch that he wore at his waist, then stopped as he realized what he was doing. But Gilan had caught the gesture. With his free hand, he ripped open the pouch and fumbled inside it, finally withdrawing a grubby sheet of paper, folded in quarters. He passed it to Will.

“Take a look,” he said briefly, and Will unfolded the paper, revealing a clumsily drawn map with reference points, directions and distances all indicated.