The Lost Stories (37 page)

He had time to notice that the Genovesans weren't using their standard crossbows. The ones they held were smaller, like the bows used by Arridi cavalry. He wondered about that, then dismissed the thought. The range was far from extreme. The smaller bows would be more than capable of hitting their mark. And besides, if the Genovesans ran true to form, the bolts would probably be poisoned—even a slight wound would be fatal.

He saw the shooter's knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on the crossbow's stock, saw him take in half a breath.

Then his own arm went back and forward in one action and sent the saxe knife spinning across the space between them. It was a blur of brilliant light as it crossed the intervening space.

At the last moment, Will had realized that the shooter, if struck by the knife, might involuntarily trigger the release of the bow. He'd aimed for a different target.

The heavy saxe's blade, spinning as it went, sliced through the thick cord of the crossbow, severing it instantly.

As the tension was suddenly released, the limbs of the bow sprang forward with an ugly crack. The bolt fell from the bow, bouncing and clattering across the stone floor of the gallery. The shooter recoiled in surprise as he tried to understand what had just happened. His companion was quicker to comprehend. Escape was now his first priority and he swung his bow on the figure who had suddenly appeared in the stairway door. Will's throwing knife was already on its way as the bow swung toward him. He had drawn and thrown at the second Genovesan before he even saw the result of his first throw.

He would have hit him if the first assassin hadn't chosen that moment to rise from his crouching position, straight into the path of the spinning knife. It took him in the chest, killing him instantly, and he sagged back against his companion, jolting his aim so that the crossbow bolt went off line, thudding into the wooden door, close by Will's head.

The shooter dropped the bow and drew a long-bladed dagger from inside his cloak. He shoved his dead accomplice to one side and advanced quickly on Will, who was now unarmed. He was only a meter or so away when Will felt a rush of movement behind him and Nils's voice said, “Get down!”

Instantly, he dropped to his hands and knees and saw the startled expression on the Genovesan's face at the sight of the huge Skandian sea wolf who had just appeared in the doorway. Then Nils, holding the blackwood stave like a spear over his shoulder, shot it forward in an overhand thrust, slamming the heavy brass knob into the Genovesan's forehead, right between his eyes.

The force of the blow, with Nils' shoulder, arm and body weight all behind it, was sickening. The Genovesan flew backward two or three meters before he crashed to the stone floor of the gallery. His dagger fell from his hand and he lay unconscious. Nils looked at the staff in his hand once more and nodded approvingly.

“Not bad at all,” he said.

Will rose and glanced hurriedly over the balustrade to the hall below. Nobody seemed to have noticed the commotion above them. The music probably drowned out the slight noise they had made, he thought. He saw that Duncan and Evanlyn were already halfway around their circuit of the floor. He looked at Nils, who was smiling contentedly, then jerked his thumb at the unconscious Genovesan.

“Hold on to him,” he said. “I've got to get back down there.”

“I'll make sure he doesn't go anywhere.” Nils nodded cheerfully. Then, before Will could leave, he put a huge hand on his shoulder.

“You know, Ranger, this couldn't be a better wedding. A beautiful bride. A handsome groom. Good food, good ale. And to cap it all off, a fight. It's just like being back home.”

Then Will was fairly flying back down the stairs. He estimated that he had less than thirty seconds to get back to the dais and lead Alyss onto the dance floor.

He may have saved Duncan's life, but if he missed another wedding dance with Alyss, his own wouldn't be worth living.

THE GROUP ASSEMBLED IN BARON ARALD'S OFFICE LOOKED UP AS Halt entered the room.

“So, did our Genovesan friend tell you anything?” Duncan asked.

Halt had been assigned the task of interrogating the surviving assassin. Will, for all his experience and prowess in battle, was still somewhat hampered in such matters by his young face and relatively ingenuous looks. Halt's face, on the other hand, was anything but young and definitely not ingenuous. Halt had the ability to make a threat and appear as if he had every intention of carrying it through.

Possibly because he usually did.

He nodded now in answer to the King's question. “Not at first. Genovesans are notoriously closemouthed and they're not afraid of death threats. He fully expects to be executed. He accepted that risk when he took the job.”

“So how did you persuade him to talk?” Erak asked.

“Genovesans aren't afraid to die. But they are afraid of the sort of suffering their own weapons can cause,” Halt told him. He nodded to Horace, sitting on the edge of the Baron's desk, close to Cassandra. “I took a leaf out of your book, Horace. I threatened to infect him with one of his own poisoned arrows. He went a little green about the gills when I told him that the only man in Araluen who could produce an antidote lived eight days away in the north. Then he seemed quite willing to talk.”

“He really believed you'd do it?” Cassandra asked, and Halt turned to her.

“I have a very honest face,” he said with great dignity.

“Of course you do,” Cassandra replied.

Before Halt could continue, Will interposed a question that had been bothering him. “I've been wondering,” he said, “why did they wait till the bridal dance? After all, I noticed the gallery when I was standing at the front of the dais, making my speech. That means the front of the dais could be seen from the gallery. So they could have chosen to shoot when the King was making his speech.”

“Two reasons,” Halt told him, with a faint smile. “The target was exposed for a much longer period during the dance. And the target wasn't the King. It was Cassandra.”

That caused a definite stir in the people listening to him. Duncan was the first to recover.

“Cassandra? Cassandra was the target? Who wanted her killed?”

“Apparently, a man named Iqbal,” Halt said. He looked at Selethen, who was frowning at the name.

“Iqbal?” he said. “He's Yusal's brother.” He turned to the rest of the group. Some of them weren't familiar with the name. “Yusal was the Tualaghi chief who organized Erak's kidnapping some years ago,” he explained. “But Iqbal is being held prisoner in the mountain village of Maashava. He was one of the men sentenced to hard labor there.”

Halt shook his head. “Apparently not anymore. It seems Iqbal made his escape from Maashava some months ago. The Maashavites haven't got around to telling you about it yet.”

Selethen's brow darkened and he muttered a soft curse. “That's typical of them!” he said bitterly.“They're so blasted insular up there in their mountains! They've always distrusted the central government. I suppose they were trying to find a way to make themselves look blameless for letting him escape.”

“Of course,” Halt replied, “they may have sent word by now. You have been out of the country for several weeks.” He looked at Cassandra. “This Iqbal fellow is quite angry with you, Cassandra,” he said. “After all, you did foil all their plans and reduce his brother to a drooling wreck. He wanted revenge. He hired the Genovesans to kill you. And he suggested that they should use Arridi crossbows when they did it. The plan was to leave one behind.”

“Which would have caused a lot of distrust between our two countries,” Selethen said thoughtfully.

“Just so,” Halt agreed. “I gather that our friend Iqbal would enjoy seeing bad blood between Araluen and Arrida. It would distract you from the task of hunting him down. And on top of that, killing Cassandra would leave Duncan with no heir to the throne. That could well destabilize the succession, and the country.”

“And the plan would have worked if Will hadn't been so alert,” Horace said. He looked at his friend gratefully. “How many times have I said ‘thank you' since we've known each other?”

Will shrugged, embarrassed by the sudden attention of everyone in the room. “Friends don't have to thank each other,” he said. But Cassandra rose and moved toward him.

“We don't have to,” she said, “but we want to.” She placed both hands on his shoulders and leaned toward him, then paused and smiled at Alyss.

“With your permission, of course?”

Alyss smiled.“Of course,” she said, as the Princess kissed Will on both cheeks. She reflected that there had been a time when she would have torn Cassandra's hair out by the roots for such an action. We've come a long way, she thought.

Duncan rose and approached Will, reaching out to shake his hand. “My gratitude as well, Will. I have only one daughter and I'm rather fond of having her around. Particularly now that she has Horace to keep her in order.”

Cassandra responded with a most unroyal poking out of her tongue. Duncan chose to ignore it.

“I wonder,” he continued, “if there will ever come a time when I don't have to thank my Rangers for their service to me and my family.”

“I doubt it, My Lord,” Halt said, and there was a murmur of laughter in the room. They could laugh now, Halt thought, but if Will hadn't been so alert, the atmosphere in the room would be vastly different. He caught the eye of his young protégé and mouthed the words
Well done
. He saw Will's face flush with pleasure. Two unspoken words of praise from Halt meant more to Will than any amount of gratitude from the King.

“Rest assured, Your Majesty, that Iqbal won't be enjoying his freedom for too much longer,” Selethen said. “As soon as I'm back in Arrida, I'll make it a priority to hunt him down.”

“I'd appreciate that, Selethen,” Duncan told him. “I might even send a Ranger or two along to help you find him. I can't say I like the idea of someone trying to kill my daughter and getting away with it.”

The two men exchanged a long glance. Then Selethen nodded. Watching them, it occurred to Cassandra that she wouldn't care to be in Iqbal's shoes over the next few months.

The meeting broke up soon after and they all headed back to their quarters. As they approached the stairway, Alyss took Will's hand and led him into an unoccupied office to one side. He smiled at her, uncertain what she had in mind.

“Alyss . . . ,” he began, but she inclined her head in warning and laid a forefinger on his lips to silence him.

“This makes two weddings where our dance has been interrupted,” she said. “At Halt's you had to go racing off, and at this one, you nearly didn't make it back in time.”

She paused to let the message sink in, then finished:

“You'd better be there at ours.”

CROWLEY RODE WITH A HEAVY HEART, IGNORING THE BRIGHT sunshine and the singing of birds in the trees. It was a beautiful summer day in Gorlan Fief, but the young Ranger had no eyes for the rich sweep of green fields and wildflowers that surrounded him.

His horse seemed to sense his malaise. He clopped heavily, head drooping, moving with increasing lethargy as he felt no urge from his rider to maintain the pace at which they had started.

For as long as he could remember, Crowley had harbored one aim in life: to become a King's Ranger. It was the pinnacle of achievement as far as he was concerned. As a young teenager, he could see no better way to serve his King and country, no more honorable career for an adventurous and loyal citizen.

Others might, and did, strive to become knights and warriors. But Crowley had always believed that the Ranger Corps was the real center of power and influence in the Kingdom—the place where an ambitious, intelligent and, above all, skilled young man could really make his mark and play an important part in the path of history.

His mentor, Pritchard, had reinforced that dedicated sense of purpose throughout Crowley's training. As the young boy had developed his ability in tracking, unseen movement and archery, Pritchard had been at pains to remind him of the real reason why he should perfect such skills.

“We don't do it for ourselves. We don't do it for the glory. We train and we practice against the day when the King and the people of Araluen have need of these skills. As Rangers, it's our duty to be able to provide them.”

Pritchard was gone now, of course. He had been driven out of the Kingdom on a trumped-up charge of treason three years prior—shortly after he had presented Crowley with his silver oakleaf, the symbol of a graduate Ranger. Crowley had been assigned to a small, remote fief on the northwest coast and word had reached him of Pritchard's fate months after his mentor had been forced to flee. Rumor had it that he had gone across the western sea to Hibernia.

Crowley found himself isolated in more ways than one. Hogarth Fief was remote and difficult to reach, and news of what was happening in the country as a whole was intermittent at best. But he felt emotionally isolated as well. The Ranger Corps as he knew it, and as Pritchard had known it, had been subverted and weakened until it had become little more than a dissolute social club for sons of noble families—usually those too lazy or without the skill to become knights or warriors. Whereas once Rangers had selected apprentices to join the Corps, and submitted them to five years' rigorous training, these days, a new Ranger simply had to buy a commission to be granted the silver oakleaf.