The Tournament at Gorlan (17 page)

“Looks like a good defensive site,” he said.

“Redmont is one of the three great castles of the Kingdom. Castle Gorlan and Castle Araluen itself are the other two,” Crowley said.

They rode in silence down the main street of the village and from there to the bridge. Their horses' hooves clopped loudly on the planks. Halt noticed the sound changed to a hollow note as they rode across the removable section. Obviously, it was made from lighter timber than the rest of the structure.

From the bridge, the hill became steeper as they rode up to the castle. Unlike other castles Halt had seen, Redmont was a three-sided structure, with a tall keep in the center, inside the triangular walls, and towers at each of the three corners.

“Three walls?” he commented to Crowley.

“They needed less ironstone that way. It's not a common material. But it's virtually indestructible. You could shoot away with siege weapons all day here and barely make a mark on the walls.”

The walls loomed above them as they drew closer. The road led to a huge drawbridge, set across the moat and currently lowered, with a heavy portcullis on the far side, in the gateway to the castle.

Two spearmen in half armor were on guard at the near end of the drawbridge. They stepped into the middle of the road to bar Halt's and Crowley's passage as the two horsemen drew closer. Crowley had re-donned his camouflage cloak for this encounter and now he produced his silver oakleaf insignia from under it, holding it up for the sentries to see.

“King's Ranger,” he said, his voice full of authority. “I'm here on official business to see the Baron.”

T
HEY
WERE
KEPT
WAITING
IN
THE
ANTEROO
M
OUTSIDE
THE
Baron's office for some twenty minutes. Crowley kept glancing at a water clock on the mantelshelf as the liquid slowly dripped away and the level lowered. Halt realized his friend was worrying about Samdash, sitting on the hill waiting for their signal that all was well.

Finally, Arald's secretary emerged from the inner room and beckoned them in.

“The Baron will see you now,” he said.

The office was a large room, with a huge fireplace to one side and a low table surrounded by four comfortable-looking chairs on the other. In the middle, facing a window that looked out over the parkland, was Arald's massive desk—an oak table set on four thick legs, with his high-backed chair behind it and three straight-backed wooden chairs in front.

The Baron was writing as they entered. He looked up and waved his quill toward the chairs. “Sit down,” he said. His tone was curt and decidedly unwelcoming.

Halt and Crowley exchanged a worried glance and took their seats.

Arald was a burly, broad-shouldered man and Halt guessed he was in his mid-twenties. He was handsome and clean-shaven, and looked to be well muscled—although it appeared that he might have a problem controlling his weight. He had a hint of a double chin and his tunic seemed to strain across his middle. There was a large bowl of sweets on the desk close to his left hand and he absentmindedly popped one into his mouth and chewed on it. A long sword in a red leather scabbard, chased with silver, lay sideways across the table, its two-handed hilt
within easy reach of his right hand.

Arald glared at them for some moments before speaking. “I suppose you're two more of those useless fops Morgarath keeps sending to replace my Ranger,” he said harshly. Then he frowned slightly. “Although I have to admit, you don't look like the others.”

“The others?” Crowley asked.

Arald continued. “He's sent two so far—spineless couch lizards they were too. The first one came with a letter over the King's seal, accusing Farrel of attacking and robbing a party of traders on the border between Gorlan and Redmont, and dismissing him from the Ranger Corps. I sent that one packing back to Morgarath.”

“You didn't believe the accusation?” Halt asked.

Arald glanced at him curiously, noticing the Hibernian accent. “No, I didn't—since Farrel was traveling with me at the time he was supposed to have committed the offense. I sent back a letter to that effect but the only reaction was another of those soft-handed idiots turned up, repeating the accusation and bearing a commission to take over as Ranger of Redmont Fief. Sent him packing too.”

He paused, eyeing them suspiciously. “But if you came from Morgarath, you already know this.”

Crowley cleared his throat, then said deliberately, “We didn't come from Morgarath.” He hesitated, looking to Halt, not sure whether he should reveal their hand. The Hibernian nodded and Crowley continued. “In fact, we think he means to usurp the throne. We plan to accuse him of doing that at the annual tournament at Gorlan.”

Arald had been leaning forward to talk to them. Now he sat
back in surprise, studying the two faces before him. He saw a grim resolve in each and he inclined his head thoughtfully. “I was going to bring the charges against Farrel before the Council of Barons at the tournament to have them dropped. Sounds like you're preparing to do a whole lot more. Who's we and how do you plan to do it?”

“We are a group of former Rangers—all of us dismissed by Morgarath, who claimed to act on the King's behalf. We plan to enlist the aid of Prince Duncan and get him to issue us with a royal warrant in lieu of the King.”

Arald made a dismissive gesture. “Duncan won't be any use,” he said bitterly. “Last I heard, he was stirring up trouble on the northern border and doing his best to break our treaty with the Scotti.”

“That's not Duncan,” Halt said. “That's an impostor working under Morgarath's orders. We've seen him. The real Duncan is being held prisoner in Castle Wildriver. We believe that's how Morgarath is keeping the King under control.”

Arald let out a low whistle of surprise. “Is he now?” he said. “How do you know all this?”

Halt and Crowley exchanged a glance, then Halt answered. “We intercepted a messenger from Morgarath to the master of Castle Wildriver. He was carrying dispatches that detailed how Duncan was to be held prisoner until after the tournament. They also mentioned the fake Duncan and how he's working to discredit the prince.”

Arald studied the two young men with a new level of regard. “You two have been doing your homework, haven't you? Do you still have those messages?”

Crestfallen, Crowley shook his head. “We resealed them and
left them with the messenger. He was unconscious and never knew we had read them. We thought it best if Morgarath didn't know they'd been intercepted.”

Arald absentmindedly popped another sweet into his mouth and chewed for a few seconds, thinking.

“Hmmm. Yes. You were probably right to do that. No sense in forewarning him. Pity, however. They would have been concrete proof of his scheming.”

He reached for a small silver bell on the desk and pealed it several times. Almost immediately, the door opened and his secretary's face appeared around it.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Martin, ask Mistress DuLacy to join us here, would you? And send someone to fetch Farrel as well.”

“Yes, my lord.” Martin disappeared around the door's edge.

Halt was vaguely reminded of a jack in the box. Then he remembered something. He leaned toward Crowley and whispered, “Samdash.”

Crowley raised a finger, acknowledging the reminder. “My lord,” he said to Arald, “one of our men is watching the castle. If we don't signal that all is well, it'll trigger a rescue attempt from the rest of our men. We said we'd wave a red flag from the battlements near the gate.”

“I'll attend to it,” Arald said. At that moment there was a knock and Martin reappeared.

“Mistress DuLacy and the Ranger are both on their way, my lord,” he said.

Arald nodded and, as Martin was about to disappear round the door again, he held up a hand to stop him. “Martin, go out onto the battlements over the drawbridge and wave something
red, would you?”

Martin frowned. “Something red, my lord?”

Arald waved impatiently. “Yes. Yes. A flag. Or a tablecloth. Or your underpants. Anything so long as it's red. Otherwise we'll have a gang of Rangers breaking in on us.”

Martin's expression made it clear that he had no idea what Arald was talking about. It was also clear that this wasn't unusual. “As you say, my lord.”

Arald turned back to Crowley and Halt with a smile that seemed to say he enjoyed confusing his secretary. Then he went back to business.

“So what exactly did you have in mind?” he asked.

“We plan to rescue Duncan from Castle Wildriver,” Crowley said, “and have him confront Morgarath at the tournament. We also think it would be a good idea to kidnap the impostor—the false Duncan—and have him confess.”

Arald's eyebrows went up. “Ambitious,” he said. “And exactly how many of you are there?”

“There will be twelve,” Crowley told him. “All of us Rangers who have been unfairly dismissed.”

“You plan to confront Morgarath and accuse him, with just twelve men?”

“Twelve Rangers,” Halt corrected him.

Arald turned to eye the dour Hibernian for a few seconds. “Point taken,” he said. “Still, twelve men, even if they are Rangers . . .” He let the sentence hang in the air, but Crowley was quick to reply.

“We had hoped to have your support, my lord. We'd heard you weren't fond of Morgarath.”

Arald smiled, but it was a grim smile, and not at all
humorous. “Not fond of him hardly sums it up. I believe he's a liar and a traitor. And I think you're right. He's trying to take over the throne. Unfortunately, a significant number of the barons admire him and look up to him.”

“We'd heard that you also command a lot of respect among the barons, my lord,” Crowley interjected.

Arald reacted with a diffident shrug. “Possibly,” he said. “And if I could bring Morgarath before the Council of Barons with proof of what he's been doing—”

At that moment, there was a light tap on the door and he didn't finish the sentence. He glanced across at the door. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened and Halt's heart turned over as he found himself looking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall and slender and graceful. He estimated that she would stand half a head taller than he. She wore a simple and elegant white gown, with the silver laurel branch brooch of her Diplomatic Service insignia on the right shoulder. Her hair was long and ash blond, falling below her shoulders, and her face was exquisite. Her eyes were blue and had a half-amused look to
them, as if she watched the world about her and enjoyed what she saw. She looked now at the two strangers sitting with the Baron.

Halt rose to his feet instantly, knocking his chair over backward, sending it clattering on the bare floorboards of the office. Hastily, he bent to retrieve it and his cowl fell forward over his eyes, so that he was groping blindly for the chair. Finally, he composed himself, shoved the cowl back and righted his chair. Crowley had also risen to his feet, but not in the same precipitate rush as Halt. Halt faced the new arrival, who viewed him with an amused look. She held out her hand.

“I'm Pauline DuLacy,” she said. He seized her hand, realized he had done so with excessive zeal and released her. He essayed a half bow but only managed to look as if he were studying her feet.

“Halt,” he finally managed to croak.

She inclined her head gracefully. “Halt?” she said. “But I wasn't doing anything. Why should I halt?”

Halt opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and searched for words.

Fortunately, Crowley found them for him.

“Halt is his name, Mistress DuLacy,” he said.

Pauline DuLacy raised an eyebrow in poor Halt's direction. “Indeed?” she said.

“He's Hibernian,” Crowley said, as if that explained everything.

“Ah,” said Pauline DuLacy, as if it did.

Crowley reached out a hand for hers and, when she took it, he bowed over her hand, touching it lightly to his lips. “And my name is Crowley, Mistress. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“How very gallant, Master Crowley,” she said. She glanced back at Halt, who was still watching her, red-faced and with his mouth slightly open, cursing himself for a clumsy, stumbling social dolt.

“Crowley is a former Ranger,” Arald explained. “Another one of those dismissed by Morgarath.”

Pauline turned back to Crowley with a look of understanding. Then she glanced at Halt once more. “And Master Halt—are you a Ranger as well?”

Again, Halt sought for words, and again, Crowley rescued him—although Halt wished, with a stab of jealousy at Crowley's ease, that he hadn't.

“Halt is as good as a Ranger, my lady. He was trained by Pritchard.”

“Was he now?” Arald interrupted. He looked at Halt with a new level of respect.

So did the beautiful Mistress DuLacy, Halt noted, and felt his tongue well and truly tied in a knot once more.

“Pauline is a senior Courier,” Arald explained, although her clothes made the explanation unnecessary. “She's the head of the Diplomatic Service here in Redmont.” He allowed that to sink in, then said, “Pauline, these Rangers think Morgarath is planning to take over the throne.”

The woman looked at him, then at the two cloaked figures before him. “I couldn't agree more, my lord,” she said.

“And they want to stop him,” Arald continued.

Pauline now smiled at them with a new warmth. Halt's heart lurched.

“I think that's an excellent idea,” she said.