The Tournament at Gorlan (23 page)

“No,” said Duncan, as he slipped the loop over one foot and moved to the gap between the battlements.

“Then I hope you can hold your breath,” Halt said. He shoved the table up against the wall and belayed the rope around one of its legs. He wrapped the free end round his shoulders, seized onto the rope and leaned back, ready to take the strain. “Away you go.”

Gingerly, Duncan lowered himself backward over the drop, holding tight to the rope as Halt began to pay it out. He used his free leg to fend off from the wall as he went. Halt grunted as the prince's weight came onto the rope, but the bight around the table leg gave him a mechanical advantage and he let the rope run out smoothly and slowly.

After several minutes, he felt the line go slack and he moved to the edge of the wall, peering down. Duncan was on the riverbank below, looking up and waving as he saw Halt's face appear over the battlements. His relief at being back on firm ground was evident in his body language.

“You're all smiles now,” said Halt as he reset the wooden crosspiece in the crenellation, then lowered himself backward over the edge. “Wait till your backside hits that freezing river.”

F
ARREL
LO
OKED
AROUND
THE
INN
TO
FIND
THE
MAN
WHO
had spoken. His face was set in a scowl and he wore a red surcoat, smeared with stains and grease. In the center of the surcoat was a crude representation of a red hawk in a white circle. Farrel, who had met Prince Duncan on several occasions, had to admit that there was a surface resemblance to the prince. But it was as if he were looking at an imperfect copy, with the lines blurred and inexact.

Tiller was holding a flagon of ale in one hand and a joint of mutton in the other. As Farrel watched, he tore a strip of meat off the bone with his teeth, set the bone down and absentmindedly wiped his greasy hand on the front of his surcoat. That explained the stains, Farrel thought. The seated man continued to survey the two new arrivals as he chewed the tough mutton, his brows furrowed as he waited for an answer. Eventually, he lost patience.

“Well?” he demanded. “Who the devil are you, I said.”

Farrel nodded his head deferentially and raised a knuckle to touch his forehead. Berwick mirrored the action.

“We're honest foresters, my lord, looking for work with the local squire. My name is Farrel Molloy and this is Berwick of Gladstone.”

He glanced around the room as he spoke, feigning nervousness but using the opportunity to study the room and its occupants. There were at least a dozen men in the room in addition to the fake Duncan. All of them were armed with an assortment of swords and maces, and they all had heavy war daggers in their belts. Most of them were drinking and several had their heads resting on the table—in one instance in a pool of ale. The room was redolent with the smell of stale ale, cheap wine and too many
unwashed bodies. The gaze they turned on Berwick and Farrel was decidedly hostile. This was a group that didn't welcome strangers, Farrel thought.

Tiller snorted scornfully. “I've yet to meet an honest forester. In any case, there'll be no work for you here. Now get out.”

Farrel bowed his head in an obsequious movement. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but we've traveled long and hard to get here—”

“Not my problem,” Tiller interrupted, but Farrel persisted, head still bowed.

“We thought we could find lodging here in the inn, my lord,” he said.

Tiller made an imperious gesture. “The inn is full!” he snapped. “My men and I have all the rooms.”

Farrel allowed his glance to slide sideways to the innkeeper, who was watching the byplay with an anxious expression. He shook his head warningly at Farrel.

It was a small movement, but Tiller noticed it. “Don't look at him! I'm telling you the inn is full.”

“Yes, sir,” Farrel replied, rubbing his hands together nervously. “But perhaps we could bed down in the barn—”

Again, Tiller cut him off. “My men are in the barn. They don't want you in there with them, waiting for a chance to steal their purses!”

“My lord, we're not thieves—” Farrel began.

“You're foresters,” Tiller said scornfully. “It's much the same thing.”

Farrel tried one more time, looking hesitantly around the crowded taproom. “Perhaps we could bed down here, by the fire, sir?” he suggested. “It's bitter cold of a night in these parts.”

“Did you hear me?” Tiller said, his voice rising in anger. There was a petulant ring to it now. He was accustomed to ordering people about, but he had no natural authority. Any authority he had came from fear, and the fact that he had twenty armed men to back him up. “There's no room here. Get out. You're foresters. You can sleep in the forest.”

Several of his men chuckled at that sally but he ignored them. His eyes, burning with anger, held Farrel's.

“But, my lord,” Farrel whined.

“I said get out. Do you know who I am?” The counterfeit prince stood abruptly, knocking his bench over backward and jabbing a thumb at the hawk crest on his chest.

“I . . . er . . . no, my lord,” Farrel admitted.

“I am Prince Duncan of Araluen, son of King Oswald and heir to the throne. And I will not sit here and bandy words with a thieving forester. Now get out!” He turned to four of his men sitting nearby. “Throw them out!” he ordered.

As the soldiers began to rise clumsily to their feet, Farrel and Berwick turned and beat a hasty retreat from the inn. Behind them, as the door closed, they heard a burst of rough laughter.

The two Rangers, maintaining their charade of fear, half ran back down the high street until they had put a safe distance between them and the inn. Berwick glanced back. There was no sign of any pursuit.

“We're clear,” he said softly and they slowed to walking pace.

Farrel glanced down one of the side alleys and caught a brief glimpse of several hooded and cowled figures keeping pace with them.

“Well, he's a charmer, isn't he?” he said.

Berwick shrugged. “Not what I'd call courtly manners,” he
replied. “Pity a few of them didn't come after us. I would have enjoyed seeing the lads use them for target practice.”

But Farrel shook his head. “We could have cut their numbers down, I suppose. But that would have put them on the alert and made our job tougher tonight.”

“True,” Berwick agreed. “But I hope friend Tiller, heir to throne of Araluen as he is, shows a little resistance tonight. I'd enjoy smacking him in the chops.”

Midnight had come and gone. The moon had slid in a low trajectory across the sky before slipping below the western horizon.

Farrel, hunched beside a tree in the small copse, pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The night was chilly, as he'd told Tiller it would be.

“Time to go,” he said softly. There was an almost imperceptible rustle of movement from the darkness around him as the assembled Rangers rose to their feet and began to move toward the road leading downhill to Haller's Rill.

Nine dark figures, swathed in their cloaks, emerged from the tree line and flowed down the hill, staying either side of the road and moving through waist-high grass. To an observer, they would have appeared like a small, dark stain spreading across the ground—dim and indistinct and difficult to focus upon. But there was no observer. Tiller and his men, having drunk themselves insensible, were lying snoring in their beds. The two sentries Tiller had detailed sat on a bench, leaning against the wall of the inn, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

As the Rangers reached the first buildings of the village, they slipped quietly into the side alleys between the houses and disappeared from view. Berwick and Farrel made their way along the
high street, staying in the shadows under the eaves of the houses. The other seven men moved to the back lanes parallel to the high street and kept pace with them. They stopped several buildings short of the inn and made their way to the high street to rejoin their leader.

They had discussed their tactics earlier, so there was no need for talk now. Farrel made a few peremptory gestures and the seven Rangers spread out in a line, bows ready, cloaks pulled clear of their quivers. They crouched, ready to shoot on a moment's notice. Silently, each of them selected an arrow from his quiver and nocked it ready to the bowstring. Farrel glanced along the line of dark figures. He wouldn't care to come charging out of the inn looking for trouble, he thought. With seven archers of this caliber, trouble would be exactly what Tiller's men would find.

Farrel started across the empty main street. There was no point crouching to avoid being seen. If anyone were watching, he'd be all too visible. Better to move as quickly as possible to get across the open space. Berwick shadowed him and the two of them slid silently across the street, disappearing into the shadows under the eaves of the house next to the tavern. They paused there, listening, every sense alert.

They heard a strange, low-pitched droning sound. The two Rangers exchanged a puzzled glance and moved silently to the end of the house, peering round it to view the entrance to the tavern.

The droning continued, then was broken by a sudden snuffle and coughing sound. As he heard that, Farrel recognized the droning for what it was. He turned to Berwick, put his mouth close to the other man's ear and breathed the word:

“Snoring.”

Berwick nodded. He had recognized the sound in the same moment Farrel had. The two men reached inside their cloaks and each produced a short, heavy wooden club. The heads of the clubs were wrapped in rags. They had no wish to split the sentries' skulls—they simply wanted to knock them out.

Silent as a pair of wraiths, they slipped round the end of the house and crossed the narrow alley to the tavern. The two sentries were sprawled on a bench by the front door. Their weapons were on the ground beside them and they leaned in on each other, snoring heavily.

Berwick wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn't care to smell that breath from close to,” he murmured. Farrel frowned at him and put a finger to his lips. They stood by the two sleeping men, clubs ready, and hesitated.

Somehow, it seemed unsporting to knock two sleeping men over the head. Berwick looked at Farrel and shrugged uncertainly.

Farrel frowned, then leaned forward and placed his hand on the nearest man's shoulder, and shook him. “Oy!” he said softly. “Wake up!”

The sentry's eyes flicked open. His mouth hung open as well and he looked up at the two dark figures standing over him. He had no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.

“Wassa matter . . . ,” he began.

Farrel, seeing he was awake and so fair game, brought his club down on his head with a muffled thump. The man let out a little groan and slid sideways on the bench, jostling his companion, who opened his eyes in turn, staring owlishly around him.

Farrel made a permissive gesture to Berwick. “Be my guest,” he said.

“Who're you?” the sentry said blearily, and with a dull THUD! Berwick laid him out in his turn. He lowered the man off the bench onto the ground, looking up at Farrel.

“Do we need to tie them up?”

Farrel shook his head. “They'll be out for hours. Let's go.”

He tried the door handle and wasn't surprised to find it was unlocked. After all, why lock a door when you have two sentries outside it? The hinges creaked softly as he pushed the door inward and they stepped into the darkened taproom.

Berwick took the lead. While Farrel had been pleading with Tiller earlier that day, the second Ranger had used the time to fix the layout of the room in his mind. He pointed to the right-hand corner, beyond the fireplace where remnants of the day's fire still glowed, casting an uncertain half light over the empty room.

“Over there,” he said, and led the way to the staircase. The stairs went up eight risers to a landing. Then another eight steps went off to the left. They moved carefully upward, setting their feet on the very edge of the stairs, where there was less movement that might cause the boards to creak.

They took the second set of eight steps in the same manner and found themselves in a low-ceilinged hallway. Berwick glanced around, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom. There was a small, dirty window to their right, which let in a little starlight. On either side of the hallway were doors to two bedrooms. And the end of the hall was a third door, to a room that seemed as though it took up the entire width of the upper story. That would be the main bedroom and that's where they expected to find Tiller.

The air was full of the rasping sound of half a dozen men snoring. Occasionally someone coughed, then resumed the snoring again. As they listened, someone let go a long and resounding fart.

“Delightful people,” murmured Berwick.

They soft-footed down the hall and paused outside the door, listening. From inside came the sound of one man snoring. They exchanged a look, nodded to each other, and Berwick eased the door open for Farrel to slip inside.