The Tournament at Gorlan (31 page)

“Where are you going?” he said.

The Hibernian faced him grimly. “I'm going to put an arrow through that blackhearted swine and finish this once and for all.”

But Duncan shook his head. “That'll be murder,” he said. “I won't have it done on my account, or my father's. We'll leave Morgarath to the Council.”

Halt dropped his gaze, knowing Duncan was right. “Even so,” he said, “I can't help thinking we're making a big mistake.”

A
MONTH
LATER
, H
AL
T
RETURNED
TO
C
ASTLE
G
ORLAN
TO
observe the situation and report back to Duncan and Oswald, who had taken up residence in Castle Araluen once more.

He rode into the camp, noting with satisfaction that the haphazard accommodations that had been in place when he left were now replaced by ordered lines of tents and a small group of command pavilions. Central among these was Arald's blue-and-gold tent. The Baron of Redmont had taken command of the force left to keep watch on Morgarath and his men. Initially, it had been a hastily thrown together group of knights and men-at-arms, gleaned from the retinues of the barons present at the tournament. As Duncan had feared, several of the barons had refused to provide troops to the force, withdrawing to their own castles with their men.

Now, things looked more organized, with regular drafts of troops arriving from all corners of the Kingdom each day. He studied the rows of tents keenly. He estimated that there were over a hundred men encamped outside Gorlan's walls.

The tournament field was bare of all decoration. The flags and pennants were long gone and the tilt had been dismantled. The grandstands were bare. The canvas coverings, comfortable chairs and brightly colored cushions were all gone. On the jousting field where Arald and Morgarath had met in combat, a troop of spearmen were drilling, under the command of a sergeant.

Above the fluttering canvas of the tents, Castle Gorlan loomed, its beauty and symmetry now seeming to bear an air of gloom and malevolence. He shook his head. He was being fanciful, he thought.

Baron Arald stepped out of his command tent and came to greet Halt as he dismounted.

“Welcome, Halt,” he said. “You're a sight for sore eyes. What's the news from Castle Araluen?”

Halt frowned. “Not all good, I'm afraid. King Oswald's health is very poor and he's growing weaker every day. I don't think he's going to be with us much longer.”

Arald shook his head. “That's sad news indeed. How is Duncan taking it?”

“He's very worried for his father, of course. Oswald has appointed him Regent, so he can take most of the strain of command off his shoulders. That might help a little. But he's kicking himself for the way he let Morgarath out-talk him and twist his words at the tournament. He wasn't ready for the way Morgarath muddied the water with his barrage of allegations and accusations.”

Arald shrugged. “Not his fault. He's only young and Morgarath has years of experience in that sort of intrigue and obfuscation. Duncan will learn. In any event, once the King appeared and accused Morgarath, he knew the game was up. He had to act quickly and barricade himself in the castle where we couldn't get to him. And that was as good as an admission of guilt.”

“Duncan had better learn,” Halt said. “He's summoned the Council of Barons, as you know, so he'll be making his case before them. He's also reinstated the Ranger Corps as it was. Crowley has been appointed Commandant—he'll have authority over the entire Corps, not just the dozen of us who've been with him so far. He'll have to recruit new apprentices and locate as many of the former Rangers as he can. He's moved into quarters at Castle Araluen.”

“Sounds like he'll have his hands full,” said Arald. Then he
tilted his head at Halt. “What about you?”

“Duncan has ratified my commission as a Ranger,” Halt said. “Although Crowley tried to convince him that I still needed extra training as an apprentice.”

Arald laughed. That was typical of Crowley, ever looking for an opportunity to pull Halt's leg.

“So he wanted you to revert to a bronze oakleaf?”

Halt nodded. “Fortunately, he was convinced otherwise.”

Arald's grin widened. “By whom?” he asked innocently.

Halt replied, straight-faced. “By me, mainly. I presented a most eloquent case against demotion. I threatened to shove the bronze oakleaf up his left nostril.”

“That sounds eloquent indeed.”

Halt turned away and studied the castle. Even at a distance, he could see the heads and shoulders of the sentries on the walls. One of them was leaning against the wall of a small fighting turret that projected above the battlements.

“Anything happening here?” he asked.

Arald shook his head. “Nothing. They watch us. We watch them. Haven't seen or heard from Morgarath in over a week now. But I feel he's going to have to make a move sometime soon. With every day that passes, his position grows weaker. We've got new troops arriving every week. Eventually, we'll outnumber him and have enough men to storm the castle and take him prisoner.”

“Hmmm,” said Halt thoughtfully. “Pritchard said something along the same lines. Have you seen him lately? He was heading here to check up on a rumor he'd heard. Didn't say what it was. You know how Pritchard can be.”

“He came through here four days ago. Stayed the night, nosed around, then must have headed out. He hasn't been back since.”

Halt nodded absentmindedly. “He'll turn up sooner or later.”

“You know him better than I,” Arald said cheerfully. “Are you staying with us tonight? I'd welcome the company at dinner and I have a tent you can use.”

Halt glanced at the sky. The sun was sinking low to the horizon, through a screen of heavy clouds. It had rained the last few nights, heavy soaking rain, and it appeared that tonight would be no different.

“That'd be most welcome,” he said.

“I'll see you at dinner then,” Arald said, turning back to his own pavilion. “Right now I have to write out my night orders for the new troops.”

As he entered the tent, heavy raindrops began to thump down on its canvas roof and sides.

Halt pulled his cowl over his head and looked up at the castle again. Lights were beginning to show in the windows of the towers, coming on one after the other. Braziers along the battlements began to flare as well, screened from the rain by wooden roofs. He could make out the form of a single man moving along the battlements, carrying a torch and moving from one beacon to another, lighting them in turn. The oil-soaked firewood they held flared quickly into life.

He felt a touch on his arm and turned to see a young page, dressed in Arald's blue-and-gold livery and staring at him with some awe. “Your pardon, Master Halt,” said the boy nervously. “The Baron said as how I should show you to your tent.”

“Then lead on, young man,” said Halt, smiling at him. “But first show me where the stables are, so I can tend to my horse.”

He slept fitfully that night, kept awake by the drumming of rain on the canvas. Around three in the morning the rain died away and he fell asleep. But at five thirty he was awake again, listening to the crowing of a rooster somewhere in the camp.

Reluctantly, he decided that he was unlikely to fall asleep again. He rose, washed in the leather basin in his tent, and dressed.

The cook tent was already in action and he made his way to it, striding through the long, sodden grass. He snared a small loaf of bread, tore it apart and filled it with hot bacon, wolfing the food down hungrily. There was fresh coffee in a pot and he poured himself a mug. Then, cup in hand, enjoying the rich hot drink in the chill of the morning, he strolled up to study the castle once more.

He frowned. Something was odd, he thought. Something was wrong. But the castle was unchanged. The sentries were still visible on the battlements, still in their positions. The man he had noticed the previous evening, leaning against the turret, was still in the same spot.

Then it hit him.
Nothing
had changed. Nobody had changed positions in eleven hours. That was what was wrong.

Unslinging his bow from his shoulder, he began to walk purposefully toward the castle. As he came closer, he saw a line of white-painted stakes driven into the ground. One of Arald's men stood just outside the line. He called a warning to Halt.

“Careful, sir! These pegs mark the maximum range of their
crossbows. Young Billy Creek was shot by the one of the swine just a week ago.”

Halt ignored him and continued to walk toward the castle. His eyes scanned the battlements keenly, looking for the first sign of movement that would indicate a crossbow being trained on him. He stopped at a point a hundred paces from the moat, looking up at the dark figure of the sentry leaning against the turret wall. The man had shown no sign that he had noticed Halt's approach.

Halt drew an arrow, nocked it, and casually took aim.

Still the man didn't move—although he must have seen the Ranger on the sodden ground below the walls.

Halt released. The arrow hissed away, in a fast-moving arc toward the figure high above. Still no sign of recognition or reaction. Then the arrow struck home and the figure was thrown backward by the impact. Faintly, Halt heard a clatter as it stuck the flagstones.

But no cry of pain.

He ran back to where the sentry was watching, a puzzled look on his face.

“Get me a long rope,” Halt said. “I'm going over that wall.”

The castle was empty, except for half a dozen servants who had been left behind to light the lamps each night. The battlements had been manned by mannequins—dummies dressed in cloaks and helmets, left leaning against the walls to create the impression that the castle was still occupied.

Arald and Halt faced one of the servants, a sniveling, frightened man who was convinced they were going to kill him.

Halt did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

“Where is Morgarath?” he snarled, his face close to the other man's. The servant tried to look away but Halt grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look into his dark, burning eyes.

“He's . . . g-g-gone,” the man stammered.

Halt allowed his anger at the inane reply. “When? And how?”

“Four, mebbe five days ago. They all left. There's a tunnel.”

“Where?” thundered Arald and the servant looked at him in terror. The usually affable Baron of Redmont was furious. He had been tricked and he was in no mood to treat the man well. The servant gulped.

“There's a tunnel,” he repeated. “In the basement under the kitchens. They went out through it . . .”

Halt and Arald exchanged a look. “Let's go!” the Ranger said, and led the way to the kitchens.

It took them five minutes to find the tunnel. The departing troops hadn't bothered to close the entrance behind them. It gaped in the south wall of the basement, dark and forbidding.

“Get some torches,” Arald told one of his men, and the soldier departed at a run.

“This isn't new,” Halt said as they made their way through the tunnel, the darkness pushed back by their flickering torches. The tunnel was wide, with room for two men moving abreast, and the walls were lined with brick and stone.

“He's had years to build it,” Arald replied. “Makes sense, I suppose, to have a bolt hole like this. I should do the same at Redmont.”