The Tournament at Gorlan (8 page)

As was the custom, the tannery was sited on the outskirts and Halt wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell as they rode past.

“So who do we ask?” he said.

“First person we see. Everyone will know where the Ranger's cabin is.”

A
T
THIS
TIME
OF
DAY
,
MOST
OF
THE
VILLAGE
'
S
INHABI
TANTS
were in the fields, tending crops and mowing the hay. As a result, the main street was virtually deserted.

Then a little boy darted out of one of the cottages, shrieking with laughter, looking back over his shoulder and very nearly going under the hooves of Crowley's horse.

The horse shied and Crowley heaved on the reins, pulling it clear of the boy, who had stopped, petrified with fear. Crowley's horse, like most Ranger horses, wasn't as imposing as a battlehorse or a plow horse. But viewed from a ten-year-old's perspective, it seemed enormous.

Crowley settled his horse, patting its neck and making sure the animal was calmed down.

“You should watch where you're going, young fellow,” he said, smiling at the boy. The boy knuckled his forehead apologetically. In spite of the smile, the figure towering over him seemed grim and forbidding.

“My apologies, sir!” he said, his voice coming out as a squeak. He looked to Crowley's companion and his nervousness increased. The second rider was black-bearded and had a bad-tempered look to him, with heavy black eyebrows framing his dark, piercing eyes. Again, the boy knuckled his forehead. Halt added to his discomfort by remaining silent.

“Sam Crofter! Where are you, you wicked boy?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder as the voice rang out through the street. An elderly woman emerged from one of the cottages, looking up and down the village before setting eyes on the boy. She hurried forward, limping as she tried to run and gather him in. Like the boy, she looked nervously at the two riders. They were cloaked and had their cowls up. And both of
them were armed. They carried massive longbows and she could see the hilts of weapons at their waists.

She made surprisingly good speed in spite of the limp, and seized the boy by the ear. He wriggled and howled in protest.

“My apologies, your honors,” she said. “I hope the boy wasn't bothering you.”

As she said it, she gave his ear a good twist, evoking another howl from him. Crowley grinned at her. She was the boy's grandmother, he guessed, too old for the heavy work in the fields, and further disadvantaged by the twisted leg that gave her the limp. She would be tasked with looking after the boy during working hours, leaving her daughter free to help work the farm.

“He's not bothered us, mother,” Crowley said easily. His tone was friendly, and realizing that the cowl of his cloak might make him look a little sinister, he pushed it back, revealing his honest, open features.

The woman seemed reassured by his friendly tone. Nonetheless, she maintained an air of reserve. Trust was all very well, her attitude seemed to say, but in these uncertain times, mistrust was better.

“Tell me, where would we find the local Ranger?” Crowley asked and the woman's eyes clouded with suspicion once more.

“Would that be the new Ranger?” she asked. “Or the real Ranger, who's been here these past ten years or more?”

Halt and Crowley exchanged a quick glance. So Leander had already been replaced. The woman's choice of words was interesting. She referred to Leander as “the real Ranger.” That seemed to indicate that she regarded Morgarath's new appointee as something of a usurper. Not surprising, Halt thought. She was an older woman and was probably used to the old ways. Older
people tended to resent and distrust change as a matter of course. In this case, he thought, the distrust was well placed.

“Ranger Leander,” Crowley elaborated.

The woman's distrust faded a little. She studied them more closely. The boy, finally working his ear free of her viselike grip, scuttled away to their cottage.

“You're Rangers yourselves, are you?” she asked. Their clothing and equipment seemed to make it clear that they were. Plus their cloaks were drab and unremarkable—ideal for remaining unseen in the green and gray shadows of the woods. The new Ranger, whom she'd seen once or twice, favored a shiny satin cloak in rich green. Even among the green foliage of the forest, it stood out like a beacon.

“That's right,” Crowley replied. It seemed easier than explaining Halt's uncertain status each time. The old woman nodded.

“Thought so,” she said. “And you're of the old school.” Obviously, she approved of what she referred to as “the old school.” She jerked her head up toward the castle, which dominated the landscape. “That new man, Littlefoot, lives up at the castle. Leander has always stayed down here, among us, where he could help if we needed it. Drank in the tavern here, talked to the children, listened to the men when they had trouble with a bear or a wolf taking their animals. The new man cares nothing for us. He wouldn't know one of us if he fell over us.”

Halt was impressed by her confidence. Crowley had told him that the common folk sometimes viewed Rangers with suspicion, thinking they might be versed in the ways of the occult. Obviously, this woman was old enough to ignore such superstitious nonsense. She'd seen how Leander lived and operated and
knew he was a man to be trusted.

“So Leander has moved on, has he?” he asked her.

“He has not,” she assured them. “He's still in his cabin, although Baron Reemer has sent him several messages, telling him he has to move out.” She let out a cackle of laughter. “Even went down to tell him personally at one time. Came hurrying back through the village, minus the fine feathered bonnet he'd been wearing.”

Crowley allowed himself the ghost of a grin. “So where do we find his cabin?” he asked.

She pointed to the far end of the village. “Past the village, the road forks. Take the right fork toward the stream and you'll come to his cabin after fifty or sixty meters. It's among the trees, and not too easy to see until you're almost on it.”

“Thanks, mother.” Crowley gathered up his reins, which he had let lie loose upon his horse's neck. He clicked his tongue and his horse moved forward. The woman watched them go. After five meters, she called out to them.

“One thing, Ranger. Make sure Leander knows you're coming. Wouldn't do to surprise him.”

Crowley turned back and nodded to her. “I'm sure it wouldn't,” he replied.

They followed the fork in the road and came to the cabin. It stood in a clearing among the tall trees, a pleasant-looking little cabin, fashioned from pine logs and with a roof of slate.

“No thatched roof,” Halt murmured. The vast majority of roofs were thatched in this part of the country. Slate and tiles were difficult to come by.

Crowley nodded. “Thatch burns,” he pointed out.

The cabin seemed deserted. The door was closed and the
shutters on the two windows facing them in the long front wall were both fastened. At least, Halt thought, peering more closely, they seemed to be. But now he looked, he could see that the left-hand shutter had been pulled closed but not fastened. There was a narrow gap noticeable between the two halves.

A small lean-to stood against the rear wall. Crowley indicated it. “That's the stable.”

Halt surveyed the clearing in which the cabin stood. The trees towered over it on all sides. The cleared ground was some thirty meters across. There was a pump, with a leather bucket hanging from the handle, set close to the verandah that ran along the longest wall of the cabin, and a woodpile stacked under an open-sided, roofed structure that would keep most of the rain off it. An ax was driven into a sawn-off tree trunk that obviously served as a chopping block.

“Looks like nobody's home,” Halt observed. The cabin definitely looked deserted, aside from that small chink in the shutters. As he spoke, they heard a short whinny from the stables.

“Someone's home, all right,” Crowley told him. “That's a warning signal and a Ranger horse wouldn't make it unless there was somebody around to hear it. Have you noticed that left-hand shutter? It's not properly fastened.”

“I noticed,” Halt said. Pritchard had trained him to look for little anomalies like that. Noticing small details can help you stay alive, the old Ranger had been fond of saying.

“Keep an eye on it,” Crowley said out of the corner of his mouth. He shifted his balance in the saddle, then called:

“Hullo the cabin!”

There was no reply. Halt saw a blur of movement in the narrow gap between the shutters, then an arrow split the air between
them, thudding into a tree some five meters behind them, vibrating viciously. Halt's horse shied a few paces sideways. Crowley's, Ranger trained, stood stock-still.

Almost immediately, Halt moved to unsling his longbow from his shoulder, but Crowley threw out a hand to stop him.

“Don't!” he said, his voice quiet in spite of the urgency of his command. Then he added, “He's a Ranger. If he wanted to, he could have hit either one of us—and followed up with a second shot at the other.”

Halt relaxed, letting his bow settle back on his shoulder. Still there was no word from the cabin. Nor could he see any further movement behind the shutters.

“We're friends,” Crowley called toward the silent cabin. This time, a voice replied.

“That's what Reemer said, before I shot the fancy feathered bonnet off his fancy featherbrained head.”

Crowley grinned. “Yes, we'd heard about that in the village,” he said. “I take it he's all in favor of your replacement.”

There was a tone of disgust obvious in the voice now. “Replacement? Usurper is more like it. That man is no Ranger. He's one of Morgarath's stooges. Can't shoot. Can't stalk. Can barely sit his horse at a walk, let alone a gallop. All he's good for is drinking wine and swishing his satin cloak around his shoulders.”

Halt smiled grimly at the description. He felt he could picture this new Ranger pretty well. “Both valuable skills,” he said.

Crowley glanced at him, amused.

“So who are you two?” Leander demanded.

“We're Rangers,” Crowley told him. “Of what's described as the ‘old school.'”

“Step down and let's take a look at you,” Leander ordered and the two men dismounted, stepping clear of the horses and standing shoulder to shoulder.

“If you're Rangers, one of you should be able to hit that leather bucket on the—”

He got no further. In the blink of an eye, Halt unslung his bow, nocked an arrow and sent it slamming through the middle of the leather bucket hanging from the pump, knocking it clear and sending it bouncing and rolling across the ground in front of the cabin. It was a demonstration of devastating speed and accuracy that only a master bowman could have accomplished. Halt looked at the gap in the shutters, a challenge in his eye.

“I was going to say on the pump,” Leander said. “You seem to have beaten me to it.”

“No sense in shooting slowly,” Halt called to him.

There was a pause. “All right, so you can shoot like a Ranger. What are your names?”

This time, Crowley answered. “My name's Crowley. I'm from Hogarth Fief. This is Halt.”

“Your name's familiar. Remember you from one of the Gatherings a few years back. But I have no idea who he might be.” There was a note of challenge, of disbelief, in the voice.

“Halt's from Hibernia,” Crowley said hurriedly. “He was
trained there by my old mentor, Pritchard. Surely you remember him?”

“Aye, I do. He was one of the best,” Leander replied. “So what do you want with me?”

“We're looking for a few good men to help us,” Crowley said, hoping to stimulate Leander's curiosity. The ploy was successful.

“Help you with what?”

“We're planning to bring down Morgarath,” Halt said.

There was a long, long pause. Then the door of the cabin slowly opened and a stocky, clean-shaven man stepped out onto the verandah, a longbow held loosely in his left hand.

“Now that sounds like something I might enjoy,” he said.

L
EANDER
SHOO
K
HANDS
WITH
THE
TWO
MEN
AND
INVITED
them into his cabin. They sat at the table and Leander offered them ale.

“Do you have any coffee?” Halt asked.

Leander shook his head. “Coffee's hard to come by at the moment. The Baron is making sure I don't get any luxuries or supplies. The villagers are sneaking food to me, sparing me what they can. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out here.”

“Ale is fine then,” Halt said, and the local Ranger poured three small tankards full.

They all sipped appreciatively and Halt looked round the cabin, with its long room serving as a sitting room, and a small kitchen space off to one side. Doorways led to two other rooms—bedrooms, he assumed.

“This is cozy,” he said. The two Rangers glanced at him, then at the interior of the cabin itself. They were both accustomed to Rangers' cabins and so didn't find them particularly noteworthy.

“It's a standard Ranger's cabin,” Crowley told him. “We all have them, pretty much in the same layout. As I said, we prefer to live separately from the castle and the baron in each fief. That way, we retain our independence.”

Leander nodded agreement. “Unlike my replacement,” he said, sarcasm obvious in his voice. “He likes to live in the Baron's shadow. I've heard he has a luxurious suite of rooms at the castle.”

“Then why are they so keen to have you out of here?” Halt asked, indicating the cabin with a sweep of his arm.

Leander curled his lip scornfully. “The new man wants it as a hunting lodge,” he said. “Not that he'd know anything about hunting. I've stayed on because this way I can keep helping the villagers if they need it.”

“And by being here, you're a thorn under the Baron's saddle?” suggested Halt.

For the first time since they'd met him, Leander allowed himself the barest of grins.

“Yes. That too,” he said. “Now what's all this about Morgarath?”

Crowley quickly explained what they had learned about Morgarath's schemes, and how they were determined to thwart him.

Leander listened carefully, then, switching his gaze between the two young men, he asked, “You're planning to do it yourselves? Just the two of you?”

“We've got a list of names—Rangers who've been discredited by Morgarath. We want to recruit them and spoil Morgarath's party,” Crowley said.

“He's planning to make his move during the tournament at Gorlan,” Halt put in, and Leander frowned thoughtfully, digesting this information.

“That's about seven weeks away. How many men do you think you'll need?”

“We've got the names of twelve,” Crowley said. “But they're all Rangers, so that should make a pretty potent group.”

Leander nodded slowly, considering. “Yes. I agree. Twelve Rangers would be a force worth reckoning with. But you'll need to get some of the other barons on your side as well. A lot of
them will just go with the prevailing wind. And Morgarath is a well-respected figure. You need someone to counteract that.”

“We're planning to approach Arald of Redmont Fief,” Crowley told him. “From what we've heard, there's little love lost between him and Morgarath.”

“Yes. I've heard much the same. And Redmont is one of the more powerful fiefs—maybe as powerful as Gorlan itself. Arald would be a handy ally. He has the prestige you'll need to sway a lot of the others to your side. This is going to be a matter of winning people over, as much as defeating Morgarath by sheer force of arms.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two, while Leander pondered the situation. Halt fidgeted in his seat. He wanted to press Leander for a commitment right away. But Crowley caught his eye and shook his head. Better for the man to make up his mind without pressure. Finally, Leander looked up at them.

“So, how many men do you have so far?” he asked and the two men exchanged a glance. There was an awkward pause.

“Two of us,” Halt said, eventually.

Leander looked at him and held up three fingers, a grim smile spreading over his face.

“Make that three,” he said.

It took Leander ten minutes to pack the belongings he wanted to take with him. He strode out of the cabin door and turned to look back at the little building, a look of sadness on his face.

“I've enjoyed life here,” he said quietly to Crowley—Halt had volunteered to go to the stable and saddle his horse. “It sticks in my throat to leave it for that idiot in his satin green cloak. I'm tempted to put a torch to it and burn it to the ground.”

Crowley laid a hand on his arm. “Don't. You'll be coming back here before too long.”

Leander nodded slowly. “Let's hope so.”

Halt emerged from the rear of the cabin, leading a dun-colored horse. Leander took the reins from him.

“Thanks,” he said. “You didn't try to mount him, did you?”

Halt frowned and shook his head. “Why would I do that?”

Leander exchanged a grin with Crowley and dismissed the matter. “Never mind,” he said.

They mounted their horses and moved out at a slow walk. As they reached the first bend in the track, Leander stopped and turned back to look sadly at his neat little cabin. It seemed like a symbol of all that had been good and simple and straightforward in the world—all that Morgarath had been trying to drag down. Then, abruptly, he turned away and urged his horse to a canter, leaving the little cabin in the woods behind him.

They had already decided who would be their next recruit. His name was Berrigan, the Ranger in Weslon Fief. They had to traverse another fief to reach Weslon and, as before, they elected to stay away from towns and villages and to camp out.

It was strange to have a new member in their group. Halt and Crowley had grown used to each other's company over the preceding weeks, but it didn't take Leander long to fit in. At least now, Halt thought, they'd get more sleep, with another member to take his turn keeping watch at night.

As they rode, Crowley filled Leander in on the meager details he knew of Halt's origins, how he had come from Hibernia, after being instructed in Ranger skills by Pritchard, and how he had helped Crowley when he had been attacked by a group of Morgarath's soldiers. He had no idea of Halt's royal antecedents, of course, so he made no mention of that side of his history.

When he heard how the soft-spoken Hibernian had rejected Morgarath's offer to join his forces, Leander nodded approvingly. His respect for Halt increased. He had already seen an example of his speed and accuracy with the longbow. He had no doubt that he would show the same skill with his saxe and throwing knife. And he was impressed with Halt's woodcraft. The Hibernian had a natural ability to select a good campsite—one well screened from the trail through the woods, where they would have ample warning of someone approaching them.

He also admired both the other men's skill and ability at camp cooking. Leander was an indifferent cook at best—although cooking was one of the skills an apprentice Ranger was required to master. Leander had managed to pass his tests as an apprentice, but had then pretty well ignored the finer points. As a result, when he cooked game over a fire, he tended to scorch the outside and leave the interior virtually raw. He didn't have the patience that Halt and Crowley displayed and quickly realized that he would eat a lot better if he left the food preparation to them.

In return, he took on the menial chores around their nightly camp, preparing the fire, cutting firewood and cleaning their utensils after they had eaten.

On the third day after they had left his cabin, they crossed the border into Weslon Fief. Crowley pointed to the small stone column that stood by the side of the track, marking their entry into the fief.

“Another half day and we'll reach Castle Weslon,” he said.

“Berrigan,” Leander muttered, half to himself. “Think I remember him. He was the singer, wasn't he?”

“That's right,” Crowley agreed. “He played the gitarra and sang. He was the one who composed ‘Cabin in the Trees.”

Halt looked up. “What's that?”

“It's the Ranger song,” Leander told him. “It's sung at all our Gatherings.”

There was a slight pause, then, without any discussion, both Leander and Crowley began to sing softly as they rode.

“Going back to the cabin in the trees

Going back to the creek beneath the hill.

There's a girl used to live there when I left

But I doubt she'll be waiting for me still.

Never thought I'd be gone so many years.

When I left always planned that I'd return

But time slips away before we know

That's just one more lesson that we learn.”

They stopped singing after the second verse, but Crowley continued to whistle the refrain softly as they rode. Halt frowned at him.

“You're making a strange shrieking noise,” he said.

Crowley looked round in surprise. He hadn't been aware that he was whistling and he didn't immediately equate it with the phrase
strange shrieking noise
.

“It's music,” he said.

“Not from where I'm sitting,” Halt said.