Halt's Peril

One

There was a raw wind blowing off the small harbour. It carried the salt of the sea with it, and the smell of imminent rain. The lone rider shrugged. Even though it was late summer, it seemed to have been raining constantly over the past week. Perhaps in this country it rained all the time, no matter what the season.

'Summer and winter, nothing but rain,' he said quietly to his horse. Not surprisingly, the horse said nothing.

'Except, of course, when it snows,' the rider continued. 'Presumably, that's so you can tell it's winter.' This time, the horse shook its shaggy mane and vibrated its ears, the way horses do. The rider smiled at it. They were old friends.

'You're a horse of few words, Tug,' Will said. Then, on reflection, he decided that most horses probably were. There had been a time, quite recently, when he had wondered about this habit of his – talking to his horse. Then, mentioning it to Halt over the camp fire one night, he'd discovered it was a common trait among Rangers.

'Of course we talk to them,' the grizzled Ranger had told him. 'Our horses show a lot more commonsense than most people. And besides,' he'd added, a note of seriousness creeping into his voice, 'we rely on our horses. We trust them and they trust us. Talking to them strengthens the special bond between us.'

Will sniffed the air again. There were other smells apparent now, underlying the salt and the rain. There was the smell of tar. Of new rope. Of dried seaweed. But, strangely, there was one smell missing – a smell he would have expected in any seaport along the eastern coast of Hibernia.

There was no smell of fish. No smell of drying nets.

'So what do they do here if they don't fish?' he mused. Aside from the slow clop of his hooves on the uneven cobbles, echoing from the buildings that lined the narrow street, the horse made no answer. But Will thought he already knew. It was why he was here, after all. Port Cael was a smugglers' town.

The streets down by the docks were narrow and winding, in contrast to the wide, well-laid out streets of the rest of the town. There was only an occasional lantern outside a building to light the way. The buildings themselves were mostly two-storeyed, with loading doors set on the second floors, and lifting gantries so that bales and barrels could be brought up from carts below. Warehouses, Will guessed, with storage room for the goods that shipowners smuggled in and out of the port.

He was nearly down to the docks themselves now and in the gap that marked the end of the street he could see the outlines of several small ships, moored to the dock and bobbing nervously on the dying efforts of the choppy waves that managed to force their way in through the harbour mouth.

'Should be around here somewhere,' he said and then he saw it. A single-storey building at the end of the street, with a low-lying thatched roof sweeping down to just above head height. The walls may have been whitewashed at one time but now they were a dirty smudged grey. A fitful yellow light shone through the small windows along the street-side wall and a sign hung creaking in the wind over the low doorway. A seabird of some kind, crudely rendered.

'Could be a heron,' he said. He looked around curiously. The other buildings were all dark and anonymous. Their business was done for the day, whereas in a tavern like the Heron, it was just getting under way.

He dismounted outside the building, absentmindedly patting Tug's neck as he stood there. The little horse regarded the mean-looking tavern, then rolled an eye at his master.

Are you sure you want to go in there?

For a horse of few words, there were times when Tug could express himself with crystal clarity. Will smiled reassuringly at him.

'I'll be fine. I'm a big boy now, you know.'

Tug snorted scornfully. He'd seen the small stableyard beside the inn and he knew he'd be left there. He was always ill at ease when he wasn't on hand to keep his master out of trouble. Will led him through the sagging gate into the stableyard. There was another horse and a tired old mule tethered there. Will didn't bother to tether Tug. He knew his horse would stay there until he returned.

'Wait over there. You'll be out of the wind,' he said, gesturing towards the far wall. Tug looked at him again, shook his head and ambled to the spot Will had indicated.

Just yell if you need me. I'll come running.

For a moment, Will wondered if he were being too fanciful in attributing that thought to his horse. Then he decided not. For a second or two, he entertained an image of Tug bursting through the narrow door into the tavern, shouldering drinkers aside to come to his master's aid. He grinned at the thought, then closed the stableyard gate, lifting it so that it didn't drag on the rough cobblestones. Then he moved to the tavern entrance.

Will was by no means a tall person, but even he felt constrained to stoop a little under the low doorsill. As he opened the door, he was hit by a wall of sensations. Heat. The smell of sweat. Smoke. Spilt, stale ale.

As the wind rushed in through the open door, the lanterns flickered and the peat fire in the grate on the far wall suddenly flared with renewed life. He hesitated, getting his bearings. The smoke and the flickering light from the fire made it even harder to see inside than it had been outside in the dark street.

'Close the door, fool!' a rough voice bellowed and he stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. Immediately, the fire and the lantern light steadied. There was a thick pall of smoke from the fire and dozens of pipes. It hung just above head height, trapped by the low thatched roof. Will wondered if it ever had a chance to disperse or whether it just hung there from one day to the next, growing in intensity with each passing evening. Most of the tavern's patrons ignored him but a few unfriendly faces turned towards him, assessing the newcomer.

They saw a slim, slightly built figure, wrapped in a dull grey and green cloak, face concealed beneath a large hood. As they watched, he pushed the hood back and they saw his face was surprisingly youthful. Little more than a boy. Then they took stock of the heavy saxe knife at his belt, with a smaller knife mounted above it, and the massive longbow in his left hand. Over his shoulder, they saw the feathered ends of more than a dozen arrows protruding from the quiver at his back.

The stranger might look like a boy, but he carried a man's weapons. And he did so without any self-consciousness or show, as if he was completely familiar with them.

He looked around the room, nodding to those who had turned to study him. But his gaze passed quickly over them and it was apparent that he offered no threat – and these were men who were well used to gauging potential threats from newcomers. The slight air of tension that had gripped the tavern eased and people went back to their drinking. Will, after a quick inspection of the room, saw no threat to himself and crossed to the rough bar – three heavy, rough-sawn planks laid across two massive casks.

The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a sharp-nosed face, round, prominent ears and a receding hairline that combined to give him a rodent-like look, glanced at him, absentmindedly wiping a tankard with a grubby cloth. Will raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. He'd be willing to bet the cloth was transferring more dirt to the tankard than it was removing.

'Drink?' the tavern keeper asked. He set the tankard down on the bar, as if in preparation to filling it with whatever the stranger might order.

'Not out of that,' Will said evenly, jerking a thumb at the tankard. Ratface shrugged, shoved it aside and produced another from a rack above the bar.

'Suit yourself. Ale or ouisgeah?'

Ouisgeah, Will knew, was the strong malt spirit they distilled and drank in Hibernia. In a tavern like this, it might be more suitable for stripping rust than drinking.

'I'd like coffee,' he said, noticing the battered pot by the fire at one end of the bar.

'I've got ale or ouisgeah. Take your pick.' Ratface was becoming more peremptory. Will gestured towards the coffee pot. The tavern keeper shook his head.

'None made,' he said. 'I'm not making a new pot just for you.'

'But he's drinking coffee,' Will said, nodding to one side.

It was inevitable that the tavern keeper should glance that way, to see who he was talking about. The moment his eyes left Will, he felt an iron grip at the front of his shirt collar, twisting it into a knot that choked him and at the same time dragged him forward, off balance, over the bar. The stranger's eyes were suddenly very close. He no longer looked boyish. The eyes were dark brown, almost black in this dim light, and the tavern keeper read danger there. A lot of danger. He heard a soft whisper of steel and, glancing down past the fist that held him so tightly, he glimpsed the heavy, gleaming blade of the saxe knife as the stranger laid it on the bar between them.

Choking, he glanced around for possible help. But there was nobody else at the bar and none of the customers at the tables had noticed what was going on.

'Aach… mach co'hee,' he choked.

The tension on his collar eased and the stranger said softly, 'What was that?'

'I'll… make… coffee,' he repeated, gasping for breath.

The stranger smiled. It was a pleasant smile but the tavern keeper noticed that it never reached those dark eyes.

'Then that's wonderful. I'll wait here.' Will released his grip on the tavern keeper's shirt front, allowing him to slide back over the bar and regain his balance. He tapped the hilt of the saxe knife. 'Don't change your mind, will you?'

There was a large kettle by the fire grate, supported on a swivelling iron arm that moved it in and out of the flames. The tavern keeper swung it into the heat now and busied himself with the coffee pot, measuring grounds into it, then pouring the now boiling water over it. The rich smell of coffee filled the air, for a moment supplanting the less pleasant odours that Will had noticed when he entered.

The tavern keeper placed the pot in front of Will, then produced a mug from behind the bar. He swiped at it with his ever-present cloth. Will frowned, wiped it carefully with a corner of his cloak and poured the coffee.

'I'll have sugar if you've got it,' he said. 'Honey if not.'

'I've got sugar.' The tavern keeper turned away to get the bowl and a brass spoon. When he turned back to the stranger, he started. There was a heavy gold coin gleaming on the bar between them. It represented more than he would make in an evening's trading and he hesitated to reach for it. After all, that saxe knife was still on the bar close to the stranger's hand.

'Two penn'orth for the coffee is all,' he said carefully.

Will nodded and reached into his purse, selecting two copper coins and dropping them onto the bar. 'That's more than fair. You make good coffee,' he added inconsequentially.

The tavern keeper nodded and swallowed, still unsure. Cautiously, he swept the two copper coins off the bar, watching carefully for any sign of dissent from the enigmatic stranger. For a moment, he felt vaguely ashamed that he had been so overborne by someone so young. But another look at those eyes and the youth's weapons and he dismissed the thought. He was a tavern keeper. His notion of violence amounted to no more than using a cudgel on the heads of customers so affected by alcohol they could barely stand – and that was usually from behind.

He pocketed the coins and glanced hesitantly at the large gold coin, still winking at him in the lantern light. He coughed. The stranger raised an eyebrow.

'Was there something?'

Withdrawing his hands behind his back so that there could be no misunderstanding, no thought that he was trying to appropriate the gold piece, the tavern keeper inclined his head towards it several times.

'The… gold. I'm wondering… is it… for anything at all now?'

The stranger smiled. Again, the smile never reached his eyes.

'Well, yes it is, as a matter of fact. It's for information.'

And now the tight feeling in the tavern keeper's stomach seemed to ease right out of him. This was something he understood, particularly in this neighbourhood. People often paid for information in Port Cael. And usually, they didn't harm the people who gave it to them.

'Information, is it?' he asked, allowing himself a smile. 'Well, this is the place to ask and I'm your man to be asking. What is it you want to know, your honour?'

'I want to know whether the Black O'Malley has been in this evening,' the young man said.

And suddenly, that tight feeling was right back. Two 'O'Malley, is it? And why are you looking for him?' the tavern keeper asked. Those dark eyes came up to meet his again, boring into them. The message in them was clear. The stranger's hand moved to cover the gold coin. But for the moment he made no move to pick it up and remove it from the bar.

'Well now,' the stranger said quietly, 'I was wondering whose gold coin this was? Did you put it here, by any chance?' Before the tavern keeper could reply, he'd continued. 'No. I don't recall that happening. As I recall it, I was the one put it here, in return for information. Is that how you see it?'

The tavern keeper cleared his throat nervously. The young man's voice was calm and low-pitched, but no less menacing for the fact.

'Yes. That's right,' he replied.

The stranger nodded several times, as if considering his answer. 'And correct me if I'm wrong, but usually the one who's paying the piper is the one who calls the tune. Or in this case, asks the questions. Would you see it that way too?'

For a second, Will wondered if he wasn't overdoing the air of quiet menace. Then he discarded the thought. With a person like this, whose life probably centred around informing and double dealing, he needed to assert a level of authority. And the only form of authority this sharp-featured toady would understand would be based on fear. Unless Will managed to dominate him, the tavern keeper was liable to tell him any line of lies that came to mind.

'Yes, sir. That's how I see it.'

The 'sir' was a good start, Will thought. Respectful, without being too ingratiating. He smiled again.

'So unless you'd like to match my coin with one of your own, let's keep it that I'm asking and you're answering.'

His hand slid away from the gold coin once more, leaving it gleaming dully on the rough surface of the bar.

'The Black O'Malley. Is he in tonight?'

Ratface allowed his gaze to slide around the tavern, although he already knew the answer. He cleared his throat again. Strange how the presence of this young man seemed to leave it dry.

'No, sir. Not yet. He's usually in a little later than this.'

'Then I'll wait,' Will said. He glanced around and his gaze fell on a small table set away from the other patrons. It was in a corner, a suitably unobtrusive spot, and it would be out of the line of vision of anyone entering the tavern.

'I'll wait there. When O'Malley arrives, you won't say anything to him about me. And you won't look at me. But you'll tug on your ear three times to let me know he's here. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir. It is.'

'Good. Now…' He picked up the coin and the saxe knife and for a moment the tavern keeper thought he was going to reclaim the money. But he held it on edge and sliced carefully through it, cutting it into two half circles. Two thoughts occurred to the tavern keeper. The gold must be awfully pure to cut so easily. And the knife must be frighteningly sharp to go through it with so little effort.

Will slid one half of the gold piece across the bar.

'Here's half now as a gesture of good faith. The other half once you've done as I ask.'

The tavern keeper hesitated for a second or so. Then, swallowing nervously, he claimed the mutilated half gold piece.

'Would you be wanting anything to eat while you wait, sir?' he asked.

Will replaced the other half of the gold coin in his belt purse, then rubbed his fingers and thumb together. They were lightly coated with grease from their brief contact with the bar top. He looked once more at the filthy cloth over the tavern keeper's shoulder and shook his head.

'I don't think so.'

Will sat, nursing his coffee, as he waited for the man he sought to enter the bar.

When Will had first arrived in Port Cael, he had found a room in an inn some distance from the waterfront, in one of the better-kept areas of the town. The innkeeper was a taciturn man, not given to the sort of gossip that his kind usually indulged in. Gossip was a way of life with innkeepers, Will thought. But this one seemed decidedly atypical. Better section of town or no, he realised, this was still a town that depended largely on smuggling and other forms of illegal trade. People would tend to be closemouthed around strangers.

Unless a stranger offered gold, as Will did. He'd told the innkeeper that he was looking for a friend. A large man with long grey hair, dressed in a white robe and attended by a group of some twenty followers. There would be two among them who wore purple cloaks and wide-brimmed hats of the same colour. Possibly carrying crossbows.

He'd seen the truth in the innkeeper's eyes as he described Tennyson and the remaining Genovesan assassins. Tennyson had been here, all right. His pulse lifted a little at the thought that he might still be here. But the innkeeper's words dashed that hope.

'They were here,' he said. 'But they're gone.'

Apparently, the man had decided that, if Tennyson had already left Port Cael, there was no harm telling this to the young man asking after him. Will had pursed his lips at the news, allowing the gold coin to tumble end over end across the knuckles of his right hand – a trick he'd spent hours perfecting, to pass the time around countless camp fires. The metal caught the light and gleamed invitingly as it flipped end over end, first in one direction, then the other, drawing the innkeeper's eyes.

'Gone where?'

The innkeeper looked back to him. Then he jerked his head in the direction of the harbour. 'Gone over the sea. Where to, I don't know.'

'Any idea who might know?'

The innkeeper had shrugged. 'Your best bet would be to ask the Black O'Malley. Happen that he might know. When there's folk looking to leave in a hurry, he's often the one who'll accommodate them.'

'A strange name. How did he come by it?'

'There was a sea fight some years ago. His ship was boarded. By…' The man had hesitated briefly, then continued, 'By pirates. There was a fight and one of them hit him in the face with a flaming torch. The burning pitch of the torch clung to his skin and burned him badly, leaving a black scorch mark on the left side of his face.'

Will had nodded thoughtfully. If there had been any pirates involved in the fight, he was willing to bet that they were sailing in O'Malley's company. But that was immaterial.

'And how would I find this O'Malley?' he'd asked.

'Most nights, you'll find him at the Heron tavern, down by the docks.' The innkeeper had taken the coin and as Will turned away, he'd added:

'It's a dangerous place. Might not be a good idea to go there alone – you a stranger as you are. I've a couple of large lads do work for me from time to time. Might be they'd be willing to go along with you – for a small fee.'

The young man looked back, considered the suggestion and shook his head, smiling slowly.

'I think I can look after myself,' he'd said. Three It hadn't been any sense of arrogance that led him to refuse the innkeeper's offer. Walking into a place like the Heron with a couple of part-time, and probably second-rate, bully boys for company would cause nothing but contempt among the genuine hard cases who gathered here. All it would have done was advertise the fact that he was uncertain of himself. Better to be alone and rely on his own skill and wits to see him through.

The tavern had been half full when he'd arrived. It had been too early in the evening for the main trade to begin. But as he waited, it began to fill up. The temperature rose with the growing press of unwashed bodies. So did the sour, stale smell that pervaded the hot, smoke-filled room. The noise level increased, as people raised their voices to be heard over the growing clamour.

The situation suited him. The more people present and the noisier it was, the less chance there was of being noticed. With each new set of arrivals, he glanced at the tavern keeper. But each time, the thin-faced man merely shook his head.

It was somewhere between eleven o'clock and midnight when the door was hurled open and three bulky men entered, shoving their way through the throng to the bar, where the tavern keeper immediately began to pump up three large tankards of ale without a word passing between them. As he filled the second and placed it on the counter, he paused and, eyes down, tugged fiercely on his ear three times. Then he continued pulling the final ale.

Even without the signal, Will would have known that this was the man he was looking for. The large black burn mark on the side of his face, stretching from just below the left eye to the jawline, was obvious from across the room. He waited while O'Malley and his two cohorts picked up their tankards and made their way towards a table close to the peat fire. There were two men already seated there and they looked up anxiously as the smuggler approached.

'Ah now, O'Malley,' one of them began in a whining tone, 'we've been sitting here since -'

'Out.'

O'Malley gestured with his thumb and the two men, without further demurral, picked up their drinks and rose, leaving the table for the three smugglers. They settled into their seats, glanced around the room and called greetings to several acquaintances. Reactions to the newcomers, Will noted, were more guarded than friendly. O'Malley seemed to instil fear in the other patrons.

O'Malley's gaze touched briefly on the cloaked figure sitting alone in a corner. He studied Will for several seconds, then dismissed him. He inched his chair forward and he and his companions leaned over the table, speaking in low tones, their heads close together.

Will rose from his seat and moved towards them. Passing the bar, he allowed his hand to trail along the surface, leaving the mutilated half gold coin behind as he did so. The tavern keeper hurried to snatch it up. He made no sign of acknowledgement or thanks but Will expected none. The tavern keeper wouldn't be anxious for anyone to know that he had identified O'Malley to this stranger.

O'Malley became conscious of Will's presence as he approached the table. The smuggler had been muttering something in a low tone to his two companions and now he stopped, his eyes swivelling sideways to inspect the slim figure standing a metre or so away. There was a long pause.

'Captain O'Malley?' Will asked, finally. The man was powerfully built, although not excessively tall. He would have stood a few centimetres taller than Will but then, most people did.

His shoulders were well muscled and his hands were calloused. Together, they showed the signs of a lifetime of hard work, hauling on ropes, heaving cargo aboard, tending a bucking tiller in a gale. His stomach showed signs of a lifetime of hard drinking. He was overweight but still a powerful man and an adversary to be wary of. His black hair hung in ragged curls to his collar and he had grown a beard, possibly in an unsuccessful attempt to disguise the disfiguring mark on his left cheek. His nose had been broken so many times that it now showed no defining shape at all. It was a lump of smashed gristle and bone. Will imagined that O'Malley had trouble breathing through that nose.

His two companions were less interesting specimens. Big bellied, broad shouldered and powerfully built, they were larger and taller than their leader. But he had the unmistakable air of authority about him.

'Captain O'Malley?' Will repeated. He smiled easily. O'Malley frowned in return.

'I don't think so,' he said shortly, and turned back to his two companions.

'I do,' Will said, still smiling.

O'Malley sat back, looking away for a second or two, then turned his close-set eyes on Will. There was a dangerous light in them.

'Sonny,' he said deliberately, the tone condescending and insulting, 'why don't you run along now?'

The room around them had gone silent as the drinkers turned to watch this strange confrontation. The young stranger was armed with a powerful longbow, they could all see. But in the confined space of the tavern, it was not the most useful weapon.

'I'm looking for information,' Will said. 'I'm willing to pay for it.'

He touched the purse at his belt and there was a slight musical chinking sound from it. O'Malley's eyes narrowed. This could be interesting.

'Information, is it? Well, perhaps we might talk after all. Carew!' he snapped at a man seated at the next table. 'Give the boy your stool here.'

It was significant that the man called Carew made no argument. He hurriedly rose and shoved the stool towards Will. His look of resentment he reserved for the young Ranger. He made sure that no sign of it showed to O'Malley.

Will nodded his thanks, received a scowl in return and pulled the stool up to O'Malley's table.

'So, information, is it?' the smuggler began. 'And what might you be wanting to know?'

'You gave passage to a man called Tennyson a few days ago,' Will said. 'Him and about twenty of his followers.'

'Did I now?' O'Malley's shaggy eyebrows came together in a dark frown of anger. 'You seem to have a lot of information already, don't you? And who told you that?'

'Nobody in this room,' Will said. Then, before O'Malley could query him further, he went on quickly, 'I need to know where you took him.'

The smuggler's eyebrows rose in simulated surprise.

'Oh, you need to know, do you? And what if I don't need to tell you? Assuming that I had taken this person anywhere at all – which I didn't.'

Will allowed a flash of exasperation to show, then realised that this was a mistake. He composed his features but he knew O'Malley had noticed it.

'I said, I'm willing to pay for the information,' he said, working to keep his voice level.

'And would you be willing to pay another gold coin – like the one I saw you slip to Ryan as you came past the bar?' He glanced angrily at the tavern keeper, who had been an interested observer of their conversation and who now shrank back a little. 'We'll be having words about that later, Ryan,' he added.

Will pursed his lips in surprise. He would have been willing to bet that O'Malley's attention was engaged elsewhere when he had placed the half coin on the bar.

'You don't miss much, do you?' He allowed a note of admiration to enter his tone. No harm in a little flattery. But O'Malley wasn't as simple as all that.

'I don't miss anything, boy.' His angry gaze was back on Will now. Don't try to butter me up with soft words, it said.

Will shifted on his stool. He was losing control of this conversation, he thought. Then he amended that. He had never had control of this conversation. O'Malley had steered it from the first word. All Will had done so far was react to him. He tried again.

'Well, yes. I'd be willing to pay gold for the information.'

'I've already been paid,' O'Malley said. At least there was no pretence now that he hadn't given passage to Tennyson and his followers.

'Then you'll be paid twice. That sounds like good business to me,' Will said reasonably.

'It does, does it? Well, let me tell you a little about business. For a start, I'd happily slit your throat for that purse you're carrying. And I have no particular regard for this Tennyson fellow you speak of. If I'd had the chance, I would have killed him and dumped him overboard and no one the wiser. But those purple-cloaked friends of his watched me like a hawk the whole time. I tell you this to point out that trust means nothing to me. Nothing at all.'

'Then…' Will began, but the smuggler cut him off with a curt gesture.

'But here's what business is about, boy. I took money from that man to get him out of Clonmel. That's the sort of business I'm in. Now if I take more money from a second party to tell where I took him, and everyone here sees me do it, how long do you think my business will last? People come to me for one reason. I know how to keep my mouth shut.'

He paused. Will sat awkwardly. There was no reasonable answer he could think of.

'I don't believe in honesty,' O'Malley continued. 'Or trust. Or loyalty. I believe in profit, that's all. And profit means I know how to keep my mouth shut when it's necessary.' Without warning, he glanced around the tavern. Eyes that had been watching with interest turned quickly away.

'And everyone else in this room had better know the same thing,' he said, raising his voice.

Will spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. He could see no way to turn this situation around. Abruptly, he found himself wishing that Halt were here. Halt would know what to do, he thought. And with that thought, he felt thoroughly inadequate.

'Well then, I'll be on my way.' He began to rise.

'Just a minute!' O'Malley's hand slapped down on the table between them. 'You haven't paid me.'

Will gave a snort of incredulous laughter. 'Paid you? You didn't answer my question.'

'Yes I did. It just wasn't the answer you were looking for. Now pay me.'

Will looked around the room. Everyone present was watching the exchange and most of them were grinning. O'Malley might be feared and disliked here, but Will was a stranger and they were happy to see him bested. He realised that the smuggler had created this confrontation for the purpose of magnifying his own reputation. It wasn't so much the money he was interested in, more the opportunity to show everyone else in the tavern that he was cock of the walk. Trying to hide his fury, he reached into his purse and took out another gold piece. This was getting expensive, he thought, and he'd found out nothing worthwhile. He slid the piece across the table. O'Malley gathered it in, tested it with his teeth, and smiled wickedly.

'Good to do business with you, boy. Now get on out of here.'

Will knew his face was burning with the suppressed fury inside him. He stood abruptly, overturning the stool behind him. From somewhere in the room, there was a low chuckle. Then he turned and shoved his way through the crowd to the door.

As it banged shut behind him, O'Malley leaned forward to his two followers and said quietly, 'Dennis, Nialls. Bring me back that purse.'

The two heavily built men rose and followed Will to the door. With a shrewd idea what they might be about, the tavern customers cleared a path for them. Some watched reluctantly. They'd planned to go after the young man themselves.

Dennis and Nialls stepped out into the clear, cold night, looking up and down the narrow street to see which way the stranger had gone. They hesitated. There were several mean little alleys that led off the street. The youth could be hiding in one of them.

'Let's try…'

Nialls got no further. The air between the two men was split by a vicious hiss as something flashed past Nialls's nose and thudded into the door frame. The two men jerked apart in shock, then stared in disbelief at the grey-shafted arrow, buried quivering in the wood.

From somewhere up the street, a voice carried to them.

'One more step and the next arrow will be through your heart.' There was a slight pause, then the voice continued, with obvious venom, 'And I'm just angry enough to do it.'

'Where is he?' Dennis whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

'Must be in one of the alleys,' Nialls answered. The threat of the quivering arrow was unmistakable. But they both knew the danger involved in going back to O'Malley empty-handed.

Without warning, there was another hiss-thud between them. Only this time, Niall's hand flew to his right ear, where the arrow had nicked him on its way through. Blood ran hotly down his cheek. Suddenly, facing O'Malley seemed like the better alternative.

'Let's get out of here!' he said and they jostled each other to get back through the door, slamming it behind them.

From an alley further up the street, a dark figure emerged. Will figured it would be several minutes before anyone chanced coming back again. He ran soft-footed back to the tavern, retrieved his arrows, then led Tug from the stableyard. Swinging into the saddle, he galloped away. The little horse's hooves rang on the cobbles, the sound echoing off the buildings lining the street.

Altogether, it had been a very unsatisfying encounter. Four Halt and Horace crested a small rise and reined in their horses. Less than a kilometre away, Port Cael was spread out before them. White-painted buildings huddled together at the top of a hill, which swept away down to the harbour itself – a man-made breakwater that stretched out into the sea then turned at a right angle to form an L-shaped haven for the small fleet moored inside the walls. From where they sat their horses, the ships could be seen only as a forest of masts, jumbled together and indistinguishable as individual craft.

The houses on the hill were freshly painted and looked neatly kept. Even in the dull sunshine that was breaking through the overcast, they seemed to gleam. Down the hill and closer to the docks, there was a more utilitarian look to the buildings and the predominant colour was a dull grey. Typical of any working port, Halt thought. The more genteel people lived on the hill in their spotless homes. The riffraff gathered by the water.

Still, he was willing to bet that the spotless homes on the hill held their share of villains and unscrupulous traders. The people who lived there weren't more honest than the others – just more successful.

'Isn't that someone we know?' asked Horace. He pointed to where a cloaked figure sat by the side of the road a few hundred metres away, arms wrapped around his knees. Close by him, a small shaggy horse cropped the grass growing at the edge of the drainage ditch that ran beside the road.

'So it is,' Halt replied. 'And he seems to have brought Will with him.'

Horace glanced quickly at his older companion. He felt his spirits lift with the sally. It wasn't much of a joke, but it was the first one Halt had made since they had left his brother's grave at Dun Kilty. The Ranger was never a garrulous companion, but he had been even more taciturn than usual over the past few days. Understandable, thought Horace. After all, he had lost his twin brother. Now, the Ranger seemed prepared to slough off his depression. Possibly it had something to do with the prospect of imminent action, the young knight thought.

'Looks like he's lost a guinea and found a farthing,' Horace said, then added, unnecessarily, 'Will, I mean.'

Halt turned in his saddle to regard the younger man and raised an eyebrow.

'I may be almost senile in your eyes, Horace, but there's no need to explain the blindingly obvious to me. I'd hardly have thought you were referring to Tug.'

'Sorry, Halt.' But Horace couldn't help a smile touching the corner of his mouth. First a joke and now an acerbic reply. That was better than the morose silence that had enshrouded Halt since his brother's death.

'Let's see what's troubling him,' Halt said. He made no discernible movement or signal to his horse that Horace could notice, but Abelard immediately moved off at a slow trot. Horace touched his heels to Kicker's ribs and the battlehorse responded, quickly catching up to the smaller horse and settling beside him.

As they drew near, Will stood, brushing himself off. Tug whinnied a greeting to Abelard and Kicker and the other horses responded in kind.

'Halt, Horace,' Will greeted them as they drew rein beside him. 'I hoped you'd be along today.'

'We got the message you left for us at Fingle Bay,' Halt told him, 'so we pushed on early this morning.'

Fingle Bay had been Tennyson's original destination. It was a prosperous trading and fishing port some kilometres to the south of Port Cael. The majority of shipowners and captains there were honest men. Port Cael was the home of more shady operations, as Tennyson, and then Will, had discovered.

'Had any luck?' Horace asked. While he and Halt had stayed to tidy up things in Dun Kilty, Will had gone ahead to trail Tennyson and discover where he was heading. The young Ranger shrugged now.

'Some,' he said. 'Good and bad, I'm afraid. Tennyson has fled the country, as you thought, Halt.'

Halt nodded. He'd expected as much. 'Where'd he go?'

Will shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Halt smiled to himself. He knew that his former apprentice hated to fail at any task Halt set him.

'That's the bad news, I'm afraid. I can't find out. I know who took him. It was a smuggler called the Black O'Malley. But he won't tell me anything. I'm sorry, Halt,' he added. His old mentor shrugged.

'I'm sure you did all you could. Sailors in a place like this can be notoriously close-mouthed. Perhaps I'll have a talk to him. Where do we find him – this exotically named O'Malley character?'

'There's a tavern by the docks. He's there most evenings.'

'Then I'll talk to him tonight,' Halt said.

Will shrugged. 'You can try. But he's a hard case, Halt. I'm not sure you'll get anything out of him. He's not interested in money. I tried that.'

'Well, perhaps he'll do it out of the goodness of his heart. I'm sure he'll open up to me,' Halt said easily. But Horace noticed a quick gleam in his eye. He was right, the prospect of having something to do had reawakened Halt's spirits. He had a score to settle, and Horace found himself thinking that it didn't bode well for this Black O'Malley character.

Will still eyed Halt doubtfully, however. 'You think so?'

Halt smiled at him. 'People love talking to me,' he said. 'I'm an excellent conversationalist and I have a sparkling personality. Ask Horace, I've been bending his ear all the way from Dun Kilty, haven't I?'

Horace nodded confirmation. 'Talking nonstop all the way, he's been,' he said. 'Be glad to see him turn all that chatter onto someone else.'

Will regarded the two of them balefully. He had hated admitting failure to Halt. Now his two companions seemed to think the whole matter was a joke and he simply wasn't in the frame of mind to appreciate it. He tried to think of something crushing to say but nothing came to him. Finally, he swung up into Tug's saddle and moved out onto the road with them.

'I've got us rooms at an inn in the upper town. It's quite clean – and reasonably priced,' he told them. That caught Horace's attention.

'What's the food like?' he asked.

They stood back a few metres from the end of the alley, concealed in the shadows. From their position, they had a clear view of the entrance to the Heron and they could see customers coming and going, without being seen themselves. So far, there had been no sign of O'Malley and his two friends.

Will shifted restlessly. It was getting close to midnight.

'They're late – if they're coming,' he said softly. 'They were here well before this last night.'

'Maybe they were early last night,' Horace suggested. Halt said nothing.

'Why not wait inside, Halt?' Horace asked. The night was cold and he could feel the damp chill rising through the soles of his boots, into his feet and legs. His calves were beginning to ache. Cold, wet cobblestones, he thought. The worst possible surface to stand around on. He wanted to stamp his feet to get the blood flowing but he knew that any such action would earn a quick reprimand from Halt.

'I want to surprise them,' Halt said. 'If they walk in and see us waiting, the surprise will be lost. If we wait till they're seated, then go in quickly, we'll catch them before they have much of a chance to react to us. Plus there's always the chance that if we're waiting for them in there, someone will nip out and tell them.'

Horace nodded. It all made sense. He wasn't big on subtlety himself but he could recognise it in others.

'And Horace,' Halt began.

'Yes, Halt?'

'If I give you the signal, I'd like you to take care of this smuggler's two henchmen.'

Horace grinned broadly. It didn't sound as if Halt expected him to be subtle about that.

'Fine by me, Halt,' he said. Then, as a thought struck him, 'What will the signal be?'

Halt glanced at him. 'I'll probably say something like, "Horace".'

The tall warrior cocked his head to one side.

'Horace… what?'

'That's it,' Halt told him. 'Just Horace.'

Horace thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded, as if seeing the logic.

'Good thinking, Halt. Keep it simple. Sir Rodney says that's the way to do it.'

'Anything particular you want me to do?' Will asked.

'Watch and learn,' Halt told him.

Will smiled wryly. He was over his disappointment about his inability to get O'Malley to talk. Now he was strangely eager to see how Halt handled the matter. He had no doubt that Halt would handle it – somehow.

'That never changes, does it?' he said.

Halt glanced at him, sensing the change in his mood, the eagerness that had replaced his disappointment.

'Only a fool thinks he knows everything,' he said. 'And you're no fool.'

Before Will could respond, he gestured towards the narrow street. 'I think our friends have arrived.'

O'Malley and his two henchmen were making their way up the street from the docks. The three Araluans watched as they entered the tavern, the two bigger men standing aside to let their captain go first. There was a brief hubbub of raised voices as the door opened, spilling light out into the street. Then noise and light were cut off as the door shut again behind them.

Horace started forward but Halt laid a restraining hand on his arm.

'Give it a minute or two,' he said. 'They'll get their drinks and then clear out anyone who might be sitting at their table. Where is it relative to the door, Will?' he asked. The young Ranger frowned as he pictured the layout of the room. Halt already knew the answer to his question. He'd quizzed Will earlier in the afternoon. But he wanted to keep the young man's mind occupied.

'Inside. Down two steps and half right. About three metres from the door, by the fireplace. Watch your head on the door frame, Horace,' he added.

He sensed Horace nodding in the shadows. Halt was standing, eyes closed, measuring off the seconds, picturing the scene inside the tavern. Will fidgeted, wanting to get moving. Halt's low voice came to him.

'Take it easy. There's no rush.'

Will took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse.

'You know what I want you to do?' Halt asked him. He'd briefed the two of them that afternoon in the inn. But it never hurt to make sure.

Will swallowed several times. 'I'll stay inside the door and keep an eye on the room.'

'And remember, not so close to the door that you'll be knocked over if someone comes in unexpectedly,' Halt reminded him. But there was no need for that reminder. Halt had drawn a graphic picture that afternoon of how awkward it might be if Will were suddenly knocked flat by an eager drinker shoving the door open to get in.

'Got it,' Will said. His mouth was a little dry.

'Horace, you're clear?'

'Stay with you. Keep standing when you sit. Watch the two bully boys and if you say, "Horace", whack them.'

'Very succinct,' Halt said. 'Couldn't have put it better myself.' He waited a few more seconds, then stepped out of the shadows.

They crossed the street and Halt jerked the door open. Will felt the wave of heat and noise and light once again, then stepped inside after Halt and moved to the side. He was conscious of a dull thud and a muffled 'damn!' from Horace as he forgot to duck under the doorway.

O'Malley, his back to the fire, looked up at the new arrivals. He recognised Will and that distracted him for a few seconds, so that he was too late to react to Halt, striding quickly across the room to pull out a stool at the table and sit facing him.

'Good evening,' said the bearded stranger. 'My name's Halt and it's time we had a chat.' Five Nialls and Dennis rose to their feet instantly, but O'Malley held up a hand to stop them taking any further action.

'That's all right now, boys. Easy does it.'

They didn't resume their seats, but moved to stand behind him, forming a solid wall of muscle and flesh between him and the fireplace. O'Malley, recovering from his initial surprise, studied the man sitting opposite him.

He was small. And there was more grey than black in his hair. Altogether, not someone who would normally cause the smuggler too much concern. But O'Malley had spent years assessing potential enemies and he knew to look beyond the physical side of things. This man had hard eyes. And an air of confidence about him. He'd just walked into a lion's den, found the head lion and tweaked his tail. And now he sat opposite, cool as a cucumber. Unworried. Unflustered. He was either a fool or a very dangerous man. And he didn't look foolish.

O'Malley glanced quickly up at the man's companion. Tall, broad shouldered and athletic-looking, he thought. But the face was young – almost boyish. And he lacked the smaller man's air of calm certainty. His eyes were moving constantly, between O'Malley and his two cohorts. Judging. Measuring. He dismissed the young man. Nothing to fear there. It was a mistake many had made before him – to their eventual regret.

Now he looked back to the doorway and saw the youth who had approached him the previous night. He was standing away from the door a little, his longbow in his hand, an arrow nocked on the string. But the bow was lowered – at the moment – threatening nobody. That could change in a second, O'Malley thought. Dennis and Nialls had appraised him of the youth's skill with the bow. Nialls's ear was still heavily bandaged where the boy's arrow had all but severed it from his head.

This – he searched for the name the newcomer had given, then remembered it – Halt character had a similar bow. And now O'Malley realised that he was wearing a similar cloak, mottled and hooded. Same weapons, same cloaks. There was something official about them and O'Malley decided he didn't like that. He had no truck with anyone official.

'King's man, are you?' he said to Halt.

Halt shrugged. 'Not your king.' He saw the smuggler's lip curl contemptuously at the words and suppressed a small flame of anger at his late brother for letting the royal office become so downgraded. No sign of the emotion showed in his face or eyes.

'I'm Araluan,' he continued.

O'Malley raised his eyebrows. 'And I suppose we should all be mightily impressed by that?' he asked sarcastically.

Halt didn't answer for a few seconds. He held the other man's gaze with his own, measuring him, judging him.

'If you choose to be,' he said. 'It's immaterial to me. I mention it only to assure you that I have no interest in your smuggling activities.'

That shot went home. O'Malley was not a man to discuss his work openly. A scowl formed on the Hibernian's face.

'Watch your words! We don't take kindly to people who walk in here accusing us of smuggling and the like.'

Halt shrugged, unimpressed. 'I didn't say anything about "the like",' he rejoined. 'I simply said I'm not worried by the fact that you're a smuggler. I just want some information, that's all. Tell me what I want to know and I'll bother you no further.'

O'Malley had leaned forward over the table to issue the warning to Halt. Now he sat back angrily.

'If I wouldn't tell the boy,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the silent figure by the doorway, 'what makes you think I'll tell his grandfather?'

Halt raised an eyebrow at that. 'Oh, that's a little harsh. Uncle might be closer to the truth, I think.' But now the smuggler had decided enough was enough.

'Get out,' O'Malley ordered flatly. 'I'm done with you.'

Halt shook his head, and those dark eyes bored into O'Malley's.

'Maybe,' he said. 'But I'm not done with you.'

There was a threat and a challenge implicit in the words. And they were delivered in a tone of thinly veiled contempt. It was all too much for O'Malley.

'Nialls. Dennis. Throw this fool out into the street,' he said. 'And if his little friend by the door raises that bow an inch, cut his throat before you do it.'

His two henchman started round the table towards Halt, Nialls going to his right, Dennis to his left. Halt waited until they were almost upon him, then said one word.

'Horace…'

He was interested to see how the young warrior approached the problem. Horace began with a straight right to Dennis's jaw. It was a solid blow but not a knockout punch by any means. It was simply intended to give Horace a little room and time. Dennis staggered back and before Nialls could react, Horace had pivoted and hit him with a crushing left hook to the jaw. Niall's eyes glazed and his knees went slack. He dropped like a sack of potatoes and hit the floor, out cold.

But now Dennis was coming back, swinging a wild roundhouse right hand at Horace. The young man ducked under it, hammered two short lefts into the smuggler's ribs, then came up with a searing uppercut to the point of Dennis's jaw.

The uppercut had all the power of Horace's legs, upper body, shoulder and arm beneath it. It slammed into Dennis's jaw and sent an instant message flashing to his brain. The light went out behind Dennis's eyes like a candle in a hurricane. His feet actually lifted several centimetres off the floor under the force of that terrible blow. Then he too simply folded in place and crashed to the rough, sawdust-strewn boards.

The entire sequence took a little less than four seconds. O'Malley goggled in amazement as his two bodyguards were dispatched with such contemptuous ease – and by a young man he had dismissed as no threat. He began to rise. But an iron grip seized his collar, dragging him back down and across the table. At the same time, he felt something sharp – very sharp – against his throat.

'I said, I'm not done with you yet. So sit down.'

Halt's voice was low and very compelling. Even more compelling was the razor-sharp saxe knife that was now pressing a little too firmly against the smuggler's throat. O'Malley hadn't seen him unsheathe the weapon. It occurred to him that this greybeard must be capable of moving with alarming speed – just as his young companion had done.

O'Malley looked at those eyes, seeing in the foreground a blurred picture of the murderous steel that rested against his throat.

'Now I'll let the grandfather remark pass,' Halt said. 'And I won't even take offence at the fact that you just tried to have your bully boys assault me. But I will ask you one question and I will ask it once. If you don't answer me, I will kill you. Right here. Right now. Will!' he called in an abrupt aside. 'If that big fellow by the sideboard takes another step towards me, put an arrow into him.'

'Already saw him, Halt,' Will replied. He raised the bow in the general direction Halt had mentioned. The heavily built seaman who had thought he was unobserved suddenly held up both hands. Like most of the others in the room, he had heard of the two arrows that shot between Nialls and Dennis the previous evening. Initially, he'd thought it might be worth his while to lend a hand to O'Malley. But it definitely wasn't worth getting himself shot.

Will gestured with the arrow and the man sank down onto a long bench. The gleaming arrowhead was enough to worry him. But of even greater concern was the fact that the bearded man hadn't seemed to glance in his direction once.

'Now,' said Halt, 'where were we again?'

O'Malley opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. This was new territory. He was used to setting the agenda, used to having others defer to him. He didn't deceive himself that he was liked by the other men who frequented the Heron. But he knew he was feared and that was even better. Or so he had thought. Now that the people in the crowded tavern could see someone who instilled more fear in them than he did, he was left totally powerless. Had he been liked, maybe someone would have interceded on his behalf. But without Nialls and Dennis, he knew he was on his own.

Halt studied him for a moment, understanding the thought process that was going on behind the other man's eyes. He saw the flicker of doubt and uncertainty and knew he had a winning position. Everything that Will had told him about his earlier confrontation with the smuggler had led him to believe that O'Malley was not a well-liked figure. Halt had been depending on that and now he saw that it was true.

'Some days ago, you transported a man called Tennyson and a group of his followers somewhere out of the country. Do you remember that?'

O'Malley gave no sign that he did. His eyes were locked on Halt's. Halt could see the barely suppressed fury there – fury fanned by O'Malley's helplessness in the current situation.

'I hope you do,' Halt continued, 'because your life may well depend on it. Now remember what I said. I'm going to ask this question once and once only. If you want to continue living, you will tell me what I want to know. Clear?'

Still there was no response from the smuggler. Halt took a deep breath, then continued.

'Where did you take Tennyson?'

There was an almost palpable silence as everyone in the room seemed to lean forward expectantly, waiting to see what O'Malley was going to say. The smuggler swallowed several times, the action causing the tip of the saxe knife to dig painfully into the soft flesh of his throat. Then, his mouth dry and his voice almost a croak, he replied.

'You can't kill me.'

Halt's left eyebrow shot up at that. A strange half smile twisted his mouth.

'Really?' he said. 'And why might that be?'

'Because if you kill me, you'll never find out what you want to know,' O'Malley told him.

Halt gave vent to a brief snort of laughter. 'You can't be serious.'

O'Malley's forehead creased in a frown. He'd played his only card and the stranger was treating it with contempt. He was bluffing, O'Malley decided, and his confidence, at its lowest ebb, started to grow once more.

'Don't try to bluff,' he said. 'You want to know where this Tennyson fellow went. And you want to know badly, else you'd never have come back here tonight. So take that knife from my throat and I'll consider telling you. Although it'll cost you.' He added the last four words as an afterthought. He had the whip hand, he thought, and he might as well use it.

Halt said nothing for a second or two. Then he leaned across the table. The knife point stayed where it was against O'Malley's throat.

'I want you to do something for me, O'Malley. Look into my eyes and tell me if you can see any sign there that I'm incapable of killing you.'

O'Malley did as he was told. He had to admit the eyes were a chilling sight to behold. There was no sign of pity or weakness there. This man would be capable of killing him in an instant, he knew.

Except for the fact that Halt needed him alive. And that made his victory even sweeter. This grey-bearded wretch would kill him in an instant. He probably wanted to kill him right now. But he couldn't.

O'Malley couldn't help a smile forming on his face as he thought about it.

'Sure, I'm convinced you would,' he said, almost breezily. 'But you can't, can you?'

It'd never do to gamble with this one, he thought. His eyes showed no sign of the frustration and uncertainty he must be feeling now that O'Malley had called his bluff.

'Let's just review this, shall we?' Halt said softly. 'You say I can't kill you because then I'll never find out what you know. But at the same time, you've told Will over there that you won't divulge that information…'

'Ah, well now, that may be open to negotiation,' O'Malley began but Halt cut him off.

'So if I kill you, I'm not losing anything, am I? But it will be some compensation for the trouble you've caused. On the whole, I think I rather want to kill you. You're an annoying person, O'Malley. In fact, now I think about it, I'm glad you don't want to tell me because then I would feel duty bound to spare your miserable life.'

'Now look here…' The returning confidence O'Malley had felt had gone again. He'd pushed this man too far, he realised. But now the tip of the heavy knife left his throat and pointed at the tip of his nose.

'No! You listen to me!' Halt said. He spoke quietly but his voice cut like a whip. 'Look around this room and tell me if there's anyone here who owes you any sense of loyalty or friendship. Is there anyone here who might protest for one second if I simply cut your throat?'

In spite of himself, O'Malley's eyes wandered quickly to the watchful faces. He saw no sign of help there.

'Now answer me this: once you're dead, are you sure there's not somebody in this room who might know where you took Tennyson, and who might be willing to share that knowledge?'

And that was the point where O'Malley knew he'd lost. There certainly were people in the room who knew where he had taken the white-robed man. At the time, it had been no big secret. And if he, O'Malley, wasn't around to ensure their silence, they'd fall over themselves telling this grim-faced tormentor what he wanted to know.

'Craiskill River,' he said, almost in a whisper.

The knife wavered. 'What?' Halt asked him.

O'Malley's shoulders slumped and he lowered his gaze. 'Craiskill River. It's in Picta, below the Mull of Linkeith. It's one of our rendezvous points where we deliver cargo.'

Halt frowned, disbelieving him for a moment. 'Why the devil would Tennyson want to go to Picta?'

O'Malley shrugged. 'He didn't want to go there. He wanted to get away from here. That's where I was going, so that's where I took him.'

Halt was nodding slowly to himself.

'I could take you there,' O'Malley suggested hopefully.

Halt laughed contemptuously. 'Oh, I'm sure you could! My friend, I trust you about as far as Horace could kick you – and I'm tempted to find out how far that is. Now get out of my sight.'

He released his grip on the other man's collar and shoved him back. Off balance, O'Malley tried to regain his feet, then Halt stopped him.

'No. One more thing. Empty your purse on the table.'

'My purse?'

Halt said nothing but his eyebrows came together in a dark line. O'Malley noticed that the saxe knife was still in his right hand. He hurried to unfasten his purse and spill its contents onto the table top. Halt poked through the coins with a forefinger, and selected a gold piece. He held it up.

'This yours, Will?'

'Looks like it, Halt,' Will called cheerfully. After having been humiliated by O'Malley, he'd enjoyed this evening's confrontation.

'Take better care of it next time,' Halt told him. Then he turned back to O'Malley, his face set, his eyes dark and threatening. 'As for you, get the hell out of here.'

O'Malley, finally released, rose to his feet. He looked around the room, saw nothing but contempt in the faces watching him. Then he did as he was told. Six 'Your friend isn't looking too happy.'

The ship's captain nudged Will with his elbow and gestured with a smirk at the figure huddled in the bow of the Sparrow, leaning against the bulwark, the cowl of his cloak drawn up over his head.

It was a raw, overcast day, with the wind gusting at them out of the south-east, and a choppy, unpredictable swell surging in from the north. The wind blew the tops off the waves and hurled them back at the ship as it plunged into the troughs, smashing its bow down into the racing grey sea.

'He'll be fine,' Will said. But the shipmaster seemed to be uncommonly amused by the thought of someone suffering from seasickness. Perhaps, Will thought, it gave him a sense of superiority.

'Never fails,' the skipper continued cheerfully. 'These strong, silent types on land always turn into green-faced cry-babies once they feel a ship move an inch or two under their feet.'

In fact, the Sparrow was moving considerably more than that. She was plunging, lurching and rolling against the opposing forces of wind and wave.

'Are those rocks a problem?' Horace asked, pointing to where a line of rocks protruded from the sea as each line of rollers passed over them, seething with foam. They were several hundred metres away on the port side of the ship, and the wind was taking the ship down diagonally towards the rocks.

The skipper regarded the line of rocks as they disappeared then reappeared in time to the movement of the waves.

'That's Palisade Reef,' he told them. He squinted a little, measuring distances and angles in his mind, making sure the situation hadn't changed since the last time he'd checked – which had been only a few minutes previously.

'We seem to be getting a little close to it,' Horace said. 'I've heard that's not a good idea.'

'We'll come close, but we'll weather it all right,' the captain replied. 'Land people like you always get a little edgy at the sight of Palisade Reef.'

'I'm not edgy,' Horace told him. But the stiff tone of his voice belied his words. 'I just wanted to make sure you know what you're doing.'

'Well now, my boy, that's why we've got the oars out, you see. The sail is powering us, but the force of the wind is sending us down onto the reef. With the oars out, we're dragging her upwind enough so that we'll reach the back-lift with plenty of room to spare.'

'The backlift?' Will asked. 'What might that be?'

'See how the reef line runs in to the edge of the Mull?' the captain told him, pointing. Will nodded. He could see the line of troubled water that marked the reef. It did run into the foot of the large headland to the north-west – the Mull of Linkeith.

'And see how the wind is coming from over my shoulder here, and setting us down towards the reef itself?'

Again, Will nodded.

'Well, the oars will keep us far enough to the east to avoid the reef. Then, as we get closer to the Mull, the wind will hit it and be deflected back at us – that's the backlift. In effect, it'll reverse, and we'll go about so it's actually blowing us clear of the reef. Then we've got a simple run for a few kilometres down the bay to the river mouth. We'll have to row that, because the backlift will only last for a few hundred metres – enough to get us clear of the reef.'

'Interesting,' Will said thoughtfully, studying the situation, and assessing distances and angles for himself. Now that it had been pointed out, he could see that the Sparrow would pass clear of the end of the reef as they ran in under the Mull. The captain might be lacking in sensitivity, but he seemed to know his business.

'Maybe I should go for'ard and point out the reef to your friend,' the captain said, grinning. 'That should be good for a laugh. I'll wager he hasn't noticed it yet.' He laughed at his own wit. 'I'll look worried, like this, shall I?'

He assumed a mock-worried look, puckering his brows and pretending to chew his fingernails. Will regarded him coldly.

'You could do that,' he agreed. Then he added, 'Tell me, is your first mate a good seaman?'

'Well, of course he is! I wouldn't have him with me, else,' the captain replied. 'Why do you ask?'

'We may need him to handle the ship when Halt throws you overboard,' Will replied mildly. The captain started to laugh, then saw the look on Will's face and stopped uncertainly.

'Halt becomes very bad-tempered when he's seasick,' Will told him. 'Particularly when people try to make sport of him.'

'Especially when people try to make sport of him,' Horace added.

The captain suddenly didn't look so sure of himself. 'I was only joking.'

Will shook his head. 'So was that Skandian who laughed at him.' He glanced at Horace. 'Remember what Halt did to him?'

Horace nodded seriously. 'It wasn't pretty.'

The captain looked from one to the other now. He'd had dealings with Skandians over the years. Most seafarers had. And he'd never met anyone who'd bested one.

'What did he do? Your friend, I mean?' he asked.

'He puked into his helmet,' Will said.

'Extensively,' Horace added.

The captain's jaw dropped as he tried to picture the scene. Will and Horace didn't bother to explain that Halt was wearing the borrowed helmet at the time, nor that he was under the protection of the massive Erak, future Oberjarl of the Skandians. So the captain assumed that the smallish, grey-bearded man in the bows had ripped the helmet off a giant Skandian's head and thrown up into it – an action that would normally be tantamount to suicide.

'And the Skandian? What did he do?'

Will shrugged. 'He apologised. What else could he do?'

The captain looked from Will to Halt, and back to Will. The young man's face was serious, with no sign that he was gulling the captain. The captain swallowed several times, then decided that, even if he were being deceived, it might be more kindly to let Halt suffer his seasickness in peace.

'Sail!'

The cry came from the masthead lookout. Instinctively, all three of them looked up at him. He was pointing behind them, arm outstretched to the south-east. Then they swung to follow that pointing arm. There was a low scud of sea mist further out to sea, but as they watched, a dark shape began to creep out of it, taking on firmer lines.

'Can you make her out?' the captain yelled.

The lookout shaded his eyes, peering more carefully at the following ship.

'Six oars a side… and a square mains'l. She's coming up on us fast. Headreaching on us too!'

The strange ship was running before the wind, and rowing strongly as well. Headreaching meant she was able to aim for a point in advance of the Sparrow, and reach it before them. There was no way they could avoid her.

'Can you make her out?' the captain repeated. There was a moment's hesitation.

'I think she's the Claw. The Black O'Malley's ship!' the lookout called. Will and Horace exchanged a worried glance.

'Then Halt was right,' Will said.

The morning after the confrontation with O'Malley in the tavern, Halt had roused his two companions early.

'Get dressed,' he told them briefly. 'We're heading back to Fingle Bay.'

'What about breakfast?' Horace asked grumpily, knowing what the answer was going to be.

'We'll eat on the way.'

'I hate it when we eat on the way,' Horace grumbled. 'It does terrible things to my digestion.' Nonetheless, he was an experienced campaigner. He dressed quickly, re-rolled his pack and buckled on his sword. Will was ready a few seconds after him. Halt looked them over, checking that they had all their equipment.

'Let's go,' he said and led the way downstairs. He paid the innkeeper for their stay and they made their way to the stables. The horses nickered a greeting as they entered.

'Halt,' Will asked, once they were on the road, 'why Fingle Bay?'

'We need a ship,' Halt told him.

Will glanced over his shoulder at the town they had just left. They were almost at the top of the hill and the forest of masts was clearly visible.

'There are ships here,' he pointed out and Halt looked at him sidelong.

'There are,' he agreed. 'And O'Malley is here as well. He already knows where we'll be going. I don't want him knowing when we go there.'

'You think he'd try to stop us, Halt?' Horace asked.

The Ranger nodded. 'I'm sure he would. In fact, I'm sure he will. But if he doesn't know when we leave, it may mean we can give him the slip. Besides, the shipmasters in Fingle Bay are a little more honest than that nest of smugglers and thieves back there.'

'Only a little?' Will asked, hiding a grin. He knew Halt had a poor opinion of shipmasters in general – probably due to the fact that he hated travelling by sea.

'No shipmaster is too honest,' Halt replied dourly.

At Fingle Bay, they'd contracted with the master of the Sparrow, a wide-beamed merchantman with enough space for them and their three horses. When the captain heard their destination, he frowned.

'Craiskill River?' he said. 'A smuggler's den. Still, it's a good spot for a landing. Probably why the smugglers use it so often. I'll want extra if we're going there.'

'Agreed,' said Halt. He felt it reasonable to pay the man extra for the risk he was going to take. But not quite as much extra as the captain seemed to think it was worth. Eventually, they settled on a fee and Halt counted it out. Then he added three more gold pieces to the pile on the table in front of them.

The captain cocked an eye at it. 'What's this?'

Halt shoved the money towards him. 'That's for keeping your mouth shut,' he said. 'I'd like to leave after dark and I don't want people knowing where we're headed.'

The shipmaster shrugged.

'My lips are sealed,' he said, then, turning away, he bellowed a string of curses and instructions at several crew members who were loading barrels into the ship's hold.

Will grinned. 'That's a lot of noise for sealed lips,' he remarked.

Now, here they were, a few kilometres from their destination, and O'Malley had found them.

His ship was faster and handier than theirs. It was designed to outrun King's vessels sent to intercept it. And it carried a larger crew then the Sparrow. Will could see their heads lining the bulwarks and see the occasional glint of weapons. At the raised stern, he could make out O'Malley himself, straining at the tiller and keeping the Claw on course.

'We can't outrun them, can we?'

Will started in surprise at Halt's voice, close behind him. He turned to see that the Ranger had left his post in the bow and was now intent on the ship pursuing them. He was pale, but he seemed in control of himself now.

Years ago, on the long trip to Hallasholm, Will remembered discussing seasickness with Svengal, Erak's first mate.

'You need something to take your mind off it,' the burly Skandian had told him. 'When you've got something else to focus on, you don't have time to be seasick.'

It seemed he had been right. Halt's attention was fixed on the smuggler's craft behind them. He seemed to have forgotten his uncertain stomach.

The captain was shaking his head in answer to Halt's question. 'No. We can't outrun them. He's faster than us, and he can point up higher into the wind than I can. He'll either drive us down onto the reef or…' He stopped, not liking the alternative.

'Or what?' Horace asked. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. He'd seen the armed men aboard the Claw as well.

'Or else he'll ram us. The prow of his ship is reinforced. Rumour is he's sunk more than one ship that way.' He glared at Halt. 'If you'd told me that O'Malley would come after you I'd never have taken you on board.'

The faintest hint of a smile touched Halt's pale face.

'That's why I didn't tell you,' he said. 'So what do you plan to do?'

The captain shrugged helplessly. 'What can I do? I can't outrun him. Can't outfight him. Can't even hand you over to him. He doesn't leave witnesses. We're just going to have to stand here and wait for him to sink us.'

Halt raised an eyebrow.

'I think we can do a little better than that,' he said. 'Just let him get a little closer.'

The captain shrugged. 'I can't stop him getting a little closer.' Then he added, 'What are you going to do with that?'

Halt was unslinging the longbow that was over his left shoulder. At the same time, he hitched the quiver on his right shoulder up a little and selected a shaft. Will, seeing the movement, unslung his own bow.

'One or two arrows won't stop that ship,' the captain told him.

Halt regarded him with some curiosity. 'I asked what you had in mind. Apparently you're content to stand here while O'Malley rams us, sinks us and leaves to drown.'

The captain shifted uncomfortably. 'We might make it to shore,' he said. 'I can throw over empty barrels and baulks of timber to hang onto. We might be able to make it to the beach.'

'More likely we'll be washed into the reef itself,' Halt said. But he wasn't looking at the captain. He'd stepped closer to the rail and had an arrow nocked to the string. His eyes were fixed on the figure at the Claw's tiller. O'Malley had his feet braced wide apart as he dragged on the wooden bar, heaving the ship's bow upwind against the thrust on the sail and the pull of the oars. The whole ship was in a delicate state of balance. Wind, oars and tiller created a triangle of conflicting forces that resulted in the ship holding its present headway. Disturb one of those elements, Halt knew, and the result would be some moments of chaos as the remaining forces took charge.

He gauged the distance and the movement of the ship under his feet. Strange, now that he was concentrating on the problem of making an accurate shot, the nausea caused by that movement had receded. He frowned. The Claw was lifting and falling too. He'd have to factor that in to the shot. He sensed Will beside him, his own bow ready.

'Good lad,' he said. 'When I give you the word, we'll both shoot.'

'I told you,' the captain exclaimed. 'A couple of arrows won't stop that ship. We've little enough chance as it is. If you antagonise O'Malley, he'll make sure we're all dead before he leaves.'

'The way I see it,' Halt said, 'he won't be leaving. All right, Will. Now!'

As if they were linked by some invisible force, the two Rangers raised their bows, drew, sighted and shot. The two arrows sailed away within half a second of each other. Seven The two arrows, with one a little in the lead, arced away into the grey sky. Horace, watching their flight, lost sight of them against the clouds. He was conscious of the fact that Halt and Will had already nocked fresh arrows, ready for the next shot.

Then, eyes intent on the burly figure at the Claw's tiller, he caught a flicker of movement as the two arrows flashed down. He couldn't tell which arrow struck O'Malley. Halt was the better shot, Horace knew, but Will was nearly as skilled.

One arrow thudded, quivering, into the bulwark less than a metre from the helm. The other buried itself painfully in the fleshy part of O'Malley's upper left arm – the side that was facing towards them.

With the noise of wind and sea, Horace couldn't hear the cry of pain from the smuggler. But he saw him stagger, releasing the tiller and clutching his injured left arm.

The effect on the Claw was almost instantaneous – and disastrous. Freed of the steadying pressure of the rudder, holding her across the wind, she suddenly flew up ahead of the wind, her square sail bulging and ropes snapping like overtuned harp strings with the increase in pressure as the force came from dead astern. The lurching of the ship threw O'Malley to the deck. At the same time, several oarsmen completely missed their stroke and tumbled backwards on the rowing benches. One oar came unshipped. Several others tangled with their neighbours. The result was chaos.

The precise balance of forces that Halt had observed was totally disrupted. The Claw swung wildly downwind, already passing astern of the Sparrow, rushing madly towards the boiling waters of Palisade Reef.

One of the crew was lurching across the plunging deck, heading for the tiller, which was smashing back and forth, out of control.

'Stop him, Will,' Halt said briefly. They crossed to the opposite side of the deck, where they had a clearer view of the out-of-control smuggler ship. Again they shot. This time, both arrows found their mark and the man pitched forward, rolling into the scuppers as the ship heeled.

The Sparrow's captain watched, open-mouthed.

'Nobody can shoot like that,' he said softly. Horace, beside him, allowed himself a humourless smile.

'These two can,' he said.

On board the Claw, the stricken crew realised that it was too late to save their ship from driving onto the reef. They began to scramble towards the raised stern, trying instinctively to avoid the point of first impact. Their ship, rolling wildly, struck the first of the rocks, hidden below the seething water. There was a grating crash and the ship shuddered, her movement checked for a moment. The mast bowed forward under the sudden impact, then snapped off clean, a metre above the deck. It came crashing down across the ship in a tangle of rope and canvas and splintered wood, crushing and trapping a few who had been caught beneath it. The extra weight to one side heeled the ship downwind and that seemed to release it momentarily from the grip of the first rock. It surged upwards, staggered further into the tangle of the reef and crashed hard against another black, jagged mass rising from the sea. A wave broke over the trapped hull and several of the men on board were swept away. Halt and Will had lowered their bows. The bearded Ranger turned now to the captain.

'We should do something to help them,' he said.

The captain shook his head fearfully. 'I can't take my ship down into that!' he protested.

'I'm not suggesting you do. But we could toss some barrels overboard to float down to them. It might give them a chance.' Halt glanced coldly back towards the wrecked ship. 'Which is more than they would have given us.'

Horace nodded, grim-faced. The sight of the Claw, so recently a fast, agile creature of the water, now turned into a splintered, helpless wreck, was a terrible one indeed. But he knew the men on board had been willing to consign him, his friends and the crew of the Sparrow to the exact same fate. At a word from the captain, some of the Sparrow's crewmen left the oars and began to heave empty casks over the rail and he moved to help them. Soon a line of bobbing, floating barrels was drifting down towards the sinking ship.

The captain turned to Halt, fear in his eyes.

'I need my men back on the oars now,' he said, 'or we'll join them on the reef.'

Halt nodded. 'We've done all we can for them. Let's get out of here.'

The sailors scrambled back to their benches and began to heave on the oars again. Slowly, the Sparrow began to drag herself away from the dreadful reef. But it was a close-run thing. One of the jagged rocks passed a few metres by their bow and was actually hidden by the port bulwark as they surged past it, emerging a few minutes later in their wake. Horace shuddered at the sight of it. He had no idea how they'd missed it and in his mind's eye he could see the Sparrow suddenly smashing into it, pinned to the rock by the wind, slewing round, her mast crashing down under the shock, men hurled in all directions as the grey waves broke over the deck. He shook the image away as they crept closer to safety. Then he felt a strange sensation as the wind on his right cheek faltered and died, to be replaced by a gust from the left, then another, then a steady breeze. They'd reached the backlift!

'Go about!' the captain was yelling and the crew left the oars and rushed to the halyards. The big square sail began to swing ponderously, then filled with a loud crack on the opposite tack. As if she were aware of the danger she had just faced, the Sparrow surged gratefully away from the reef.

They beached the ship on the southern bank of the wide river mouth, running her prow into the sand so that she gradually eased to a halt. As the crew rigged a sling to the mast to haul the three horses overboard, the captain confronted Halt.

'You should have told me,' he said accusingly. 'You should have told me O'Malley was an enemy.'

Surprisingly, Halt merely nodded.

'You're right,' he said. 'But I knew you'd never take us if I did and I needed to get here.'

The captain shook his head and began to say something further. Then he hesitated, remembering the uncanny skill of the two bowmen when they had sent their arrows streaking across the water at the smuggler's ship. Perhaps it might not do to show too much indignation with such men, he thought. Halt saw the struggle on his face and touched his arm gently. He understood the man's feelings and he had to admit to himself that he had used him and his crew and he had put them all in danger.

'I'd pay you more,' he said apologetically. 'But I need all the gold I have left.' He thought for a moment, then said, 'Bring me a pen and paper.'

The skipper hesitated for a moment, then, as Halt urged him with a nod of his head, he disappeared into the low cabin at the stern. It was several minutes before he emerged, with a ragged-edged sheet of vellum and a writing quill and inkhorn. He had no idea what Halt intended and his expression said as much.

Halt took the writing implements, looked around for somewhere to rest the paper and saw the capstan set in the foredeck of the ship. He walked to it, the captain trailing him curiously, and spread the paper on the flat, scarred wooden surface. The top of the inkhorn was stuck in place by dried ink and it took him some seconds to pry it loose.

'What's your name?' he said suddenly. The question took the captain by surprise.

'Keelty. Ardel Keelty.'

Halt thought for a second or two, then wrote quickly. He covered the vellum with half a dozen lines, leaned back to read what he had written, his head at a slight angle, then nodded, satisfied. He signed the sheet with a flourish and waved it in the air to allow the ink to dry. Then he handed it to the captain, who looked at it and shrugged.

'I'm no great hand at reading,' he said.

Halt nodded. It explained the length of time it had taken Keelty to find pen and paper, and the state of the inkhorn. He took the paper back and read it aloud.

'Captain Keelty and the crew of the ship Sparrow have been instrumental in the taking and sinking of the notorious pirate and smuggling ship Claw off the coast of Picta. I request that these men be given a suitable reward from the royal coffers. Signed Halt, Araluen Rangers.' He looked up and added, 'It's addressed to King Sean. Present it to him and he'll make it worth your while.'

The captain snorted derisively as Halt handed him the sheet again. 'King Sean? Never heard of him. Ferris is the King of Clonmel.'

'Ferris is dead,' Horace put in. He wanted to spare Halt the anguish of discussing his brother's death. 'We're following the men who killed him. His nephew Sean has taken the throne.'

The captain turned to Horace. He was mildly surprised at the news of the King's death. Fingle Bay was a long way from the capital, after all. He looked sceptically at the words Halt had written.

'So if he has,' he said, 'why should this new king take any notice of you?'

'Because he's my nephew,' Halt told him. His dark eyes burned into Keelty's and the captain knew, instinctively, that he was telling the truth. Then a further thought struck him.

'But you said… he was Ferris's nephew?' he said. 'So that means you're…' He stopped, not sure if his line of thinking was correct, not sure if he was missing something.

'It means I'm keen to get off this rolling tub of bilge-water and be on my way,' Halt said briskly. He glanced around, saw that Will had brought their packs and saddles up from the small sleeping berth they had shared. He nodded his thanks and moved to the bow. The sailors had placed a ladder so that the three passengers could negotiate the two-metre drop to the sand more easily. Halt swung a leg over the bulwark and looked back at Keelty, standing with the sheet of paper fluttering in the wind.

'Don't lose that,' he admonished him.

Keelty, his mouth open as he tried to put all the factors together, nodded absently. 'I won't.'

Halt looked at his two companions. 'Let's go,' he said, and ran lightly down the ladder to the sand. He was grateful to have the feeling of solid ground under his feet once more. Eight They pushed inland, following a rough trail that wound erratically through the dotted clumps of low-lying scrub and long grass that covered the ground. The wind was a constant force about them, keening in off the sea, bending the grass before it. Will glanced around. No trees in sight. For a moment, the sound of the wind soughing through the grass took him back to the terrifying night he had spent on the Solitary Plain, in his first year as an apprentice, when he and Gilan and Halt were hunting the Kalkara.

He shrugged mentally and corrected himself. When the Kalkara were hunting them was more accurate.

'Be nice to see a tree,' Horace said, echoing Will's earlier thought.

Halt looked round at him. 'They won't grow here. The wind brings in the salt from the sea and it kills them. We'll need to get further inland to see trees.'

Which raised a point that had been bothering Will. 'Halt, where are we going? Do you have any idea?'

Halt shrugged. 'We know Tennyson landed at Craiskill River. And this is the only path from the landing site. So reason says he must have gone this way.'

'What happens when we hit another path?' Will asked. Halt gave him the ghost of a smile.

'Then we'll have to do some alternate reasoning.'

'Can't you find their tracks or something?' Horace asked. 'I thought you Rangers were supposed to be good at that.'

'We're good,' Halt told him comfortably. 'But we're not infallible.' The minute the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw the look of mock surprise on Horace's face.

'Well,' said the young warrior, 'that's the first time I've ever heard you admit that.' He grinned easily at Halt, who scowled at him.

'I preferred you when you were young and had a modicum of respect for your elders,' Halt said.

In truth, there were signs that people had passed along this track, but Halt and Will had no way of knowing whether they had been left by Tennyson's party or by other people. This was, after all, a path leading from a popular smuggler's rendezvous. It stood to reason that the Scotti used it constantly, bringing goods to trade with the smugglers and taking back the casks of spirits and bales of wool they brought ashore. Wool was prized in this part of Picta, where the weather was too cold and damp for the successful raising of sheep. Cattle were hardier and more attuned to the climate and the Scotti traded leather hides and horns for the soft wool.

So they rode on, content for the moment to follow the trail, and with no real alternative to make them choose another direction.

They had started in the late afternoon and night was nearly upon them when they found a fork in the trail. One branch continued in the general direction they had been taking – eastward. The other forked off to the south. Both branches seemed to be equally well used.

'We'll decide which way to go tomorrow,' Halt said. He led them off the track, through the high grass and scrub. They found a more or less suitable camp site behind a clump of scrub and blackberry bush, which grew to a little more than head height. They led the three horses in a series of circles for a few minutes to trample down the long grass, then unsaddled and watered the horses, and settled down themselves, leaving the animals to crop the grass around them. Kicker was attuned to travel with the two Ranger horses by now and Horace had no need to hobble him. He'd stay close by his two companions.

He listened to the grinding, chomping sound of the three horses as they ate and looked around, a frown on his face. 'Don't know where I'll find firewood.'

Halt regarded him with a slight smile. 'No point in looking,' he said. 'There's none around and we can't have a fire anyway. Once it's dark, even a small fire will be visible for miles and we never know who's watching.'

Horace sighed. Cold food again. And nothing but cold water to wash it down. He was nearly as fond of coffee as the two Rangers.

'Let me know when we start having fun,' he said.

There was a fine rain in the night and they woke under damp blankets. Halt rose, stretched and groaned as his aching muscles nagged at him.

'I really am getting too old for this,' he said. He looked around the low horizon, bounded by scrubby heather and long grass, and saw no sign of anyone watching them. He gestured towards the blackberry bush and said to Will, 'I think we can risk a fire this morning. See if you can cut some dry branches from inside that thicket.'

Will nodded. He'd be grateful for a hot drink to start the day. He crawled into the tangled blackberry bush and swore quietly when a bramble stuck him.

'Mind the brambles,' Halt said.

'Thank you for stating the obvious,' Will told him. But he got to work with his saxe knife and cut a bundle of the thin dry stalks. Halt was right. The thick tangle had kept the rain from penetrating and Will backed out of the tunnel he had cut with a substantial bundle of sticks. None of them would burn for long, but they'd give off little smoke.

'Should be enough to boil the coffee pot,' he said. Halt nodded. They'd eat a cold breakfast again – hard bread and dried fruit and meat. But it would be more palatable with a hot, sweet mug of coffee to wash it down.

A little later, they sat, savouring their second cups.

'Halt,' Will said, 'can I ask you something?'

He saw his old mentor's mouth begin to frame the perennial answer to that question and hurried on before Halt could speak.

'Yes, I know. I just did. But I want to ask you something else, all right?'

A little miffed that Will had forestalled his stock answer, Halt gestured for him to go ahead.

'Where do you think Tennyson is heading?'

'I'd say,' the Ranger answered, after a few seconds' deliberation, 'that he'll be heading south now that he has the chance. Back into Araluen.'

'How do you know that?' Horace asked. He was interested to hear the answer. He was always impressed at the two Rangers' ability to read a situation and come up with the correct answer to a problem. Sometimes, he thought, they almost seemed to have divine guidance.

'I'm guessing,' Halt told him.

Horace was a little disappointed. He'd expected a detailed analysis of the situation. The ghost of a smile showed on Halt's face. He was well aware that Horace occasionally entertained exaggerated ideas of Ranger skills and abilities.

'Sometimes that's all you can do,' Halt said, a note of apology in his voice. Then he decided it might be a good idea to explain his train of thinking. He reached behind him to his saddle bag and took out a leather map case. He spread a map of the northern half of the border country between Araluen and Picta out before him. The two young men positioned themselves either side of him.

'I figure we're about here,' he said, tapping his forefinger on a spot several centimetres in from the coast. Will and Horace could see the Mull of Linkeith marked, and the Craiskill River, which meandered back to the northeast, angling away from the relatively direct eastern path they had been following. Horace leaned forward, peering more closely.

'Where's the path we're on?' he asked. Halt regarded him patiently.

'We don't mark every little footpath and game trail on these maps, you know,' he said. Horace stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. The action said that he thought such things should be marked. Halt decided to ignore him.

'Tennyson probably wants to head south,' he said. 'And this fork in the trail has been the first opportunity he's had to do it.'

Will scratched his head thoughtfully. 'Why south? You said that last night. What makes you so sure?'

'I'm not sure,' Halt told him. 'But it's a reasonable assumption.'

Horace snorted disparagingly. 'Fancy word for a guess.'

Halt glared at him but Horace made sure he wasn't making eye contact with the Ranger. Halt shook his head and continued.

'We know Tennyson didn't particularly want to come to Picta,' he said. 'O'Malley told us that, remember?'

Understanding was beginning to dawn on Horace's face. His faith in Ranger infallibility was slowly being restored.

'That's right,' he said. 'You asked him and he said Tennyson just wanted to get out of Hibernia.'

'Exactly. And Picta was the place O'Malley was going. So he dropped Tennyson off at the Craiskill River. Now, I'd be willing to bet that the Outsiders don't have any influence in Picta so far…'

'What makes you say that?' Will wanted to know.

'The Scotti aren't particularly tolerant of new religions,' Halt told him. 'And the local brand of intolerance is a little more violent than it is in Araluen. Try to start a new religion in this country and they'll string you up by your thumbs – particularly if you ask them for gold as the price of conversion.'

'Not a bad policy really,' Horace said.

Halt regarded him levelly. 'Exactly. However, it's reasonable to assume there are pockets of influence dotted around the remote parts of Araluen. I'd be surprised if Selsey was the only place they've infiltrated.'

Selsey was the isolated West Coast fishing village where Halt had first discovered the Outsiders' activity.

'And even if that's not the case, he really has no other choice, does he?' Will said. 'He can't stay in Hibernia because he knows we were after him there. He can't stay in Picta…'

'… or they'll string him up by the thumbs,' Horace put in, grinning. He liked the mental image of the overweight, self-important Tennyson strung up by the thumbs.

'So Araluen is the logical choice,' Halt finished. He tapped the map again, indicating a location south of the position he had originally pointed to. 'And this is the closest path through the mountains back into Araluen. One Raven Pass.'

The border between Araluen and Picta was delineated by a range of rugged mountains. They weren't particularly high but they were steep and forbidding and the easiest ways through them were a series of mountain passes.

'One Raven Pass?' Horace repeated. 'Why One Raven?'

'One raven is sorrow,' Will said absently, repeating the old proverb.

Halt nodded. 'That's right. The pass is the site of an old battle many years ago. A Scotti army was ambushed in the pass and wiped out to a man. Legend has it that since then, no bird life will live there. Except for a solitary raven, who appears every year on the anniversary of the battle and whose cries sound like Scotti widows weeping for their men.'

'How many years ago did this happen?' Horace asked. Halt shrugged, as he rolled up the map and replaced it in his map case.

'Oh, three or four hundred years back, I suppose,' he said carelessly.

'And how many years does a raven live?' Horace asked, a small frown furrowing the skin between his eyes. Halt rolled his eyes to heaven, seeing what was coming.

Will tried to step in. 'Horace…'

Horace held up a hand to forestall him.

'I mean, it's not as if it's breeding there and this is its great-great-great-great-grandson raven, is it?' he said. 'After all, it's one raven, and one raven can hardly have great-great-great-grandsons on its own, can it?'

'It's a legend, Horace,' Halt said deliberately. 'It's not meant to be taken literally.'

'Still,' said Horace doggedly, 'why not call it something sensible? Like Battle Pass? Or Ambush Pass?'

Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even a second son, after Will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree.

'You have no sense of drama or symbolism, do you?' he asked.

'Huh?' replied Horace, not quite understanding. Halt looked around for a convenient tree. Perhaps luckily for Horace, there were none in sight. Nine Tennyson, self-styled prophet of the god Alseiass, scowled at the platter that had been placed in front of him. The meagre contents – a small piece of stringy salted beef and a few withered carrots and turnips – did nothing to lighten his mood. Tennyson was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. But now he was cold and uncomfortable. And, worst of all, hungry.

He thought bitterly of the Hibernian smuggler who had put him and his party ashore on the wild west coast of Picta. He had demanded an exorbitant fee from the Outsiders and, after a great amount of haggling, had grudgingly agreed to provide them with provisions for their overland journey south. When the time had come for them to disembark, they had been virtually manhandled off the ship like so much unwanted ballast, and half a dozen sacks had been tossed onto the beach after them.

By the time Tennyson had discovered that at least a third of the food provided in the sacks was spoiled and inedible, the smuggler's ship was already well off shore, swooping over the rolling waves like a gull. He raged impotently on the beach, picturing the smuggler laughing to himself as he counted the gold coins he had extorted from them.

At first, Tennyson was tempted to claim the largest share of the small store of food for himself, but caution prevailed. His hold over his followers was tenuous. None of them were abject believers in Alseiass. These were the hard core of his group, his fellow criminals, who knew that the Outsiders cult was nothing more than an opportunity to extort money from simple country folk. They saw Tennyson as their leader only because he was skilled in convincing gullible farmers and villagers to part with their money. But at the moment, there were no farmers or villagers nearby and they felt no sense of deference to the bulky grey-haired man in the flowing white robe. He might be their leader, but right now he wasn't returning any profit to them, so he didn't deserve any more than the rest of them.

The truth was, he needed them as much as they needed him. Things were different when they were surrounded by several hundred converts, eager to pander to Tennyson's every whim. When that was the case, they all lived high off the hog, and none higher than he. But now? Now he would have to share with the rest.

He heard footsteps approaching and looked up, the sour expression still on his face. Bacari, the senior of the two Genovesan assassins still remaining in his employ, stopped a few paces away. He smiled sarcastically at the platter of food on Tennyson's knee.

'Not exactly a feast, your holiness.'

Tennyson's brow darkened in anger. He needed the Genovesans but he didn't like them. They were arrogant and self-centred. When he ordered them to carry out a task, they did so with an air of reluctance, as if they were doing him a favour. He'd paid them well to protect him and he expected that they might show him a little deference. But that was a concept that seemed beyond them.

'Did you find anything?' he asked.

The assassin shrugged. 'There's a small farm about three kilometres away. There are animals there, so we'll have meat at least.'

Tennyson had sent the two Genovesans to scout the surrounding area. What little food they had remaining was almost inedible and they were going to have to find more. Now, at the mention of fresh meat, his spirits lifted.

'Vegetables? Flour? Grain?' he asked. Bacari shrugged again. It was an infuriating movement, Tennyson thought. It conveyed a world of disdain for the person being addressed.

'Possibly,' Bacari said. 'It seems like a prosperous little place.'

Tennyson's eyes narrowed. Prosperous might equate with well populated. 'How many people?'

Bacari made a dismissive gesture. 'Two people so far as I could see,' he said. 'We can handle them easily.'

'Excellent!' Tennyson rose to his feet with renewed enthusiasm. He looked at the distasteful contents of the platter and hurled them into the heather beside the track. 'Rolf!' he called to his chief henchman. 'Get everyone ready to move! The Genovesans have found us some food.'

The band began preparing to move out. The mention of food had heartened all of them. The surly looks and angry muttering that had become the norm for the past few days were gone. Amazing what the prospect of a full belly would do for people's spirits, Tennyson thought.

It was a well-kept thatched cottage with a barn beside it. Smoke rose in a lazy curl from the chimney. A cultivated field showed the green tops of vegetables growing – kale or cabbage, Tennyson surmised. As they approached, a man emerged from the barn, leading a black cow behind him on a rope. He was clad in the typical attire of the region – a long plaid covering his upper body and a heavy kilt wrapped round his waist. He didn't notice them at first, but when he did, he stopped in his tracks, the cow dropping its head to graze the long grass.

Tennyson raised his hand in a sign of peace and continued towards the Scotti farmer. Rolf and his other followers spread out in a line either side of him. Bacari and Marisi, the second Genovesan, stayed close by him, a pace behind him. Both had their crossbows unslung and held unobtrusively close to their sides.

The farmer turned and called back to the house. A few seconds later, a woman appeared at the door and moved to join her husband, standing ready to defend their home against these strangers.

'We come in peace,' Tennyson called. 'We mean you no harm.'

The farmer replied in his native tongue. Tennyson had no idea what the words were but the meaning was clear – stay away. The man stooped and drew something from the leather-bound legging on his right leg. He straightened and they could see a long, black-bladed dirk in his hand. Tennyson smiled reassuringly and continued to move forward.

'We need food,' he said. 'We'll pay you well for it.'

He had no intention of paying and no idea if the farmer could understand the common tongue he spoke in. Probably not, this far away from civilisation. The important thing was the soothing and placating tone.

But the farmer wasn't convinced. He turned and shoved the cow violently, attempting to herd it back to the shelter of the barn. The black animal raised its head in alarm and began to wheel heavily away.

'Kill him,' Tennyson said quietly.

Almost immediately, he heard the slap-whizz of the two crossbows and two bolts streaked across the field to bury themselves in the man's back. He threw up his hands, gave a choked cry and fell face down in the grass. His wife uttered a scream and dropped to her knees beside him, speaking to him, trying to rouse him. But Tennyson knew from the way the man had fallen that he was dead when he hit the ground. It took a minute or so for the woman to come to the same realisation. When she did, she came to her feet, screamed what was obviously a curse at them and turned to run. She had gone three paces when Bacari, who had reloaded, shot again and sent her sprawling face down, a few metres from her husband.

The cow, unnerved by the shouting and the metallic smell of blood, stood uncertainly, swaying its head, offering a half-hearted threat to the approaching strangers.

Nolan, a burly man who was one of Tennyson's inner circle, moved forward and seized the cow's halter, bringing it under control. The cow looked at him curiously, then Nolan slashed his knife across its throat. Blood jetted out and the cow staggered a few paces before its legs gave way and it collapsed into the grass.

The Outsiders stood around the thrashing animal in a circle, regarding it with satisfaction. There would be enough meat there to keep them fed for some time.

'Clean it and joint it,' Tennyson told Nolan. Before joining Tennyson's band, the big man had worked as a butcher. He nodded contentedly.

'Give me a hand,' he ordered three of the men around him. He'd need them to hold the carcass steady while he skinned and butchered it. Tennyson left him to the task and strode into the farmhouse. The doorway was low and he had to bow his head to enter. A quick search revealed a supply of potatoes, turnips and onions. His men gathered them up while he sent another two to pick some of the cabbages growing in the cultivated field. He looked around the neat little house. He was tempted to spend the night here under a roof for a change. But he had no idea if the farmer might have friends living nearby. It would be safer to gather up the food and keep moving.

Another of his followers met him as he emerged from the house.

'There are two more beasts in the barn,' he said. 'Do we want them?'

Tennyson hesitated. They had plenty of meat now, as well as the potatoes and onions from the house. If they were to carry anything more it would only slow them down. He glanced across to where Nolan was already working on the carcass. He'd stripped the skin away and laid it on the grass. He'd gutted and cleaned the body and was cutting the meat into joints, piling them on the bloodied skin.

'No,' he said. 'Burn the barn when we leave. And the house.' There was no real reason to burn them, he thought. But then, there was no reason not to, either. And the act of wanton destruction would go a long way towards restoring his good spirits.

The Outsider nodded. Then he hesitated, not sure what Tennyson intended.

'And the cows?' he asked. Tennyson shrugged. If he couldn't use them, he didn't see any sense leaving them for anyone else.

'Burn them in it.' Ten The path led Halt, Will and Horace a little east of south, and the coastline was angling out to the west. So as they travelled, they moved further and further away from the sea. The constant, salt-laden wind died away and they began to see trees again.

The land itself was wild and hilly, covered for the main part in gorse and heather. It lacked the gentle green beauty of the southern parts of Araluen that Will and Horace were accustomed to. But it had its own form of beauty – wild and rugged and unkempt. Even the trees, as they began to appear with greater frequency, seemed to stand as if challenging the elements to do their worst, their roots wide-set in the sandy ground, their branches thick and braced like brawny arms.

They had travelled perhaps a kilometre when Halt gave a low grunt. He swung down from the saddle and stepped off the trail to examine something. Will and Horace, riding single file behind him, dismounted and moved to peer over his shoulder. He was studying a small tuft of cloth, caught on a branch of tough heather that grew beside the trail.

'What do you make of that, Will?'

'Cloth,' Will said, then as Halt looked piercingly at him, he realised that he had stated the obvious and his mentor wanted more from him. He reached out and touched the small fragment, feeling it, rolling it gently between his forefinger and thumb. It was a smooth linen weave, perhaps from a shirt, he thought.

'It's nothing like the rough plaid the Scotti wear,' he said thoughtfully. Now he realised why they wove that thick, rough cloth. The heather and gorse of their homeland would rip anything lighter to shreds within a few weeks.

'Good work,' Halt said approvingly.

Horace smiled as he watched his two friends, crouched by the side of the track. In some ways, he knew, Halt would never stop teaching the younger Ranger. Will would always be his apprentice. And as he had the thought, he realised that Will, without thinking about it, would probably always want it that way.

'So what else occurs to you?' Halt asked.

Will looked around, studying the sandy path they had been travelling, seeing traces there that people had passed this way within the previous few days. But the rain and wind had made it almost impossible to deduce whether they had all travelled together or were in several separate parties.

'I'm wondering why the owner wasn't walking on the path itself. Why would he be shoving his way through the bushes when there's a clear path?'

Halt said nothing. But his body language, as he leaned towards Will and nodded encouragingly, told the young Ranger that he was on the right track. He looked at the path again, at the jumble of footprints, one over the other.

'The path is narrow,' he said finally. 'No room for more than two abreast. The person wearing this,' he indicated the small piece of material, 'was jostled off the path by the numbers. Maybe he stopped for a moment and he was bumped aside.'

'So we're following a large group of travellers. I'd say there are more than a dozen of them,' Halt said.

'The innkeeper said Tennyson had about twenty people with him,' Will said.

Halt nodded. 'Exactly. And I'd guess we're a day or two behind them.'

They stood erect. Horace shook his head in admiration.

'You mean you can figure out all that just from one little scrap of cloth?'

Halt regarded him sardonically. He was still bristling a little from Horace saying 'That's a fancy term for a guess' the previous day. Halt didn't forget criticism.

'No,' he said. 'We're guessing. We just wanted to make it sound scientific.'

Halt paused for a few seconds, as if inviting Horace to make some kind of reply, but wisely, Horace chose not to. Finally, the Ranger gestured to the path ahead of them.

'Let's get moving,' he said.

The wind had blown away the rainclouds of the previous night and the sky above them was a brilliant blue, even though the air temperature was cold and crisp. The heather that surrounded them varied in colour from deep brown to dull purple. Under the bright sunlight it seemed to shimmer with colour. Will spotted the next fragment of cloth almost by chance. It was nothing more than a thread, really, snagged on another branch – this time, one growing close to the path. And it would have been easy to miss in the purple heather because it blended in.

It too was purple.

Will signalled Horace, who was riding behind him, to rein in. Then he leaned down from the saddle and plucked the thread from the bush.

'Halt,' he called.

The bearded Ranger checked Abelard and swivelled in the saddle. He squinted at the purple thread on Will's forefinger, then smiled slowly. 'And who do we know who wears purple?'

'The Genovesans,' Will replied.

Halt took a deep breath. 'So it looks like we're on the right track.'

That was confirmed for them a few kilometres later. They smelt it first. The wind was too strong for the smoke to hang in the sky. It was blown away almost instantly. But the smell of burnt, charred wood and thatch – and something else – carried to them.

'Smoke,' Will said, reining in and turning his face to the wind to try to catch the scent more clearly. There was a faint trace of something else – something he'd smelt before, when he had been following the trail of one of Tennyson's raiding parties, far away to the south in Hibernia. It was the smell of burnt flesh.

Then Halt and Horace caught the scent too. Will exchanged a glance with his teacher and knew he'd recognised that ominous smell as well.

'Come on,' said Halt, and he urged Abelard into a canter, even though he knew they were already too late.

The crofter's cottage had stood in cleared ground, a few hundred metres from the path.

Now it was a pile of blackened ruins, still smoking a day after it had been consumed by fire. One section of the thatched roof remained partly intact. But its support structure had collapsed and it lay at an angle, propped up by the charred remnants of one wall.

'Thatch must have been damp,' Halt said. 'It didn't burn completely.'

They'd reined in a few metres short of the cottage. There was nobody left alive here. The bodies of a man and a woman sprawled face down in the long grass.

There had been a second building beyond the cottage – a barn, Will guessed. It too had been burned to ashes. There was nothing left of its walls, although, as with the cottage, some sections of the damp thatch had survived, only to collapse into the ruins. Tug sidestepped nervously as Will urged him towards the barn. The smell of burnt flesh was much stronger here and the horse objected to it. Among the ashes, Will could see two large, charred bodies. Cattle, he thought.

'Easy, boy,' Will told Tug. The little horse tossed his head uncomfortably, as if apologising for his nervous reaction. Then he steadied. Will swung himself down from the saddle, and heard a low warning rumble in Tug's chest.

'It's all right,' he told the horse. 'Whoever did this is long gone.'

And it soon became apparent who had done it. Will knelt beside the body of the crofter and gently moved the man's tangled plaid to one side, from where it had bunched up as he had fallen. Concealed by the folds of rough wool, he found the implements that had killed him: two crossbow bolts, barely a centimetre apart, buried deep in the man's back. There was little blood. At least one of the bolts must have hit the man's heart, killing him almost instantly. That was something to be grateful for, at least, Will thought. He looked up. Halt and Horace were still sitting their horses, watching him.

'Crossbow,' he said.

'Not a Scotti weapon,' Halt observed.

Will shook his head. 'No. I've seen bolts like this before. They're Genovesan. Tennyson has been here.'

Horace looked around the tragic little scene. His expression was a mixture of sadness and disgust. Picta and the Scotti might nominally be enemies of Araluen, but these people weren't soldiers or raiders. They were simple country folk, going about their day-to-day business, working hard and scraping a meagre living from this tough northern land.

'Why?' he said. 'Why kill them?'

In his young life, Horace had seen his share of battles and knew there was no glamour in war. But at least in war, soldiers knew their fate was in their own hands. They could kill or be killed. They had a chance to defend themselves. This was the pitiless slaughter of innocent, unarmed civilians.

Halt indicated another corpse, further away and half concealed in the long grass. There was a small cloud of flies buzzing about and a crow hopped on top of it, ripping at the carcass with its dagger of a beak. It was all that was left of another of the crofter's cattle. But this one had been killed and butchered for its meat.

'They wanted food,' he said. 'So they took it. When the crofter objected, they killed him and his wife and burned their house and barn.'

'But why? They could have overpowered him, surely. Why kill him?'

Halt shrugged. 'They've still got a way to go to the border,' he said. 'I guess they didn't want to leave anyone behind who could raise the alarm against them.' He looked around now, but saw no sign of other habitation. 'I'll bet there are half a dozen other little crofts like this within a few kilometres. Chances are there's a hamlet or village as well. Tennyson wouldn't want to take the risk that these people might gather a party and come after him.'

'He's a murdering swine,' Horace said quietly, as he listened to Halt's reasoning. The bearded Ranger gave a slight snort of disgust.

'Are you only beginning to figure that out?' he asked. Eleven Halt glanced warily around the horizon. 'We should get out of here,' he said, but Horace was already swinging down from his saddle.

'We can't leave them like this, Halt,' he said quietly. 'It's just not right.'

He began to unstrap the short spade that was part of his camping equipment. Halt leaned forward in the saddle.

'Horace, do you want to be here if some of these Scottis' friends turn up?' he asked. 'Because I don't think they'll be too willing to listen to explanations.'

But Horace was already surveying the ground, looking for a soft spot to begin digging.

'We should bury them, Halt. We can't just leave them here to rot. If they have any friends nearby, they'll appreciate the fact that we took the trouble.'

'I think you're assuming far too much reasoning power from the Scotti,' Halt told him. But he could see that he wouldn't change Horace's mind. Will had dismounted and had his own shovel as well. He looked up at Halt.

'Halt, if we don't bury them, they'll attract more crows and ravens. And that might attract their friends' attention,' he reasoned.

'What about that?' Halt asked, indicating the butchered carcass. Will shrugged.

'We can drag it into the middle of the barn's ashes,' he said. 'Cover it with sections of the thatch.'

Halt sighed, giving up the argument. In a way, he thought, Horace was right. It was the decent thing to do – and that was what set them apart from people like Tennyson. And besides, Will's argument made sense. Maybe, Halt thought, he had become a little too cold-blooded and pragmatic in his old age. He swung down from the saddle, took his own shovel and began digging.

'I'm too set in my ways to start doing the right thing,' he complained. 'You're a bad influence, Horace.'

They covered the two bodies with the thick plaids they had been wearing and laid them side by side in the shallow grave. While Will and Horace filled it in, Halt hitched a rope to Abelard's saddle and dragged the carcass into the blackened remains of the barn. Then he heaved several sections of the half-burned thatch over the body. The other two beasts were so badly burned that there was nothing left to attract scavengers.

Horace smoothed out the last shovelful of earth and stood erect, rubbing the small of his back.

'These shovels are too short,' he said. He glanced around at his companions. 'Should we say something over the grave?' he asked uncertainly.

'They won't hear us if we do,' Halt replied and jerked a thumb towards the waiting horses. 'Let's get mounted. We've given Tennyson too much time to get away from us as it is.'

Horace nodded, realising that Halt was right. Besides, he thought, it would be awkward saying words of farewell over two people whose names he didn't even know.

Halt waited until his two companions were mounted again. 'Let's pick up the pace,' he said, swinging Abelard's head to the south again. 'We've got a lot of time to make up.'

They held the horses to a steady lope throughout the rest of the afternoon. Tug and Abelard, of course, could maintain a pace like that for days if necessary. Kicker didn't have quite the same endurance, but his longer stride meant he was making the same progress for a lot less effort. The clear skies of the morning had gone as the wind shifted and brought banks of cloud rolling in from the west. Halt sniffed the air.

'Could rain tonight,' he said. 'Be good to be into the pass by then.'

'Why's that?' Will wanted to know.

'Caves,' Halt told him succinctly. 'The walls of the pass are lined with them and I'd rather spend the night in a nice warm, dry cave than sleeping out in this Pictish rain again.'

They reached One Raven Pass with the last light of day. At first, Will and Horace could see no sign of it. Then they realised that a few metres after the entrance, the pass took an abrupt ninety-degree turn to the left, so that the rock wall opposite seemed to fill the opening. They rode in cautiously, their hoof beats echoing back from the rock walls that soared above them. For the first fifty metres or so, the path was narrow, a winding track between the high mountains. Then gradually it opened out, until the floor of the pass was thirty or forty metres wide. The ground was still rising and the surface was rough. Inside the pass, the shadows were deep and the going was treacherous. Kicker stumbled several times and Halt held up his hand.

'We might camp for the night,' he said. 'The horses could break a leg in these conditions and then we'd be in real trouble.'

Will was peering around the heavily shadowed walls. 'Don't see any of those warm, dry caves you mentioned,' he said.

Halt clicked his tongue in annoyance. 'The notes on the map say they should be here.' Then he pointed. 'That overhang will have to do us.'

A large, flat spur of rock jutted out from the wall of the pass, providing an area of shelter underneath. There was plenty of headroom. In the absence of a cave, it would serve the purpose, Will thought.

'At least it'll keep the rain off,' he said.

They set up camp. Will and Horace had carried a supply of firewood from the previous camp site and Halt decided they could risk a fire. They were cold and low-spirited, he realised, and all too ready to snap at one another. A fire, some hot food and hot coffee would go a long way to restoring their spirits. There was a slight risk that it might be seen, he thought, but the twists and turns of the pass should conceal it pretty effectively. Besides, so far they'd seen no sign that anyone was following them. And moving in the dark over the uneven, rock-strewn, sloping ground of the pass would be risky for any pursuer. Doing so quietly would be well nigh impossible. All in all, he thought, the potential gains outweighed the dangers.

They settled into their blankets and cloaks early, covering the fire with sand before they did so. It was one matter to heat food and water for a few minutes, another altogether to leave the fire burning to signal their presence while they slept. Horace offered to take the first watch and Will and Halt accepted gratefully.

Horace's hand on his shoulder roused Will from a deep, dreamless sleep. For a second, he wondered where he was, and why there was a pebble pressing painfully into his hip through his blankets. Then he remembered.

'Is it my watch?' he mumbled. But Horace crouched over him, his finger to his lips for silence.

'Listen,' he whispered. He turned away to face down the pass. Will, sniffing and yawning, sat up in his blankets, propped on one elbow.

A long, rasping cry echoed down the pass, bouncing from one wall to the other and back again so that the echoes continued long after the original noise had ceased. Will felt his skin goosebump at the sound. It was a sound of sorrow, a wavering, croaking cry of pain.

'What the devil is that?' he whispered.

Horace shook his head. Then he leaned forward again to listen, his head cocked slightly to one side.

'It's the third time I've heard it,' he said. 'The first two were so quiet I wasn't really sure I heard them. But now it's closer.'

The cry came again, but this time from a different direction. The first had been from down the pass, Will thought. This one was definitely behind them, issuing from somewhere back the way they had come.

Suddenly, he recognised the sound.

'It's a raven,' he said. 'The raven of One Raven Pass.'

'But that one was from up there,' Horace began, pointing back along the pass, then turning uncertainly towards the direction from which they'd heard the first cry. 'There must be two of them.'

'Or one of them flying around,' Will put in.

'You think so?' Horace asked. He would face any enemy unflinchingly. But to sit here in this shadowy cleft in the mountains listening to that mournful sound set his nerves on edge.

A long-suffering voice came from the pile of blankets that covered Halt. 'I've heard ravens do tend to fly around,' he said. 'Now will you two kindly shut up and let me sleep?'

'Sorry, Halt,' Horace said, abashed. He patted Will on the shoulder. 'You go back to sleep too. I've got another hour to go.'

Will settled down again. The croaking call came again, from a third direction.

'Yes,' said Horace to himself. 'It's definitely one raven, flying to different positions. Definitely. That's what it is, all right.'

'I'm not going to warn you again,' came Halt's muffled voice. Horace opened his mouth to apologise, thought better of it and remained silent.

The raven continued its mournful croaking throughout the night. Will took over the watch from Horace, then handed over to Halt a few hours before dawn. As light began to touch the higher edges of the rock walls around them, the raven gradually became silent.

'Now that he's gone,' Horace said, as he extinguished the breakfast cooking fire, 'I almost miss him.'

'That's not how you felt last night,' Will said, grinning. He made his eyes wide and staring and waved his hands in mock fright. 'Ooooh, Will! Help! There's a big bad raven come to carry me away.'

Horace shook his head, somewhat shamefaced. 'Well, I suppose I was a little startled,' he said. 'But it took me by surprise, that's all.'

'I'm glad I was here to protect you,' Will said, with a slightly superior tone.

Halt, watching them as he rolled his pack, thought his former apprentice was pushing it too far. 'You know,' he said quietly, 'just after you first heard the raven, Will, I actually heard a strange crackling noise as well.'

Will regarded him curiously. 'You did? I didn't notice it. What do you think it was?'

'I couldn't be sure,' the Ranger said thoughtfully, 'but I suspect it was the sound of your hair standing on end in fright.'

Horace gave a short bark of laughter and Halt allowed him one of his brief smiles. Will turned to roll his own pack, feeling his cheeks redden.

'Oh yes. Very amusing, Halt. Very amusing,' he said. But he did wonder how the bearded Ranger had known that his hair had done just that.

They continued along the pass, still moving slightly uphill. After a while, the path became level, then sloped gradually down again. An hour or so after they had left the camp site, Halt pointed out a small, flat-topped cairn of rocks set by the eastern wall of the pass.

'That's what our friend the raven was crying about,' he said.

They rode closer to study the pile, which resembled a small, rough altar. The stones were very old and their edges worn smooth. On the rock wall beside them, there were faint carvings visible, weathered by years of wind and rain.

'It's a memorial to the men who died here,' Halt told them.

Will leaned forward a little to study the carvings. 'What do they say?'

Halt shrugged. 'They're pretty hard to make out, worn as they are. And I can't read Scotti runes anyway. I suspect they tell the story of the battle.' He indicated the steep walls. At this point, the pass had narrowed again so that it was barely twenty metres wide. 'There are ledges up there where the enemy stationed their archers,' he said. 'They fired down into the ranks of the Scotti as they were packed together down here. They fired arrows, rolled rocks, threw spears. The Scotti soldiers got in their own way trying to retreat. When they were hopelessly tangled together and confused, the enemy cavalry came round the next bend there and hit them.'

His two young companions followed his account of the ancient battle, looking from one point to another as he described it. Young as they were, they were both experienced in battle and they could picture the terrible slaughter that must have taken place in this crowded, shadowy cleft in the rocks.

'Who were they, Halt?' Horace asked. He kept his voice lowered in an unconscious mark of respect for the warriors who had died here. Halt looked at him, not understanding the question, so he elaborated.

'Who were the enemy?'

'We were,' Halt told him. 'The Araluans. This antagonism between the two nations isn't something recent, you know. It goes back for centuries. That's why I'm keen to get out of Picta and back onto Araluan soil.'

It was an obvious hint and the two young men urged their horses after him as he rode south, heading for the exit from the pass. Horace glanced back at the small memorial once or twice, but soon a twist in the pass hid it from sight.

An hour later, they found the second set of tracks. Twelve Halt and Will, intent on the tracks left by Tennyson and his followers, noticed the different set almost simultaneously.

'Halt…' Will said. But his old mentor was already nodding.

'I see them.' He reined in Abelard. Will and Horace stopped as well and the two Rangers dismounted to study this evidence of newcomers. Horace, aware of a certain tension in the air, surreptitiously loosened his sword in its scabbard. He was bursting to question the Rangers but he knew any such distraction would be unwelcome. They'd tell him when they'd assessed the situation, he knew.

Will glanced back down the trail. There was a small subsidiary defile leading in from the left-hand side of the pass a few metres back – a narrow gap in the rocks that joined the major route into Araluen. They had ridden past it, almost without noticing. They had seen plenty of narrow tracks leading off the main path. Most of them petered out after twenty to thirty metres, ending in blind walls of rock.

This one was different. The tracks had come from it.

Will ran lightly back and disappeared into the cleft. He was gone for some minutes and then, to Horace's intense relief, he reappeared. The tall young warrior was uncomfortable when his friend disappeared suddenly like that. So was Tug, he realised. The little horse had shifted nervously and stamped his hoof when his master seemed to vanish into the rock.

'That's where they came from,' Will said thoughtfully, jerking his thumb back at the gap in the wall. 'The trail in there goes back quite a way. I went forty or fifty metres in and it didn't seem to end. And it widened out quite a bit.'

Halt scratched his beard thoughtfully. 'There are dozens of subsidiary trails leading into the main pass,' he said. 'This is obviously one of them.' He looked down at the scuffed ground before him, twisting his mouth thoughtfully to one side. Horace decided that his companions had had long enough to assess the situation.

'Who are they?' he asked.

Halt didn't answer immediately. He looked at Will. 'What would you say?'

The days were long past when Will would blurt out an unconsidered answer to such a question from Halt. Better to be accurate than fast, he knew. He went down on one knee, touching one of the tracks with his forefinger, tracing its outline in the sand. He looked to left and right, studying the faint outlines of other footprints.

'The footprints are all big,' he said. 'And quite deep on this hard surface. So whoever they are, they're heavily built.'

'So?' Halt prompted.

'So they're all men. There are no smaller prints that I can see. No women or children with them. I'd say they're a war party.'

'Following Tennyson?' Horace asked, his mind going back to the pathetic scene at the crofter's cottage.

Will chewed his lip thoughtfully. He looked at Halt but the older Ranger gestured for him to continue his line of reasoning.

'Maybe,' he said. 'They came through several hours after Tennyson did. You can see where their tracks overlay his party's. And they're fresher. I'd say these were made early this morning.'

'Well, let's hope they catch him,' Horace said. To his way of thinking, if a vengeful Scotti war party wiped out Tennyson and his Outsiders, that would be a neat solution to the whole situation.

'Maybe,' Will repeated. 'But… if they're chasing Tennyson, why did they come into the main trail here from the east?' He indicated the side trail again. 'Anyone following Tennyson after what he and his men did would be more likely to come straight down the pass behind us – from the north.'

'Maybe it's a short cut,' Horace suggested, but Will shook his head.

'If you could see the way it snakes and twists in there, you'd know it's no kind of a short cut. I'd say it originates from somewhere else entirely. Somewhere further to the east.' He looked at Halt for confirmation and the bearded Ranger nodded.

'I tend to agree,' he said. 'I think it's just coincidence that we've run across them. Odds are, they have no idea that Tennyson and his thugs are ahead of them.'

'Couldn't they see the tracks?' Horace asked, waving his hand vaguely at the sandy, rock-strewn surface of the path. Halt allowed himself a brief smile.

'Could you?' he asked.

Horace had to admit that if the two Rangers weren't there to point out the faint scuffs and imprints in the sand, he probably wouldn't. He shook his head.

'The Scotti are no great shakes at tracking,' Halt told him. He gestured for Will to remount and swung up into Abelard's saddle.

'So if they're not after Tennyson, what are they doing here?' Horace asked.

'My guess is, they're planning a cattle raid in Araluen. There are several small villages close to the border and they may be heading for one of them.'

'And if they are?' Will asked.

Halt fixed his unblinking gaze on him. 'If they are, we'll have to discourage them. Which could be a damned nuisance.'

The intentions of the Scotti party became clearer shortly after they emerged from One Raven Pass into Araluen itself. Tennyson's party veered slightly to the east, but basically continued to follow a southerly route. The Scotti raiders swung almost immediately to head west of south-west, heading almost ninety degrees away from the Outsiders.

Halt sighed heavily when he interpreted the signs on the ground. He looked to the south-east, hesitating, then reluctantly turned Abelard's head to follow the raiders.

'We can't leave them to their own devices,' he said. 'We'll have to take care of them and then come back to pick up Tennyson's trail again.'

'Can't the locals take care of themselves?' Will asked. He was reluctant to leave the pursuit of Tennyson and his followers, just because a few cattle might be stolen. Halt shook his head wearily.

'This is a fairly large party, Will. Maybe fifteen or sixteen armed men. They'll pick out a small farm with only two or three men to defend it. They'll kill the men, burn the buildings and crops and take the cattle. And they'll probably take the women as slaves too, if they're in the mood.'

'And if they're not?' Horace asked.

'They'll kill them,' Halt said coldly. 'Do you want to let that happen?'

Both young men shook their heads. They could see the scene at the crofter's cottage all too vividly once more.

'Let's get after them,' Will said, his face grim.

Mounted as they were, they were gaining ground rapidly on the Scotti raiders. The countryside on this side of the border changed dramatically and they were moving through heavily wooded land now. Halt called Will alongside him.

'Go ahead and scout the way,' he said. 'I don't want to catch up with them without knowing it.'

Will nodded his understanding and urged Tug forward. The horse and rider disappeared into the mist that filtered between the trees. Halt had no qualms about Will's ability to track the Scotti without being seen or heard. Both he and Tug were trained for the task. Horace wasn't so sure.

'Maybe we should have gone with him,' he said, a few minutes after his friend was lost to sight.

'Three of us would make four times the noise he will,' Halt said.

Horace frowned, not quite understanding the equation. 'Wouldn't three of us make three times the noise?'

Halt shook his head. 'Will and Tug will make hardly any noise. Neither will Abelard and I. But as for you and that moving earthquake you call a horse…' He gestured at Kicker and left the rest unsaid.

Horace was suitably offended at this slur on his faithful horse. He was very fond of Kicker.

'That's a little harsh, Halt!' he protested. 'In any case, it's not Kicker's fault. He's not trained to move quietly…' He tailed off, realising that he'd just reinforced the very point Halt was making. The Ranger caught his eye and inclined his head meaningfully. Sometimes, Horace thought, a simple look or a tilt of the head could convey more sarcasm than a torrent of words.

Halt, understanding the concern for Will that lay behind Horace's suggestion, decided he should reassure him. But not for a few minutes, he thought. He was enjoying pulling the warrior's leg again. It was like old times, he thought. Then he scowled. He was getting sentimental.

'Will knows what he's doing,' he told Horace. 'Don't worry about him.'

An hour later, Abelard suddenly raised his head and snorted. Then, a few seconds after that, Will and Tug slipped out of the mist once more, cantering towards them. Ranger horses were amazingly light-footed, Horace thought. Tug's hooves made only the slightest of noises on the soft ground.

Will reined in beside Halt.

'They've stopped,' he said. 'They're camped in the woods about two kilometres further along. They've eaten and most of them are sleeping now. They have pickets out, of course.'

Halt nodded thoughtfully. He glanced at the sun.

'They've been travelling hard all day,' he said. 'They're probably going to rest up for an hour or two before they attack. Did you see any sign of a farm further on?'

Will shook his head. 'I didn't go past them, Halt. I thought I'd better let you know what was happening first,' he said apologetically. Halt made a small hand gesture, dismissing the need for apology.

'No matter,' he said. 'There'll be a farm close by. That's what they'll be heading for. They'll attack in late afternoon, when the sun's almost down.'

'How can you be sure?' Horace asked. Halt turned to look at him.

'Standard procedure,' he said. 'They'll have enough light to attack, but the farmers won't be able to see them clearly. So they'll be surprised and confused. And once they've run off the cattle, the darkness will cover their tracks from any pursuit. They'll have the whole night to make their getaway.'

'That makes sense,' Horace observed.

'They've got it down to a fine art, believe me,' Halt told him. 'They've been practising for hundreds of years.'

'So what will we do, Halt?' Will asked.

The grey-bearded Ranger considered his answer for a few moments then said, speaking almost to himself, 'Can't pick them off from a distance in this wooded country, the way we did at Craikennis.' In Hibernia, he and Will had decimated an attack with their rapid, long-range shooting. 'And the last thing I want is to get tied down in a defensive fight with them.' He looked up at Will. 'How many did you count?'

'Seventeen,' the young Ranger replied promptly. It was one of the questions he knew Halt would want answered.

Halt stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Seventeen. And chances are there'll be only three or four able-bodied men at the farm.'

'If we get inside the farm buildings, the three of us could hold them off easily enough,' Horace suggested.

Halt glanced at him, conceding the point. 'That's true, Horace. But if they're stubborn, and the Scotti tend to be that way, we could be tied up for a day or more. And all that time, Tennyson will be slipping further away. No,' he said, coming to a decision. 'I don't want to just hold them off. I want to send them packing.'

The two young men watched him expectantly, waiting to hear what he had in mind. After a short silence, he spoke.

'Let's bypass the Scotti camp and get in front of them. I want to see where they're heading. Can you lead us past them, Will?'

Will nodded and turned Tug around, heading into the trees again. Halt stopped him.

'Just a moment.' He turned in the saddle and rummaged in his saddle bags for a few moments, producing a folded garment in brown and grey. He passed it across to Horace. 'You might as well put this on, Horace. It'll help conceal you.'

Horace took the garment and shook it out, revealing a camouflage cloak similar to those worn by the Rangers.

'It might be a tight fit. It's a spare one of mine,' Halt explained.

Horace swung the cloak around him delightedly. Even though it was made for Halt's smaller frame, the Ranger cloaks were of such a capacious design that it fitted him reasonably well. It would be far too short, of course, but on horseback that didn't matter too much.

'I've always wanted one of these,' Horace said, grinning at the cloak. He pulled the deep cowl up over his head, hiding his face in its shadows, and gathered the grey-brown folds around him.

'Can you still see me?' he asked. Thirteen They swung in a wide arc to skirt around the Scotti camp. Then, when Will judged they were well clear of it, they returned to their original path. The trees began to thin out for the last few hundred metres, until they rode into a small cleared field. There was a farmhouse and a larger barn on the far side, nestled into a thicker grove of trees. Smoke rose in a thin wisp from the farmhouse chimney.

Between the house and the barn was a fenced-off enclosure where they could see dark brown shapes moving slowly.

'That's what they came for,' Halt said. 'Cattle. There must be twenty or more in that paddock.'

Horace sniffed the pleasant smell of wood smoke from the chimney. 'Hope they're cooking something,' he said. 'I'm starved.'

'Who said that?' Will asked, feigning surprise and looking around in all directions. Then he pretended to relax. 'Oh, it's only you, Horace. I didn't see you there in that cloak.'

Horace favoured him with a long-suffering look. 'Will, if it wasn't funny the first half-dozen times you said it, why do you think it would be funny now?'

And to Will's chagrin, Halt gave a short bark of laughter at Horace's question. Then he was all business again. 'Where is everybody?'

At this time of day – in the midafternoon – they would expect to see people working around the farm yard. But there was nobody in sight.

'Maybe they're napping,' Horace suggested. Halt glanced sidelong at him.

'Farmers don't nap,' he said. 'Knights nap.'

'That's where we get the expression "a good knight's sleep",' Will said, smiling at his own wit. Halt turned a baleful eye on him.

'Horace is right. You're not funny. Come on.'

He led the way across the small field. Horace noted that both his companions now had their longbows unslung and resting across their saddle bows. And the flaps in their cloaks that protected their quivers from damp weather were folded back. He touched his right hand to his sword hilt. For a moment, he considered unslinging his round shield from where it hung behind him, on the left side of the saddle. Then he shrugged. They were nearly at the house now.

The thatch roof slanted down to form a shallow porch along the side of the house that faced them. Halt drew rein and leaned down in the saddle to peer under the edge of the roof.

'Hullo the house,' he called experimentally. But there was no reply.

He looked round at his companions and signalled for them to dismount. Normally, a rider arriving at a farmhouse wouldn't do this without invitation but it seemed there would be none forthcoming.

Horace and Will followed him as he walked to the door. He rapped with his knuckles on the painted wood and it swung half open under the impact, the leather hinges creaking.

'Anyone home?' he called.

'Apparently not,' Will said, after a few seconds' silence.

'Nobody home and the door unlatched,' Halt said. 'How curious.'

He led the way into the little farmhouse. They found themselves standing in a small kitchen-cum-living room. It was furnished with a wooden table and several rough-carved wooden chairs – obviously home-made. A cooking pot hung on a swivelling arm beside the fireplace. The fire was still burning, although it was almost down to coals. It was some time since fresh wood had been added to it.

Two other rooms led off from the large central room and a short ladder on one side led to a loft set under the thatch. Will mounted the ladder and peered around, while Horace checked the other rooms.

'Nothing,' Will reported.

Horace nodded agreement. 'Nothing anywhere. Where can they have gone?'

It was obvious from the condition of the room, the fire and a few eating and drinking implements on the table that the house had been inhabited quite recently. There was no sign of a fight or a struggle. The floor had been swept and the broom replaced beside the door. Halt ran a finger over a shelf beside the fireplace, where cooking implements were stored. He inspected his fingertip for signs of dust and found none.

'They've run off,' Halt said. 'They must have got wind that the Scotti are coming and ran off.'

'And left everything here?' Horace questioned, sweeping an arm around the room.

Halt shrugged. 'There actually isn't much. And if you'll notice, there are no cloaks or coats beside the door – just a set of empty pegs where they might have hung.'

He indicated a row of hanging pegs set into the wall beside the door – the spot where someone entering the room would hang an outer garment. Or, Will realised, where they would don it as they were leaving.

'But why leave the cattle behind for the Scotti?' Horace asked.

'They couldn't take them along, could they?' Halt replied. He crossed to the door and went outside again. Horace and Will followed as he made his way to the fenced cattle yard.

'They tried to drive them off,' he said, indicating the yard gate, where it stood wide open. 'But there's feed in the troughs there, and water. I guess once the people were gone, the cattle simply wandered back.'

The cattle looked up at him peacefully. Most of them were busy chewing and they seemed completely unalarmed by the sight of a stranger. They were stocky and solid, with shaggy coats to protect them from the northern winter months. And above all, they were placid beasts.

'Maybe they hoped if the Scotti got the cattle, they wouldn't bother to burn the house and barn,' Will suggested.

Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Maybe. But they'd bother, all right. Burning a house and barn is part of the fun for a Scotti.'

'So what should we do?' Horace asked. 'Simply fade away? After all, the farmer and his family will be safe from the raiders now.'

'True,' Halt said. 'But with the cattle gone and their home and barn and crops burned, they'll probably starve in the winter.'

'So what do you suggest we do, Halt?' Will asked.

Halt hesitated. He seemed to be considering a plan of action. Then he said, 'I think we should give them the cattle.'

Will regarded his mentor as if he had taken leave of his senses.

'If we're going to do that, why did we bother detouring here in the first place?' he asked. 'We might as well have continued on after Tennyson.' But then he noticed Halt was smiling grimly.

'When I say give them the cattle, I don't mean as a gift. Let's give them the cattle right in their faces.'

Understanding began to dawn on Will and Horace. Will was about to say something further when Halt stopped him and gestured to the far side of the clearing.

'Get back over there and keep watch. I want to know when they're coming. When they're clear of the thick trees, we'll stampede the cattle at them.'

Will nodded, a grin forming on his face as the thought of the surprise that was in store for the raiding Scotti. He swung up into Tug's saddle and galloped away across the field, riding on until he was some thirty or forty metres inside the thinning tree line. The trees here were more widely spaced than in the forest proper, he noted. And the trunks were thinner and lighter. It was probably an area that had been progressively thinned out over the years, providing the homestead with building materials and firewood. The widely spaced saplings would provide little shelter for the Scotti against a herd of charging cattle.

He found a leafy bush growing between two saplings, positioned Tug behind it and dismounted. He glanced back quickly at the farmhouse, where he could see the distant figures of his two friends standing by the cattle yard. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to stampede a herd of cattle. But he shrugged that fact away, comfortable in the knowledge that Halt would know. There was nothing that Halt didn't know, after all.

'How do you stampede cattle?' Horace asked.

'You startle them. You alarm them. We'll get them running, then mount up and drive them at the Scotti when they hit open ground,' Halt told him. He was walking among the herd of cattle, who watched him incuriously. He shoved at one of them. It was like shoving the side of a house, he thought. He waved his arms experimentally.

'Shoo!' he said. The cow broke wind noisily but made no other movement.

'You certainly scared that out of him,' Horace said, grinning.

Halt glared at him. 'Perhaps if you whipped off your cloak, they might be startled by your sudden appearance,' he suggested acidly.

Horace's grin broadened. He was, in fact, taking off his cloak but its removal seemed to have no effect on the herd. One or two of them rolled an eye at him. Several others broke wind.

'They do a lot of that, don't they?' he remarked. 'Maybe if we got them all pointed the same way, they could blow the Scotti back down the pass?'

Halt made an impatient gesture. 'Get on with it. You were raised on a farm, after all.'

Horace shook his head. 'I wasn't raised on a farm. I was raised in the Ward at Redmont,' he said. 'You were a Hibernian prince. Didn't you have herds of cattle?'

'We did. But we also had great oafs like you to take care of them.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'The bull is the key. If we get the bull running, the cows will follow him.'

Horace looked around the small herd. 'Which one's the bull?'

Halt's eyebrows both went up – a rare expression of emotion for the Ranger.

'You really did grow up in the Ward, didn't you?' Then he pointed. 'That one would appear to be the bull.'

Horace looked at the animal he was indicating. His eyes widened a little.

'He certainly would,' he agreed. 'So what do we do with him?'

'Startle him. Annoy him. Frighten him,' Halt said.

Horace looked doubtful. 'I'm not completely sure I want to do that.'

Halt snorted in disgust. 'Don't be such a ninny!' he said. 'After all, what can he do to you?'

Horace regarded the bull suspiciously. He wasn't as big as some bulls he had seen in the meadows around Redmont. But he was solidly built and well muscled. And, unlike the cows, he wasn't regarding the two strangers with a placid, docile gaze. Horace thought he could see a light of challenge in those little eyes.

'You mean aside from gore me?' he asked and Halt waved the protest aside dismissively.

'With those little horns? They're barely bumps on his forehead.'

In fact, the horns, while not being the wide-spreading ones that some northern cattle owned, were substantial. The ends were rounded and blunt, rather than pointed. But they still looked capable of inflicting damage.

'Come on!' Halt urged him. 'All you have to do is roll up your cloak and whack him over the face with it. That'll get him upset.'

'I already said, I don't want to get him upset,' Horace protested.

'For pity's sake! You're the famous Oakleaf Warrior! You're the slayer of the evil Morgarath! The victor of a dozen duels!' Halt told him.

'None of which were against bulls,' Horace reminded him. He definitely didn't like the look in that bull's eyes, he thought.

'What north country bull is going to stand and face you?' Halt said. 'Hit him with your cloak and he'll run away. And the cows will go with him.'

But before Horace could reply, they heard a piercing whistle. Looking across the cleared field, they could see Will running towards them, with Tug trotting behind him. Further back among the thinly spaced trees, they could see signs of movement.

The Scotti were coming. Fourteen Halt sprang into Abelard's saddle as Horace still hesitated, uncertain what to do.

'Get on with it!' Halt yelled. 'They're coming!'

At the same moment, Will arrived back at the cattle yard.

'They're coming, Halt!' he said, unnecessarily. There was a note of tension in his voice and it was pitched a little higher than normal.

'Get mounted. Once they're running, we'll keep driving them,' Halt told him. Then he turned back to Horace. 'Get them moving, Horace!'

Horace was finally galvanised into action. He stepped forward and swung the folded cloak, smacking it right between the bull's horns and across his face.

Then everything seemed to happen in a rush.

The bull squealed with rage, blinked three or four times, then lowered his head and charged, stiff legged, at his tormentor. He butted Horace in the midriff and, jerking his head upright, sent the unfortunate warrior sailing several metres, to land heavily on his back with a dull thud and an 'Ooooof!' of escaping breath.

For a second, it seemed the bull might follow up its advantage. But then Kicker intervened. Trained for years to protect his master against attack in combat, the massive battlehorse interposed himself between Horace and the bull. The bull squealed a challenge, pawing the ground in front of him, tearing up the grass and dirt and tossing his head in fury.

It was too much for Kicker. In the Araluan animal world there was a certain order of precedence, and a carefully bred and trained battlehorse ranked far above a shaggy country bull of indeterminate lineage. The mighty horse reared onto his hind legs and danced forward, shrilling a challenge, his forehooves slashing the air in front of him.

Those ironshod hooves flashed past the bull's face and he realised he was overmatched. Bellowing with frustration, he turned away, taking a few uncertain paces as he prepared to retreat.

But he had defied Kicker, challenged him even, and in the horse's mind, that insult must be erased. He dashed forward and gnashed his big blunt teeth at the bull, catching him on the rump and removing a painful piece of flesh and hide.

The bull howled in pain and outrage and fear. He kicked his hind legs up in a vain attempt to catch his attacker. But Kicker was trained in a hard school and he had already pulled back. As the bull's rear hooves hit the ground again, Kicker pirouetted and lashed out in his own turn, slamming his rear hooves into the bull's already damaged backside.

That was the final straw. Fear, pain and now the thundering impact of a double kick. The bull bellowed and took off, running across the field. Alarmed by his cries, the herd went with him, their panicked mooing and the dull thunder of their hooves filling the air.

'Come on!' Halt yelled. He urged Abelard forward after the racing cattle, whipping at the rearmost with his bow. Will followed suit, riding to the other side of the herd to keep them bunched.

The first of the Scotti had emerged from the thinning trees into the open ground of the field when the stampede broke. They saw the tightly packed knot of racing cattle coming at them, hesitated, turned to retreat and blundered into the men behind them. A few, quicker thinking than the others, tried to run to the sides to escape the charge. Halt saw them and reined Abelard in, rising in his stirrups as he nocked an arrow and sent it hissing through the air, following it quickly with three more.

Two of the raiders went down in the long grass. On the far side of the herd, Will had seen Halt's action and followed suit. The Scotti quickly realised the danger of running to the side. Threatened by the hail of arrows, they bunched together, uncertainly. A few seconds later, the crazed cattle smashed into them.

The impact of blunt horns, sharp cloven hooves and the hard-muscled bodies sent the Scotti raiders spinning and falling like ninepins. As they went down, the cattle in the rear ranks continued to charge over them, injuring those who had already fallen even more severely.

When the stampede passed, at least half of the raiding party were lying, seriously wounded, on the field. The remainder had managed to escape to the point where the trees grew more densely.

The cattle, reaching the thicker trees, swung off to the right and thundered away, bellowing still. Halt reined in, an arrow ready on his bowstring, with Abelard half turned to the raiders who watched him from the trees. Around him, a few survivors were slowly picking themselves up to hobble or crawl back to join their companions. Virtually none of the raiding party had escaped injury of some kind. Three of them lay still and unmoving, struck down by the Rangers' arrows.

'Get back to Picta!' Halt called to them. 'Half your men are dead or badly injured. Once the local people know about it, they'll hunt you down. Now get out of here.'

The leader of the raiding party lay dead in the grass, trampled by half a dozen of the cattle after he'd been thrown from his feet. His former second in command regarded the grim figure facing him on the shaggy horse. As he watched, the second grey-cloaked horseman rode up beside his companion, his longbow threatening them as well.

The Scotti knew that the success of a raid like this depended on speed and surprise. Strike swiftly. Burn and kill and run off the cattle. Then get back across the border before the enemy could organise themselves. Before they even knew there was a raiding party in the area.

Speed and surprise were gone now. And once the local Araluans knew of their presence, his men would be easy targets as they limped and staggered, nursing their injuries and carrying their wounded, back to One Raven Pass. The thought of abandoning his wounded countrymen never occurred to him. That wasn't the Scotti way.

In addition, he'd seen the accuracy and speed of the two cloaked archers who faced him now. If they started shooting again, he could lose another half dozen men in a matter of seconds. Shaking his head in frustration and despair, he signalled to his men and they turned and made their painful way back towards the north.

Will let go a deep breath, and relaxed in his saddle.

'Good thinking, Halt,' he said. 'That certainly worked like a charm.'

Halt shrugged diffidently.

'Oh, it's nothing if you know how,' he said. 'Looks as if we have company,' he added, nodding towards the farmhouse, where Horace stood, leaning painfully against Kicker's side, his hands holding his bruised ribs.

Behind the farmhouse, several figures were visible among the densely growing trees. As Halt and Will watched, they made their tentative way back towards the farm buildings.

'They must have been hiding in the woods watching,' Will said.

Halt nodded grimly. 'Yes. Nice of them to lend us a hand, wasn't it?' He touched Abelard with his heel and began to canter slowly back to the cattle yard. Tug, sensing the motion as his companion tensed his muscles, followed a few paces behind.

Horace nodded a greeting as they dismounted.

Will frowned a little. His friend was still holding his ribs and seemed to be having trouble breathing without pain. 'Are you all right?'

Horace waved his concern aside, then winced as he did so. 'Bruises,' he said. 'That's all. That little bull certainly knew how to use his head.'

The farm people had reached them now and Halt greeted them.

'Your farm's safe,' he said. 'They won't be back in a while.' He couldn't help a small note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

There were five people. An older man and woman, in their fifties, Will judged. Then a young couple in their thirties and a boy who looked to be about ten. Grandparents, parents and son, he thought. Three generations.

The older man spoke now.

'Cattle are all run off. You ran them off.' He said it accusingly. Will raised his eyebrows.

'That's true,' Halt said reasonably. 'But you'll be able to get them back. They'll stop running soon.'

'Take days to round them up, it will,' said the farmer lugubriously.

Halt drew a deep breath. Will had known him for years. He knew Halt was making an enormous effort to keep his temper in check.

'Probably,' he agreed. 'But at least you won't have to rebuild your farmhouse in the meantime.'

'Hmmmmphhh,' the farmer snorted. 'That's as well. We'll be days rounding up they cows again. All over the forest, they'll be.'

'That's better than lining a Scotti belly,' Halt said. His restraint was becoming thinner and thinner.

'And who'll milk them when they're in the forest, eh?' It was the younger man. In spite of his comparative youth, he seemed equally as doleful as his older companion. 'Need milking every day, they do, else they'll go dry.'

'Of course, that might happen,' Halt said. 'But better dry cows than no cows at all, surely.'

'That's a matter for opinion,' said grandpa. 'Mind you, if we had the help of some men with horses to find them, we'd get it done quicker, like.'

'Men with horses?' Halt said. 'You mean us?' He turned to Will and Horace in disbelief. 'He does. He means us.'

The farmer was nodding. 'Aye. After all, you were t' ones who ran 'em off in first place. Weren't for you, they'd be back here.'

'If it weren't for us,' Halt told him, 'they'd be halfway to Picta by now!'

He glanced up at Will and Horace and realised they were both hiding grins. Far too obviously, in fact. It seemed to him that they were doing such a good job hiding their grins precisely so he would realise that they were hiding them.

'I don't believe this,' he said to them. 'I don't exactly expect gratitude. But to be blamed for this man's troubles is a little much.' Then he thought about what he had said. 'No. Change that. I do expect gratitude, damn it.' He turned back to the farmer.

'Sir,' he said stiffly, 'it's due to our efforts that you still have your farmhouse, your barn and your cattle yard. It's thanks to us that your cows are safe, if they are a little scattered. In the course of saving your property, my companion here suffered a cowardly attack from your vicious little bull. Now you can have the graciousness to say thank you. Or I'll ask my friends to set fire to your farmhouse before we go on our way.'

The farmer regarded him stubbornly.

'Just two words,' Halt said. 'Thank you.'

'Well then…' The farmer hesitated, swaying ponderously from side to side. He reminded Horace of the bull. 'Thank you… I suppose.'

'It's our pleasure.' Halt spat the words at him, then swung Abelard's head to the west. 'Horace, Will, let's go.'

They were halfway across the field when they heard the farmer add, 'But I don't see why you had to run off t' cattle.'

Will grinned at the erect figure of the Ranger riding beside him. Halt was all too obviously pretending that he hadn't heard the farmer's parting words.

'Halt?' he said. 'You wouldn't really have burned down the house, would you?'

Halt turned a baleful gaze on him.

'Don't bet on it.' Fifteen Halt had hoped to pick up Tennyson's trail again before nightfall, but the short northern day defeated him. As the sun finally sank below the trees, and shadows flooded out across the countryside, he reined in and gestured to an open patch of ground beside the track they had been following to the east.

'We'll camp here,' he said. 'No point blundering around in the dark. We'll get an early start and cast around for their tracks.'

'Can we risk a fire, Halt?' Horace asked.

The Ranger nodded. 'I don't see why not. They're a long way ahead of us now. And even if they do see a fire, there's no reason for them to suspect that someone's following them.'

After they'd attended to their horses, Horace built a fireplace and scouted round the camp site for wood. In the meantime, Will busied himself skinning and cleaning two rabbits that he'd shot during the late afternoon. The bunnies were plump and in good condition and his mouth watered at the prospect of a savoury stew. He jointed the rabbits, keeping the meaty legs and thighs and discarding some of the bonier rib sections. Too much trouble to pick over, he decided. Then he opened the saddle bag where they kept their supply of fresh food. Often, when they were on the trail, Rangers made do with dried meat and fruit and hard bread. When they had the chance to eat more comfortably, they made sure they were ready for it. He briefly considered spitting the rabbits over the open fire and roasting them but discarded the idea. He felt like something more rewarding.

He sliced onions thinly and chopped several potatoes into small pieces. Taking a metal pot from the small array of cooking gear, he placed it in the edge of the fire Horace had started, sitting it on glowing embers. When he judged the iron of the pot was heated, he poured in a little oil, then dropped the onions in a few seconds later.

They began to sizzle and brown and filled the air with a delicious scent. He added a clove of garlic, smashing it to a paste with the end of the stick he was using to stir the pot. More delicious aromas rose. He sprinkled in a handful of spices and seasonings that were his own special mix and the cooking smells grew richer and richer. Then the joints of rabbit went in and he moved them around to brown and become coated with the onion and spice mixture.

By now, Halt and Horace had moved to sit either side of the fireplace, watching him hungrily as he worked. The rich smell of cooking meat, onions, garlic and spices filled the air and set their stomachs rumbling. It had been a long, hard day, after all.

'This is why I like travelling with Rangers,' Horace said after a few minutes. 'When you get the chance, you manage to eat well.'

'Very few Rangers eat this well,' Halt told him. 'Will has quite a knack with rabbit stew.'

Will added water to the pot and, as it began to simmer, he slowly dropped the potato chunks in as well. When the rich-looking liquid began to bubble again, he stirred it and glanced at Halt. The older Ranger nodded and reached to his own saddle bag, from which he produced a flask of red wine. Will added a generous glug of it to the stew.

He sniffed the fragrant steam rising from the pot and nodded, satisfied with the result. 'May need a little of this later, to top it up,' he said, setting the flask of wine to one side.

'Use all you want,' Halt said. 'That's what it's for.'

Halt, like most Rangers, drank wine only sparingly.

Two hours later, the stew was ready and they ate it with relish. The fragrant, rich meat literally fell off the bones as they ate. Halt had mixed flour and water and salt together into a flat circle and placed it in the hot ashes to one side of the fire. When Will served out the stew, he produced an ash-covered loaf, and dusted it off to reveal a golden outer crust. He broke pieces off and passed them to his companions. It was perfect for sopping up the savoury juices of the stew.

'This is good bread,' Horace mumbled, around a mouthful of it. 'Haven't had this before.'

'Hibernian shepherds make it,' Halt told him. 'It tastes fine when it's hot from the fire like this. When it cools down it's pretty plain. It's called damper.'

'Why's that?' Horace asked.

Halt shrugged. 'Probably because it's damper than proper bread,' he said and that seemed to satisfy Horace. After all, he didn't really care what it was called, so long as he had plenty of it to soak up the delicious juices of the stew.

After they had eaten, they gathered together, huddling over Halt's map.

'Tennyson and his people were heading this way,' Halt said, tracing a path south of south-east. 'We're currently heading due east to the point where we left them to go after the Scotti. I think we should try to make up lost ground and assume they'll continue the way they've been going. If we cut the corner and head this way,' he indicated a south-easterly direction that would intersect the Outsider's trail at an angle, 'we should cross their trail tomorrow around the middle of the day.'

'Unless they change direction,' Will said.

'That's a risk, of course, but I don't see why they should. They have no idea we're tailing them. There's no reason why they shouldn't head directly for their end destination. But if they have, we'll just have to go back to the point where we first left their trail and track them from there.'

'If we're wrong, we'll lose the best part of two days,' Will warned him.

Halt nodded. 'And if we're right, we'll pick up the best part of a day.'

Horace listened absently to the discussion. He was happy to go along with whatever his friends decided. And he knew that, these days, Halt was willing to listen to Will's views on the matter. The days were long past when Halt made all the decisions without consultation. Will had earned Halt's respect and Horace knew he valued the younger Ranger's opinion.

Horace glanced idly at the map and one place name struck him. He leaned forward and tapped his forefinger on the parchment.

'Macindaw,' he said. 'I thought the countryside looked familiar. That's to the east of us. If we do as you say, we'll be passing pretty close to it.'

'Be fun to drop in and see how they're doing,' Will said.

Halt grunted. 'We don't have time for social calls.'

Will grinned easily. 'I didn't think we did. I just said it'd be fun… if we did have the time.'

Halt grunted again and began to roll up the map. Will knew his former teacher's moods by now. He knew that this sudden gruffness was a sign that the older Ranger knew he was taking a calculated risk in heading south-east. He'd never show that he was worried he might be making a mistake. But after years spent together, Will could usually read his thoughts correctly. He smiled quietly to himself. When he was younger, he would never have dreamed that Halt could have doubts. Halt always seemed so infallible. Now he knew that the older Ranger had an even greater mental strength – the ability to decide on a course of action and adhere to it, without letting doubt or uncertainty divert him from it.

'We'll get them, Halt. Don't worry,' he said.

Halt smiled grimly. 'I'm sure I'll sleep better for that reassurance,' he replied.

They broke camp early. Breakfast was coffee, and the remainder of the damper toasted over the fire's coals and smeared with honey. Then, kicking dirt over the fire, they mounted and rode out.

The hours passed. The sun went directly overhead, then began to slide down to the west. An hour after noon, they crossed a track heading roughly to the south. As far as Horace was concerned, it seemed no different to three or four others they had crossed that day, but Will suddenly swung down from the saddle. He went down on one knee and studied the ground in front of him.

'Halt!' he called and the older Ranger joined him. There were definite signs that a party of travellers had passed this way. Will touched one footprint, clearer than the rest. It was off to the side of the track in a fortuitously damp section of ground. The footprint had been left by a heavy boot, with its sole bearing a triangular patch along the outer edge.

'Seen that before?' Will asked.

Halt leaned back, releasing a sigh of relief. 'Indeed I have. Up in One Raven Pass. This is Tennyson's party, all right.'

Now that his action was proved to be correct, he was free of the doubt and worry that had plagued him all morning. It had been a risk to take the short cut. If they had had to return to the point where they first left Tennyson's track, anything could have happened – a storm or heavy rain might have washed out the tracks, leaving them floundering, with no idea which direction Tennyson had taken.

'By the look of these tracks, they're less than two days ahead of us,' he said, with great satisfaction.

Will had moved a few metres away, studying the tracks. 'They've picked up some horses,' he said abruptly.

Halt looked at him quickly, then moved to join him. There were clear traces of several sets of hoof prints in the soft earth and grass, a little way off the trail.

'So they have,' he agreed. 'God knows what poor farm they raided to get them. There are only three or four, so most of the party will still be on foot. We could be up to them by tomorrow.'

'Halt,' said Horace, 'I've been thinking…'

Halt and Will exchanged an amused glance. 'Always a dangerous pastime,' they chorused. For many years, it had been Halt's unfailing response when Will had made the same statement. Horace waited patiently while they had their moment of fun, then continued.

'Yes, yes. I know. But seriously, as we said last night, Macindaw isn't so far away from here…'

'And?' Halt asked, seeing how Horace had left the statement hanging.

'Well, there's a garrison there and it might not be a bad idea for one of us to go fetch some reinforcements. It wouldn't hurt to have a dozen knights and men at arms to back us up when we run into Tennyson.'

But Halt was already shaking his head.

'Two problems, Horace. It'd take too long for one of us to get there, explain it all and mobilise a force. And even if we could do it quickly, I don't think we'd want a bunch of knights blundering around the countryside, crashing through the bracken, making noise and getting noticed.' He realised that statement had been a little tactless. 'No offence, Horace. Present company excepted, of course.'

'Oh, of course,' Horace replied stiffly. He couldn't really dispute Halt's statement. Knights did tend to blunder around the countryside making noise and getting noticed. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Halt continued. 'The best thing we have going for us is the element of surprise. Tennyson doesn't know we're coming. And that's worth at least a dozen knights and men at arms. No. We'll continue as we are for the moment.'

Horace nodded grudging agreement. When they caught up with the Outsiders, they'd have a stiff fight on their hands. Will and Halt would have their hands full dealing with the two Genovesan assassins. He would have liked to have even three or four armed knights behind him to take on the rest of the false prophet's followers.

But in the time he'd spent with Halt and Will, he'd learned repeatedly how valuable an ally surprise could be in a fight. Reluctantly, he decided that what Halt said made good sense.

The two Rangers remounted and they set off again, following the trail with renewed purpose. The knowledge that they had narrowed the gap between them and Tennyson to less than a day urged them on. They scanned the horizon before them with extra caution, looking for the first sign that they had caught up with their quarry.

Will spotted him first.

'Halt!' he said. He had the good sense not to point in the direction he was looking. He knew Halt would follow his gaze and if he were to point, he would alert his quarry to the fact that he had been seen.

'On the skyline,' he said quietly. 'To the right of that forked tree. Don't do that, Horace!'

He had seen his friend's hand begin to move and instinctively, he knew Horace was planning to shade his eyes as he gazed at the figure. Horace changed the gesture at the last minute and pretended to scratch the back of his neck. At the same time, Halt dismounted and inspected Abelard's left front hoof. That way, whoever it was wouldn't think they had stopped because he had been spotted.

'Can't see anything,' Halt told him. 'What is it?'

'A rider. Watching us,' Will told him. Halt glanced sideways at the hill without moving his head. He could vaguely make out what might have been the shape of a man and a horse. He was grateful for Will's keen young eyes.

Will reached down and unslung his water canteen from the pommel of his saddle. But he managed to do it without losing sight of the figure. He raised the water bottle to his lips, still watching. Then there was a brief flash of movement and the rider wheeled his horse and disappeared from the skyline.

'All right,' he said. 'You can relax. He's gone.'

Halt released Abelard's hoof and remounted. His stiff muscles and joints seemed to groan as he did so.

'You recognise him?' he asked.

Will shook his head. 'Too far to make out details. Except…'

'Except what?' Halt asked.

'When he turned away, I thought I caught a flash of purple.'

Purple, Horace thought. The colour worn by the Genovesan assassins. So maybe, he said to himself, we might have just lost the element of surprise. Sixteen Conditions had improved in the Outsiders' camp since the raid on the Scotti farm. As the band moved south through Araluen, Tennyson had continued to send parties out to raid isolated farms that they passed. They brought back not just food, but also equipment to make their camp more comfortable – canvas, timber and rope to make tents, and furs and blankets to keep out the chill of the cold northern nights.

In the last raid, they had also chanced upon four horses. They were sorry animals, but at least now Tennyson and the two Genovesans could ride instead of walking. The fourth horse he needed for another purpose. Now, as he sat in the relative comfort of his tent, he explained it to the young man he had chosen to be its rider.

'Dirkin, I want you to ride on ahead.' he said. 'Take one of the horses and make your way to this village.'

He indicated a spot on a roughly drawn map of the north-east.

'Willey's Flat,' the young man said, reading the name of the spot Tennyson had indicated.

'Exactly. It's just beyond this range of cliffs, a little to the south of them. Look for a man named Barrett.'

'Who is he?' the messenger asked. Normally, Tennyson didn't encourage his followers to question orders but on this occasion it would help if the young man knew why he needed to make contact with Barrett.

'He's the leader of a local chapter of our people. He's been recruiting converts in this area for the last few months. I want you to tell him to gather however many followers he's managed to convert and we'll rendezvous at a camp site near the cliffs.'

Always planning to gain a foothold in Araluen once more, Tennyson had sent two groups of followers to establish the cult in remote areas, well away from the eyes of officialdom. One had been at Selsey, the fishing village on the west coast. The second had been here, in the wild north-eastern part of the Kingdom. The last message he'd had from Barrett had indicated that he'd managed to convert, or rather recruit, around a hundred followers to the religion. It wasn't a lot but Barrett wasn't an inspiring figure. And one hundred followers was a start, at least. They'd provide the gold and jewellery Tennyson would need to start up again.

The young man looked with interest at the map.

'I thought we were the only group,' he said. Tennyson's brows came together angrily.

'Then you thought wrong,' he told him. 'A wise man always has something in reserve in case things don't go according to plan. Now get going.'

Dirkin shrugged the implied rebuke aside and stood to leave. 'But it'll probably take a few days for this Barrett character to get the people assembled.'

'Which is why I'm sending you on ahead,' Tennyson told him, a sarcastic note creeping into his voice. 'But if you plan to stand around talking about it, I might have to find someone else for the job.'

Dirkin heard the tone and capitulated. Truth be told, he'd be happy to ride on ahead. He stuffed the map inside the breast of his jacket and turned towards the entrance of the tent.

'I'm on my way,' he said. Tennyson's angry grunt was the only response.

Dirkin headed for the entrance and was forced to step back as another figure entered hurriedly, bumping into him. An angry complaint rose to the young man's lips and then he bit it off as he recognised the newcomer. It was one of the Genovesan assassins whom Tennyson had retained as bodyguards. They were not people to insult or annoy, Dirkin knew. Hastily, he mumbled an apology and scuttled round the purple-cloaked figure, leaving the tent as quickly as he could.

Marisi curled his lip in contempt as he glanced after the young man. He was well aware that many of the foreigners avoided him and his compatriot. Tennyson glanced up at him now, frowning slightly. Since they had acquired the horses, the two Genovesans had begun to check their trail every few days, to be sure nobody was following them. It was a routine measure that Tennyson had insisted on and so far, there had been nothing to report. But now that Marisi was here, Tennyson suspected there was bad news. Bacari, the senior of the two, only reported when the news was good.

'What is it?' Tennyson demanded.

'We're being followed,' Marisi replied, with that inevitable, infuriating shrug of the shoulders.

Tennyson slammed his fist down on the small folding table they'd stolen from a farmhouse some days ago.

'Damn! I knew things were going too smoothly. How many of them are there?'

'Three,' the Genovesan told him and his spirits rose a little. Three people following them was nothing to be concerned about. But the assassin's next words changed his mind.

'They're the three from Hibernia. The two cloaked archers and the knight.'

Tennyson came out of his chair with the shock of the news. It tumbled over backwards onto the grass but he didn't notice.

'Them?' he shouted. 'What are they doing here? How the devil did they get here?'

Again, the Genovesan shrugged. How they got here was immaterial. They were here and they were following behind the small band of Outsiders. And they were dangerous. That much he already knew. He waited for the self-styled prophet to continue.

Tennyson's mind raced. The smuggler! He must have told them. Of course, they would have bribed him and he would have taken their money and betrayed the Outsiders.

He began to pace up and down the restricted space inside the makeshift tent. This was bad news. He needed to gather the faithful at Willey's Flat. He needed the gold and jewellery he'd get there. And he'd be delayed while they came in from their outlying farms. He couldn't take the risk that the three Araluans might catch up with him.

'How far back are they?' he asked. He should have asked that immediately, he thought.

Marisi curled his lip thoughtfully. 'Not far. A day, at most.'

Tennyson considered the answer, then came to a decision. A day was not enough of a lead. Particularly when he was held down to walking pace. He looked up at the assassin.

'You'll have to get rid of them,' he said abruptly.

Marisi's eyebrows went up in surprise. 'Get rid of them,' he repeated.

Tennyson leaned across the little table, his fists planted on the rough wood.

'That's right! That's what you people do, isn't it? Get rid of them. You and your friend. Kill them. Use those crossbows you're so proud of and make sure they stop following us.'

Damn them, he thought. Those cowled archers and their muscular friend had been nothing but trouble for him. Now, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to know they were dead.

Marisi had been considering his order. He nodded thoughtfully. 'There's a good spot where we can ambush them. We'll have to go back and lay a trail for them to follow. But of course…' He paused meaningfully.

For a few seconds Tennyson didn't register the fact, then he snarled, 'Of course what?'

'They're dangerous enemies, and our contract said nothing about "getting rid of " people like them.'

The implication was obvious. Tennyson breathed heavily, controlling his rising anger. He needed these two men, no matter how much they infuriated him.

'I'll pay you extra,' he said, his teeth gritted.

Marisi smiled and held out a hand. 'Now? You'll pay now?'

But Tennyson shook his head violently. He wasn't going to capitulate quite so far as that.

'When you've done the job,' he said. 'I'll pay you then. Not before.'

Marisi shrugged again. He hadn't really expected that the heavy-set preacher would agree to paying in advance, but it had been worth a try.

'You'll pay later,' he said. 'We'll arrange a fee. But… if you pay later, you pay more.'

Tennyson swept that fact aside carelessly with one hand. 'That's fine. Tell Bacari to come and see me and we'll agree on a payment.' He paused, then added, for emphasis, 'Later.'

After all, he thought, with any luck, they might all kill each other and save him the extra payment. Seventeen 'We'll have to assume he saw us,' Halt said as they rode on. They had been riding in single file but now Horace and Will pushed their horses up beside Halt so they could confer more easily.

'But did he recognise us?' Will said. 'After all, we're a long way away and we could be just three riders.'

Halt turned slightly in the saddle to look at his former pupil. What Will said was correct. Yet Halt hadn't lived as long as he had by taking chances and assuming that his enemies might make mistakes.

'If he saw us, we also have to assume that he recognised us.'

'After all,' Horace chipped in, 'when you two aren't skulking in the bushes, you're pretty recognisable. There aren't a lot of people riding around the countryside carrying great big longbows and wearing cowled cloaks.'

'Thank you for pointing that out,' Halt said dryly. 'But in fact, you're right. And the Genovesans are no fools. Now Tennyson will know we're behind him.'

He paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully as he pondered the situation.

'The question is,' he said, more to himself than to the others, 'what to do next?'

'Should we drop back a little?' Will suggested. 'If we drop out of sight, Tennyson might assume that the Genovesan was mistaken and we just happened to be three riders with no interest in him?'

'No. I don't think so. That's hoping for too much. And if we drop back, we give him more time to give us the slip. I think we should do the opposite. Push up on him.'

'He'll know we're here,' Horace said.

Halt nodded at him. 'He knows we're here anyway. So let's push him. Let's make him feel crowded. That way he'll have to keep moving, and a moving target is easier to see than a concealed one.' He came to a decision and added, in a positive tone: 'We'll put pressure on him. People under pressure make mistakes and that could work for us.'

'Of course…' Horace began, then hesitated. Halt gestured for him to go ahead. 'Well, I was thinking, we'll be under pressure too, won't we? What if we make the mistake?'

Halt regarded him for several seconds without speaking. Then he turned to Will. 'He's a regular ray of sunshine, isn't he?'

They continued in silence for a few minutes. They were working their way up a long uphill slope to the point where they had seen the Genovesan on the skyline. They still had about a hundred metres to go to reach the crest when Halt held up his hand to signal the others to stop.

'On the other hand,' he said, in a quiet voice, 'Horace has a good point. The Genovesans are assassins and one of their favourite techniques is ambush. It occurs to me that it might not be a good idea to go romping over that next crest assuming that there's nothing to be concerned about.'

'You think he's waiting for us?' Will said, his eyes scanning the crest.

'I think he could be. So from now on, we don't go over any crests without scouting the land ahead of us.'

He made a move to swing down from the saddle but Will forestalled him, dropping lightly to the trail.

'I'll do it,' he said.

Halt made as if to argue, then closed his mouth. His natural preference was always to keep Will out of harm's way, but he realised that he had to let the young man take his share of the danger.

'Don't take any chances,' he said. Tug echoed the thought with a low rumble from his barrel of a chest. Will grinned at them both.

'Don't be such a pair of old grannies,' he said. Then he slipped off into the shoulder-high gorse that lined the track. Bent double, he suddenly disappeared from sight. Horace made a slight sound of surprise.

Halt looked at him. 'What is it?'

Horace gestured at the rolling clumps of coarse bush that covered the hillside. There was no sign of Will, no sign of anything moving in the bushes, other than the wind.

'It doesn't matter how often I see him do that, it still spooks me every time. It's uncanny.'

'Yes,' said Halt, his eyes scanning the hillside above them. 'I suppose it would. He's very good at it. Of course,' he added modestly, 'I taught him all he knows. I'm regarded as the expert on unseen movement in the Ranger Corps.'

Horace frowned. 'I thought Gilan was the real expert?' he said. 'Will once told me he learned all the finer points from Gilan.'

'Oh really?' Halt said, with a hint of frost in his voice. 'And just who do you think taught Gilan?'

That hadn't occurred to Horace. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that his tongue wouldn't run so many metres in advance of his brain.

'Oh… yes. You did, I suppose,' he said and Halt bowed slightly in the saddle.

'Exactly,' Halt said, with great dignity.

'So can you see where he is at the moment?' Horace asked curiously. He wondered if it worked that way. If you taught someone how to move without being seen and you knew all their tricks, could you see them? Or were they invisible even to the person who taught them?

'Naturally,' Halt replied. 'He's up there.'

Horace followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw Will standing erect at the crest of the hill. A few seconds later, they heard his signal whistle and he waved for them to come forward.

'Well, now you can see him,' said Horace. 'I can see him now! But could you see him before he stood up?'

'Of course I could, Horace. How could you doubt me?' Halt said. Then he urged Abelard forward, gesturing for Tug to follow. His face was hidden from Horace as he went ahead, so the young warrior never saw the smile that creased it.

'He seems to have kept on moving,' Will said as they drew level with him. 'Although he could be anywhere out there.'

Below them, the land gradually sloped away, covered by the same thick gorse and bracken. Will was right. A crossbowman could be concealed anywhere in that tangle. Halt scanned the area thoughtfully.

'Damn it,' he said. 'This is going to slow us down.'

'Which is the whole idea,' Will said.

'Precisely.' Halt let go a sigh of exasperation.

'I suppose this puts an end to the idea of putting pressure on him,' Horace said. Halt regarded him coldly for a few seconds. The Ranger's good humour seemed to desert him when his plans were thwarted, Horace thought. He also thought it might be a good idea to say nothing further for a while. Halt, satisfied that his unspoken message had registered, turned back to Will as he came to a decision.

'Very well. You scout ahead, Will. I'll give you fifty metres then we'll come up to you. You know the drill: Look. Shout. Shoot.'

Will nodded. He signalled for Tug to stay where he was and half-ran down the trail, his eyes on the ground, scanning the tracks left there. Halt edged Abelard around so he was on an angle on the trail, leaving Halt room to shoot, and nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His eyes scanned the ground either side of the track as Will proceeded.

'All right if I ask you something, Halt?' Horace said tentatively. He wasn't sure if he should intrude on the Ranger's concentration with a question. But Halt simply nodded, without taking his attention off the rolling bushes.

'Look. Shout. Shoot. What's that?' Horace asked.

Halt began to answer. If Horace was going to be working with them in future, it would be just as well to explain their methods to him whenever he asked. 'It's the way we…'

Then, catching sight of a small movement in the bushes to Will's right, he stopped talking and raised himself slightly in the stirrups, his bow coming up to the aiming position, the arrow beginning to slide back to full draw.

A small bird fluttered out of the bush that he had been watching, flew a few metres, then settled fussily on another branch, burying its beak inside the petals of a flower.

Halt relaxed, letting the arrow down again. Horace noticed that Will had caught sight of the movement too. He'd dropped to a crouch. Now, warily, he rose again, and glanced back up to where Halt and Horace were watching. Halt waved him ahead. He nodded and began to move again, searching the ground as he did so.

'Sorry, Horace,' Halt said. 'You wanted to know about "Look. Shout. Shoot." It's the way we approach a situation like this. Will is looking for their tracks, and for any sign that someone might have left the trail and moved out to the side to wait in ambush. While he's doing that, his attention is distracted. So I keep watch either side of the track, just in case someone has left the path further along, then doubled back behind him. If I see a crossbowman rise up out of the bushes, I shout and Will drops to the ground instantly. At the same time, I shoot the crossbowman. Look. Shout. Shoot.'

'He looks. You shout and shoot,' Horace said.

'Exactly. And we do it in fifty-metre increments because if there is an ambush, my arrow will hit the ambusher all the more quickly. The problem's going to be when we reach those trees ahead of us.'

Horace looked up. The undulating gorse-covered terrain continued for another two or three kilometres. But then he could see the dark line of a thick forest.

'I guess you can't see for fifty metres in there,' he said.

Halt nodded. 'That's right. We'll have to do it in twenty-metre rushes once we get there. Come on,' he added. 'Will's calling us forward. '

They rode down the slope to where Will was waiting for them. He grinned up at Halt as the two riders reined in. Tug nuzzled him and made grumbling noises. He was never happy when Will went on without him.

'Worry-wart,' Will told him, patting his soft nose. But Halt looked approvingly at the little horse.

'Take him with you this time,' he said. 'Should have thought of it before. He'll sense someone in the bushes quicker than we will.'

Will looked a little concerned at the idea. 'I don't want to risk Tug getting hit by one of those crossbow bolts.'

Halt smiled at him. 'Now who's the worry-wart?'

Will shrugged. 'All the same,' he said, 'I'd be more comfortable if he were back with you if someone starts shooting.'

'And I'll be more comfortable if he were with you,' Halt told him. Then he patted the longbow where it lay across his knees. 'Don't worry. The only one who's going to start any shooting is me.' Eighteen As Halt had predicted, their progress became even slower when they reached the dense wood they had sighted on the horizon. Here, the trees grew in thick, unordered confusion on either side of the narrow path. As Horace walked through them, the changing angles from which he viewed the moss-covered ranks of tree trunks seemed to create a sensation of movement in the shadows, so that he was constantly stopping to look again, making sure that he hadn't just seen something moving.

They were assisted by the two Ranger horses, of course. Tug and Abelard were both trained to warn their masters if they sensed the presence of strangers. But even their abilities depended on the direction of the wind. If someone were downwind, his scent wouldn't carry to them.