Halt's Peril

With apparent casualness, he scanned the horizon around the camp. He knew where the Genovesan had lain up during the day. Several times, without appearing to look, he had seen a brief flicker of movement from the ridge as the man changed position or eased his cramped muscles.

'You'd never make a Ranger,' he muttered. Time and again he'd seen Halt and Will's uncanny ability to maintain a position without moving for hours on end. 'Then again,' he'd continued, grinning, 'neither would I.' He knew he didn't have the patience or the self-discipline that the Rangers seemed to possess in large amounts.

As the shadows began to lengthen and the sun dropped inexorably towards the horizon, he came to a decision. It would be logical for him to make a quick patrol of the area before dark. Such a move shouldn't rouse the Genovesan's suspicions, if he were still there.

Accordingly, Horace donned his mail shirt and helmet, buckled on his sword and picked up his shield and set out from the camp. He started towards a point on the ridge some two hundred metres to the left of the Genovesan's last position. From there, he would patrol in an arc along the ridge, checking the land to the south.

He felt a little more secure now that he had the shield on his left arm. It would stop a crossbow bolt easily and he had confidence in his own reactions. If the Genovesan were still in position, and if he rose to shoot, Horace would have ample time to take the bolt on his shield. And then, with the crossbow unloaded, he might just get within sword's length of the treacherous assassin. He'd quite enjoy that.

He trudged up to the ridge line, made a show of scanning the ground out to his left, then turned right and began to work his way along the ridge. He reached the spot where he had seen movement and looked carefully around. The grass had been depressed by the shape of something, or someone, lying there for an extended period. It was an ideal observation point. The ridge here was a little higher and gave a wider view of the land before it. He glanced back at the camp, seeing the smudge of smoke from the fire, blowing sideways and lying low to the ground in the freshening evening breeze, and the still form, wrapped in blankets, sleeping beside it.

On an impulse, he strode down the far side of the ridge and scanned left and right. It only took a few minutes to find what he had been looking for. There was a pile of fresh horse dung in the grass, and evidence of where a picket stake had been driven into the ground, then removed. The Genovesan had tethered his horse here – back from the ridge and hidden from the camp site, but close enough if he needed to make a hurried escape.

'He was here all right,' he said. 'And now he's gone. Question is, will he come back? And if so, when?'

He trudged back to the camp, turning the problem over in his mind. As darkness fell, he prepared a meal. He shook Halt gently and was surprised and relieved when the Ranger's eyes opened almost immediately.

'Dinner,' Horace told him.

Halt gave a small snort. 'About time. Service around here is very slow.'

But he accepted the plate of food eagerly and ate quickly. After he had satisfied his immediate hunger, he held up a piece of the damper that Horace had cooked in the coals.

'Did you make this?' he asked.

Horace, with some pleasure in his new skill, assured him that he had. It didn't take long for Halt to burst his bubble.

'What is it?' he asked.

Horace eyed him for a long second. 'I think I preferred you when you were sick.'

Later, when Halt was sleeping again, Horace banked the fire, then slowly withdrew from the uneven, flickering circle of light that it threw. There was a fallen tree some fifteen metres away and he sat with his back against it, a blanket wrapped round his shoulders and his drawn sword resting ready across his knees. He spent a sleepless night, watching for an enemy who never appeared.

In the morning the Genovesan was back. Thirty-four The two horsemen, leading a third, larger horse behind them, appeared over the horizon from the north.

Horace felt an overwhelming sense of relief as they drew closer and he could make them out more clearly. There was little likelihood that any other two horsemen might be approaching, of course, but the whole time he had been alone, he had worried over the possibility that Will had arrived at Healer's Clearing to find that Malcolm had been called away to another part of the fief, or was incapacitated in some way. Or had simply refused to come.

'I should have known better,' he told himself, as he began to walk out from the camp site to greet them. They saw him coming and lifted the horses from a slow trot to a canter. The horses, like their riders, looked travel-stained and weary. But Tug still had the energy to raise his head and send a nicker of greeting to Horace. It was as if he were reminding Kicker of his duties as the big battlehorse looked up at the sound, recognised his master and whinnied briefly.

They slowed as they came level with him and he held up his hand in greeting, engulfing the bird-like healer's thin hand in his own as he gripped it.

'It's good to see you,' he said. 'Thanks for coming, Malcolm.'

Malcolm reclaimed his hand, wincing slightly at the pressure of Horace's grip.

'How could I refuse? Do you always try to crush your friends' hands in that massive paw of yours?'

'Sorry. Just relief at seeing you, I suppose.' Horace grinned.

'How's Halt?' Will asked anxiously. It was the question that had been plaguing him the whole time he had been away. Horace's easy manner was reassuring. Will knew he wouldn't be so cheerful if Halt had deteriorated further. But he needed to hear it said.

'As a matter of fact, I think he's improving,' Horace told them. He saw Will's shoulders lift in relief. But he was puzzled by Malcolm's reaction. The healer frowned slightly.

'Improving?' he asked quickly. 'In what way?'

'Well, two days ago he was rambling and raving. Had no idea where he was, what was happening. He thought it was some time twenty years ago. And he thought I was someone else as well.'

Malcolm nodded. 'I see. And what makes you think he's getting better?'

Horace made a vague gesture with his hands. 'Well, yesterday, he came out of it. He woke up and was totally aware of where he was, what had happened and who I was.' He grinned at Will. 'He was annoyed at you for going to fetch a healer. Said you should have kept on after Tennyson and left him.'

Will snorted. 'I'm sure that's just what he'd do if I were poisoned.'

Horace grinned. 'I said much the same thing to him. He wiffled and waffled a bit but he admitted I was right. Then he complained about my cooking.'

'Sounds as if he is on the mend,' Will agreed. They had reached the camp site and Malcolm dismounted from Abelard. He wasn't a skilled rider and he accomplished the feat by swinging one foot over the pommel and sliding down on the wrong side. Horace caught him as he stumbled, his stiff legs giving way under him.

'Thanks,' said the healer. 'I'd better take a look at him straight away. Has he been asleep long?'

Horace thought before he answered. 'A couple of hours. He woke this morning. Then went back to sleep. Then he woke again around noon. He's sleeping much more peacefully,' he added. He wondered why there was a vague expression of concern on Malcolm's face. Maybe he was annoyed that he'd travelled so far and so fast only to find he wasn't needed after all, he thought. He dismissed the matter and turned to Will.

'Why don't you take a break?' he said. 'I'll look after the horses.'

But Will had been trained in a strict school. He always felt vaguely delinquent if he allowed someone else to look after his horse.

'I'll do Tug,' he said. 'You can do the others.'

They led the horses a little way from the fireplace and gave them water from the bucket Horace had refilled only a short while ago. Then they unsaddled the horses and began to rub them down. Kicker seemed inordinately pleased to see his master. In fact, he had had the easiest time of all three horses on the journey. Malcolm had looked at him in horror when he first saw him.

'You expect me to ride on that?' he had asked. 'He's the size of a house!'

Consequently, he had spent most of the journey on Abelard's back. The sturdy little horse barely noticed his weight. Malcolm was small and thin, to the point of being scrawny.

'Anything happen while I was gone?' Will asked. 'Aside from Halt improving?'

'Actually, yes,' Horace told him. He looked quickly around to where Malcolm was crouched beside Halt, leaning over him and ministering to him. He decided that he was out of earshot, although why that mattered he wasn't totally sure. In a low voice, he quickly told Will about the watcher on the southern ridge.

Will, experienced in such matters, didn't make the novice's mistake of looking towards the ridge. He kept his eyes down.

'You're sure it's the Genovesan?'

Horace hesitated. 'No. I'm not sure. I think it's him. I'm sure it's someone. I found the spot where he was hiding.'

'And you say he left at nightfall?' Will continued. This was becoming more and more difficult to fathom.

'That's right. And came back this morning,' Horace told him. Will pursed his lips, finished rubbing Tug down and patted him absently on the neck several times.

'Show me where,' he said.

Horace was no novice either. The tall warrior moved around to pick up a dry cloth, then faced towards Will, his back to the southern ridgeline.

'Should be just over my right shoulder,' he said. And Will, pretending to look at him as they talked, let his eyes scan past Horace's shoulder, probing the horizon. Horace, watching his face, saw his eyes stop moving and the skin around them tighten suddenly.

'I see him,' Will said. 'Just his head and shoulders. Now he's ducked down. If he hadn't done that, I mightn't have spotted him.'

'He's getting cocky,' Horace told him. 'He's not trying too hard to hide himself. And he moves a lot, as well.'

'Hmm,' Will said. 'What the devil is he up to? Why hasn't he just ridden away?'

'I've been thinking about that,' Horace said. 'Maybe Tennyson has been delayed, and our friend here is making sure we don't follow on too soon.'

'Delayed by what?' Will asked and Horace shrugged.

'Could be he's sick or injured. Maybe he's waiting for someone. I don't know. But he must be holed up somewhere close at hand, because his spy up there heads off at night and then is back here by daylight.'

'He's waiting to see what we'll do,' Will said, as it became clear to him. 'He knows Halt is poisoned. He heard him cry out when the bolt hit him. So he assumes he's going to die. He can't know who Malcolm is, or how skilled he is.'

Funny, he thought, how he simply assumed that Malcolm would be able to save Halt.

Horace was nodding. 'That could be it. If they've had to stop, it only makes sense that he should keep tabs on us. He might well assume that if Halt dies, we'll give up and head back home. And obviously, he has no way of knowing that Halt is getting better.'

'Don't be too quick with that assumption,' Malcolm said from behind him. They turned to face him and his expression was grave.

'But he must be!' Horace protested. 'I could see it myself and I'm certainly no healer. He was much better this morning and yesterday afternoon. Totally lucid.'

But Malcolm was shaking his head and Horace stopped his protesting.

'I'm not sure what the poison is yet. But if I'm right, those are the symptoms.'

'Of what?' Will asked. His mouth was a tight line.

Malcolm looked at him apologetically. As a healer, he hated times like this, when all he had to offer was bad news.

'It starts with delirium and fever. One minute he's in the present, next he's in the past. Then he's totally in the past and hallucinating. That's the second stage. That's when you said he mistook you for someone else. Then there's the final stage: clarity and awareness once again and an apparent recovery.'

'An apparent recovery?' Will repeated. He didn't like the sound of that phrase.

Malcolm shrugged. 'I'm afraid so. He's a long way gone. I'm not sure how much time he might have left.'

'But… you can treat him?' Horace asked. 'There is an antidote to this poison, isn't there? You said you know what it is.'

'I think I know what it is,' Malcolm said. 'And there is an antidote.'

'Then I don't see the problem,' Horace said.

Malcolm took a deep breath. 'The poison looks like one of two possible types – both of the genus aracoina,' he said. 'One is derived from the aracoina plant that grows blue flowers. The other comes from the white-flowered variety. The two cause virtually the same symptoms – the ones I've just described here.'

'Then…' Will began, but Malcolm stopped him.

'There are two antidotes. They're quite common. They're effective almost immediately and I have the ingredients for both. But if I treat him for white aracoina and he's been poisoned with the blue variety, it will almost certainly kill him. And vice versa.'

Horace and Will stood in stunned silence as Malcolm spoke. Then he continued.

'That's why murdering swine like these Genovesans favour aracoina poison. Even if a healer can prepare an antidote, there's still an even chance that the victim will die.'

'And if we don't know which one was used?' Will asked. Malcolm had known the question was coming and now he had to present this young man he admired so much with a truly terrible dilemma.

'If we don't treat him, he'll certainly die. If it comes down to it, I'll prepare both remedies, then we'll flip a coin and decide which one to use.'

Will straightened his slumped shoulders and looked Malcolm in the eye.

'No,' he said. 'There'll be no coin tossing. If a decision has to be made, I'll make it. I won't have Halt's life decided by tossing a coin. I could never go back and tell Lady Pauline that was how we did it. I want it done by someone who loves him. And that's me.'

Malcolm nodded acknowledgement of the statement.

'I hope I'd have your courage in such a moment,' he said. Once again, as he had done many months previously, he regarded the Ranger before him and wondered at the strength and depth of character in one so young. Horace stepped closer to his friend and put his big hand on Will's shoulder. Malcolm saw the knuckles whiten with the pressure of his grip as he squeezed, letting Will know he was not alone.

With a sad little smile, Will put his hand up and covered his friend's hand. They didn't need to speak in this moment.

And that night, around midnight, after hours spent staring wordlessly into the dying coals of the fire, Will made his decision. Thirty-five The sun had risen over an hour ago. It was going to be a fine day, but the group stood around the low mound of fresh-turned earth with their heads lowered in sorrow. They had no eyes for the fine weather or the promise of a clear day to come.

Head bowed, Will drove a wooden marker into the newly dug earth at the head of the shallow grave, then stepped away to give Horace room to smooth the last few shovelfuls of dirt into place. Horace stood back as well, leaning on the shovel.

'Should someone say a few words?' he asked tentatively. Malcolm looked to Will for an answer but the young Ranger shook his head.

'I don't think I'm ready for that.'

'Perhaps it would be appropriate if we just stand here quietly for a few moments?' Malcolm suggested. The other two exchanged glances and nodded agreement.

'I think that would be best,' Will said.

Horace straightened to a position of attention and the three stood, heads bowed, by the grave site. Finally, Will broke the silence.

'All right. Let's go.'

They packed their gear, loading it onto the horses. Horace kicked dirt over the fire to extinguish it and they mounted. Will looked for a long moment at the fresh earth that formed a low mound over the grave. Then he turned Tug's head and rode off without another backward glance. The others followed.

They rode slowly, heading north, away from the trail they had been following for days. They left the grave and Tennyson and his followers behind them. Nobody spoke as they topped the first ridge. Then, as they dropped out of sight from anyone who might be watching, Will made a brief hand signal.

'Let's pace it up,' he said and the three of them urged their horses into a canter. A few hundred metres away, where the ground flattened out, and before it rose to yet another low ridge line, there was a small copse of trees. He headed for it now, swinging slightly to the left, the others following close behind him. As they neared the copse, he glanced back over his shoulder, to see if there was anyone in sight behind them yet. But the skyline was empty.

'Hurry!' he called. They had to be under cover by the time the Genovesan spy reached that ridge.

He wheeled Tug to a stop at the edge of the trees and ushered the other two past him. They rode into the shelter of the copse for a few metres, then dismounted. Will, checking once more that there was no sign of a pursuer yet, followed them. He dismounted as well.

'Lead the horses well into the shadows,' he said.

Horace led Kicker further into the trees. At a gesture from Will, Abelard and Tug followed the larger horse.

'I'll take a look at Halt,' Malcolm said.

The Ranger lay, asleep still, on his bedroll in the centre of the copse. They had brought him here after nightfall, on a litter slung between Abelard and Tug, and made him comfortable. Malcolm stayed by him through the night. Before dawn, he had crept back to the camp site to be on hand for the 'funeral', during which he stood, feigning a mournful demeanour, as Will and Horace buried a small log wrapped in a blanket.

'No change,' Malcolm called softly now to Will, after his examination of Halt.

Will nodded, satisfied. It had worried him that Halt had been left here unattended for a few hours, while they pretended to wake, find the 'body' and bury it with all the outward signs of grief they could muster. But Malcolm had to be back at the camp before the watcher returned shortly after dawn, and they had decided it had been a necessary risk.

He waited now, just inside the trees, but far enough back so that he was in deep shadow and would be invisible to anyone watching from a distance. He scanned the horizon to the south eagerly.

'Any sign?' Horace said softly, as he and Malcolm moved to join Will. Horace had donned the cloak Halt had given him, and Malcolm was wearing Halt's own cloak. Every extra bit of concealment would help, and Will had instructed them both to keep their cowls up and pulled well forward.

'No! And for god's sake stop your bellowing!'

Horace couldn't help smiling at Will's irritated reply. It had hardly been a bellow, Horace knew. But he forgave his friend the exaggeration. Will was tensed to fever pitch. This ploy of his had to work if Halt were to have a chance of surviving.

'What exactly do you have in mind?' Malcolm said, being careful to keep his voice down. Will and Horace had discussed Will's plan the night before, but as Malcolm had spent the time keeping a watch over Halt, he wasn't sure of the details.

'I'm hoping he'll come to check that we've really gone,' Will said.

'And then you'll rush out and capture him?' Malcolm asked. He sounded doubtful about the wisdom of such a haphazard plan and Will's vehement reply confirmed his doubts.

'I most certainly will not! I've got no wish to get myself killed. The Genovesans are expert shots. If I charge out at him, he'll have plenty of time to put a bolt through me.'

'You're a better shot than he is,' Malcolm said. But he was missing a vital point.

'Maybe. But I want to take him alive. He'll just want me dead.'

'Couldn't you shoot to wound him?' Malcolm suggested.

Will was shaking his head before he finished speaking. 'Too risky. I'd be galloping flat out on Tug. One stumble, one false stride and I could be off target. If I miss by a couple of inches, I could kill the Genovesan. And besides, even if I did manage to wound him, he could still kill me.'

'Then… what will you do?' Malcolm asked.

'I have to wait until he's not expecting trouble. When he comes looking for us, he'll be fully alert,' Will explained. 'He'll be looking to make sure that we've really gone. I expect he'll ride to the next ridge. Then, if he can't see any sign of us, I'm hoping he'll head back to Tennyson's camp.'

'That sounds reasonable,' Malcolm said. But Will could sense that he was still puzzled by the situation so he explained further.

'Once he heads for home, he'll probably check behind him for the next hour or so. Then he'll relax a little as he's convinced we've really gone. The further he goes, the more he'll relax. That means I'll have a better chance of taking him by surprise. I'll give him a head start, then swing out and parallel his course until I catch up to him. Then I'll cut back in and get as close as I can before he sees me.'

'You'll still have to chase him down.'

Will nodded. 'Yes. But he'll be tired and he won't be expecting me. I'll have a much better chance of taking him alive if I wait a few hours.'

Malcolm nodded, understanding. But there was a worried look on his face.

'Halt may not have a few hours, Will,' he said quietly and the young Ranger sighed.

'I know that, Malcolm. But it won't do him any good if I get myself killed here, will it?'

Suddenly, he held up a hand to cut off any possible reply. Tug had rumbled a low warning sound, barely audible, and he knew the little horse had heard something.

Will nodded to him. 'Good boy,' he whispered. 'I hear it too.'

It was the sound of a horse's hooves drumming on the soft ground. The sound grew and Will dropped to a crouch, motioning to the others to do the same.

'Remember,' he cautioned them, 'if he looks this way, don't move a muscle.'

For several seconds, there was nothing, then the hoof-beats slowed and Will saw movement on the horizon. Slowly, a horse and rider rose above the skyline. Will's lip curled in contempt. The Genovesan might be a dangerous enemy in the alleys and back streets of a town or city, he thought. But his field skills were sadly lacking. If you were going to show yourself above a skyline like that, there was nothing to be gained by doing it slowly.

For it was the Genovesan. He recognised him easily, noting the dull purple cloak and the crossbow held, loaded and ready, across his saddle bow. The man stood in his stirrups, shielding his eyes with one hand, and searched the ground below him, looking for any sign of the three riders. The terrain here continued for kilometres in a series of undulating low ridges. To the Genovesan, it appeared that Horace, Will and Malcolm had already ridden over the next one to the north and were out of sight. That made sense, as he'd waited some minutes before setting out after them, in case they were delayed.

The Genovesan urged his horse forward now, cresting the ridge and riding down the shallow slope before him. He was no tracker, Will could see. The clumsy hints the Genovesans had left through the drowned forest had told him they knew little of real tracking skills. He watched as the assassin cantered past, about one hundred and fifty metres from where they crouched in concealment, then rode up to the next crest. Again, he repeated the useless manoeuvre of slowing down before he reached the crest, then exposing himself and his horse completely to look beyond it.

Obviously, he saw no sign of the three riders from that vantage point either. He hesitated for a few minutes, then wheeled his horse to the south and cantered back the way he had come, passing the copse of trees once more.

But, as before, he paid no attention to the spot where the three were hiding. He rode without pausing over the ridge and they heard his hoof beats slowly fading. Will waited a few minutes, then looked at Tug, standing back among the trees.

'Anything?' he asked. The horse neighed softly and tossed his head. His ears went up, then down again. There was no sound for him to hear. For the first time in perhaps thirty minutes, Will relaxed his tense muscles. He could feel the result of the tension across his shoulders.

'You think he fell for it?' Horace asked.

Will hesitated a second, then nodded. 'I think so. Unless he's double-gaming us. But I doubt that's the case. He's not very good in open country. Even you could probably fool him, Horace,' he added with a grin.

'Well, thank you very much,' Horace said, raising an eyebrow at him. He was beginning to enjoy that expression.

'You're supposed to do that without moving the other eyebrow,' Will told him. 'Otherwise you just look lopsided and surprised.'

Horace sniffed in haughty disbelief. He was convinced he had that action down pretty well now and the Rangers were simply jealous that he'd mastered one of their pet expressions.

'So what's next?' Malcolm interrupted. He knew these two and he sensed that this exchange could go on for some time. Will turned to him, his mind back on the present situation.

'I'll wait half an hour or so,' he said. 'I want him to be completely convinced that we've gone. Then I'll swing in a wide arc, cut back to find his trail and catch up with him before he reaches Tennyson's camp.'

'And then you'll capture him,' Horace said.

Will nodded at him. 'With any luck, yes.'

Malcolm shook his head in admiration.

'Just like that,' he said. It all sounded so simple.

Will regarded him, a serious expression on his face. 'Just like that.' Then, realising that he might be sounding a little boastful, he explained further. 'I've got no choice, Malcolm, have I? You need to know which poison was used on the bolt and he's the only man who can tell us.'

'So now we wait?' Horace said and Will nodded.

'Now we wait.' Thirty-six In spite of the long distances they'd travelled in the past few days, Tug was surprisingly fresh. Will cantered him slowly to the spot there the Genovesan had lain, watching the camp site. As he approached, he dismounted and moved forward in a crouch. Close to the highest point, he dropped to his belly and crawled forward to see over the ridge, exposing only a few centimetres of his head as he did so.

There was no sign of the Genovesan, although he found the spot where he had been easily enough. The grass was pushed down in a large circle, like the nest of some big animal. Will could see clear tracks in the grass leading away from the ridge, where the Genovesan had left each evening. He had followed the same path each time and his trail was obvious to Will's trained eye. He had headed south-east – the same direction the Outsiders group had been following. There seemed to be no reason now to think that they might have altered their course.

Will considered the situation briefly. The Genovesan was obviously satisfied that they had left after burying Halt. So there was no reason for him to be laying a false trail and no reason why he might suspect that he was still being followed. But he was no fool, even if his field craft left a lot to be desired. He would probably check his back trail from time to time, at least for the first few hours, and if Will was going to take him alive, he'd have to catch him with his guard down. Accordingly, Will took Tug in a long arc for two kilometres to the east. Then he turned to parallel the assassin's south-easterly course and brought Tug's pace up to a fast canter. It was an efficient pace. They covered ground swiftly, yet Tug's unshod hooves made far less noise on the soft ground than they would have at a full gallop.

They rode steadily towards the south-east. As they crossed each ridge line, Will took the same precautions against being sighted, but there was never any sign of the Genovesan.

After an hour and a half, he veered back in to cross the Genovesan's trail. He found it after a few minutes, satisfying himself that the man was continuing on that same course. He rode out to the west this time, then turned so that he was once more paralleling the course.

It was midafternoon when he caught sight of the Genovesan. He was ambling along, his horse plodding, head down, at a walk. Will smiled. The horse was one they must have stolen from a local farm and it looked in poor condition. It would be no match for Tug's stamina and speed. And now that he was as close as he was, he knew that the last kilometre or so would probably become a race.

Will angled Tug back in, heading to intercept the other rider. The man was slumped in his saddle. Obviously, he was nearly as tired as his horse. By now, he would be confident that there was no pursuit. As he drew closer, Will could see that the man's crossbow was now slung over his shoulder. His thoughts would be focused on the camp site somewhere ahead of him, on the hot food and drink that waited him there.

'Gently, boy,' Will whispered to Tug as he leaned forward, over his neck, urging him to more speed. The little horse responded. His hoof beats thudded dully on the ground, but they were muted by the grass and the damp earth underneath and Will hoped they could get closer before the Genovesan heard them and realised he was in danger.

It was a finely balanced equation. If they went faster, they would close the range more quickly. But they would also make a greater noise and increase the risk of discovery. Will resisted the urge to let Tug go all out. The time for that would come.

As he rode, he slung the longbow over his shoulder, and, letting the reins lie across Tug's neck, reached into his jacket for his two strikers.

At first, Tug's movement made it difficult for him to screw the two brass pieces together. He would begin to insert one into the other and a sudden lurch would bring them apart before he had the threaded sections engaged. He paused, and concentrated on matching his body movements exactly to Tug's rhythm. Then, remaining loose and fluid in his movements, he tried again and felt the threads engage. After the first few careful turns, he turned faster, screwing the two strikers together into one long piece. He hefted it in his right hand, feeling the familiar balance. The strikers were designed to have the same throwing characteristics as his saxe knife. But to use them, he'd have to get to within twenty metres – and that could prove to be difficult.

He saw that the Genovesan was almost at another ridge. A sixth sense warned Will and he realised that it would be only natural for the man to cast a last look behind him as he reached the crest. He brought Tug to a sliding halt, slipped out of the saddle and pulled sideways on the reins as he dropped to the ground. Tug, trained to respond to a wide variety of signals from his rider, reacted instantly. He came to his knees, then rolled over on one side in the grass, lying motionless as Will placed an arm over his neck. They lay unmoving, concealed partly by the grass and partly by their own lack of movement. From a distance, the grey horse and his cloaked rider would resemble nothing more threatening than a large rock surrounded by low bushes. From beneath his cowl, Will saw the Genovesan rein in at the top of the ridge. He heaved a sigh of relief that he had foreseen this moment.

The rider turned, easing his stiff muscles up out of his saddle, and cast a quick glance over the land behind him. But it was a cursory glance only. He had done the same thing from time to time over the past four hours. He had seen no sign of pursuit then and he expected to see no sign of it now.

So he surveyed the grassland behind him without any great care. In truth, the movement was as much designed to ease his stiff back muscles as to search for pursuers. As Halt had so often told Will during his training, ninety per cent of the time, people see only what they expect to see. The Genovesan expected to see empty grassland behind him, and that was what he saw. The irregular, indeterminate green and grey mound off to the west excited no interest.

After a minute or two, he turned back to the south-east and rode down from the crest. Will waited. The oldest trick in the book was to appear to ride away, then suddenly return to look once more. But the Genovesan seemed satisfied that the land behind him was empty of any threat and he didn't reappear.

Will tapped Tug on the shoulder and, as the horse rolled upright and came to his feet, he stepped astride him so that they came up together. With the sound of Tug's hoof beats now screened by the ridge between him and the Genovesan, he took the opportunity to urge the horse into a gallop. When they came over the crest, he would expect to be only a few hundred metres from the other rider.

This time, he didn't pause at the crest. It was time to commit. They had been travelling for almost four hours and logic told him they must be close to the Genovesan's goal. They crested the rise at a full gallop and Will gave a small cry of surprise.

Tug's ears went up at the sound but Will hurriedly reassured him.

'Keep going!' he said. The little horse's ears went down again and he maintained his gallop, never missing a beat.

Before them, the landscape had changed. The series of undulating ridges now gave way to a long, gradual slope leading down until it opened out into a wide, long valley. Tennyson's camp was visible, some three kilometres away. The numbers had grown from the twelve or fifteen people who had been with him originally. Now, he estimated, there must be a hundred people gathered there.

But Will's more immediate problem was the Genovesan, now less than two hundred metres ahead of him. He couldn't believe his luck. The assassin hadn't heard the thudding of Tug's hooves on the grass. He continued at a slow walk, his horse plodding heavily.

Then Will saw the man's head jerk up and turn towards them as, inevitably, he heard them. Will was close enough to hear his sudden shout of surprise and saw him put his heels into his horse's ribs, rousing it to a lumbering canter, then a weary gallop. It was a tactical mistake, Will thought. The shock of seeing him had startled the man into an error. Armed with a crossbow, he would have been better to dismount and face his onrushing pursuer.

But then, he wasn't aware that Will needed to take him alive. Perhaps he wasn't ready to face the Ranger's phenomenal accuracy and speed once more. He must be aware that only luck had saved him in their previous encounter.

Will saw the pale oval of the Genovesan's face as he glanced over his shoulder. Tug was closing the range rapidly now and the man was kicking desperately with his heels to spur his own horse on. But the lumbering farm horse never had a chance to outrun the fleet-footed Ranger horse and Tug was gaining with each stride.

The Genovesan struggled now to unsling his crossbow. As he saw what the man was doing, Will shoved the joined strikers through his belt and unslung his own longbow. The Genovesan's hand went to his quiver, selecting a bolt and placing it in the groove of the crossbow. Will's throat constricted and his mouth went dry as he realised he was about to face one of the man's deadly poisoned bolts. Under normal circumstances, he would have shot first. All the advantages were on his side. The other man had to twist in the saddle to get off a shot, while Will could shoot straight over Tug's ears. At this distance, he could pick him off easily.

But he needed the man alive.

The Genovesan had finally managed to load the bolt. He turned awkwardly, fighting against the jolting, uneven gait of his horse, to bring the crossbow to bear. He was twisting around to his right, so Will guided Tug with his knees, veering him to the left, forcing the Genovesan to twist further, making it more difficult for him to take aim.

The Genovesan realised what he was doing and swung suddenly the other way, twisting round to his own left for a clearer shot. But as soon as he did, Will zigzagged again, taking Tug back to the right. The manoeuvre was successful. The Genovesan found that his target was again out of sight. And Tug had closed the range by another twenty metres in the process.

The Genovesan twisted right again. This time, Will kept galloping steadily, without zigzagging. But now he had an arrow nocked and rode with the reins dropped on Tug's neck, guiding the horse with knee signals. He couldn't risk killing the Genovesan, but his quarry didn't know that. The assassin would get one chance for a shot. There wouldn't be time for him to reload, even if he could manage the task on horseback.

When he came to shoot, Will planned to spoil his aim. He was confident that he could loose several arrows in rapid succession, putting them close enough to the Genovesans' head to make him flinch. He remembered the duel with the man's compatriot. These men were primarily assassins, used to shooting from cover at a helpless target, someone who was unaware of their presence. They weren't used to open combat, facing an enemy who shot back – and who shot with deadly accuracy.

He was closer now. Tug's gait was smooth and controlled, unlike the farm horse, who was clumsy and tired and had the Genovesan bouncing unevenly in the saddle.

Here it came! The crossbow levelled and he saw the Genovesan's hand begin to tighten round the trigger lever. Will's hands moved in a blur, drawing, releasing and flicking a new arrow out of the quiver and onto the string in such rapid succession that he had three arrows in the air in the seconds before the Genovesan released.

As his hand tightened on the crossbow's trigger, the assassin suddenly became aware of the danger. Something hissed viciously past his head, seemingly only a few centimetres away. And he was aware that two more shots were on the way, a fraction of a second behind the first. It would have taken far more steady nerves than he possessed to hold a cool, deliberate aim – even if he weren't being jolted and jounced by the galloping horse. He ducked, shouting an involuntary curse, and his hand spasmed, jerking hard on the trigger lever and sending the bolt arcing high into the air, so that it fell harmlessly into the long grass nearly a hundred metres away.

The danger was past. Will tossed the longbow aside. There was no time to re-sling it and he could recover it later. He drew the strikers from his belt and urged Tug to one last burst of speed. The assassin, seeing him only forty metres away, drummed frantically with his heels in his horse's ribs. The exhausted animal had slowed to a trot while his rider had been preoccupied and now he needed speed again. The horse responded as much as it could but Tug was eating up the distance between them now. Too late, the assassin began to reach for one of the many daggers he carried. But Will's right arm went up and then came forward in a smooth, powerful throw.

The strikers glinted in the sunlight as they spun end over end. For a second, the assassin didn't see them, didn't register the danger. Then he saw the spinning metal and ducked low over his horse's neck.

The man had reflexes like a cat, Will thought. The strikers spun harmlessly over his head and disappeared into the long grass. Will cursed. He'd never find them again. He dragged his saxe from its scabbard.

'Go get him, Tug,' he said and felt the response from his horse as he accelerated once more, now moving as fast as Will had ever felt him move.

He saw a glint of steel in the Genovesan's hand, recognised it as one of the long-bladed daggers the assassins carried. He held the saxe ready, and drove Tug forward. The Genovesan started to turn his horse to meet the charge but he was too late. He struck once, aiming for Tug, but Will leaned forward over his horse's neck and deflected the thin blade with his saxe.

Then Tug's shoulder smashed at full speed into the exhausted, off-balance farm horse and sent him crashing over, so that he hit the ground on his side and slid for several metres along the slick surface of the grass. The violent movement trapped the Genovesan's right leg under the horse's body. The horse's hooves flailed weakly in the air but it made no attempt to rise. It was finished.

Instantly, Will was out of the saddle. He ran towards the trapped assassin. The Genovesan had lost his dagger in the collision and was scrabbling frantically under his purple cloak to draw another. Without a second's hesitation, Will stepped in and slammed the heavy brass-shod hilt of his saxe into the side of the man's head. Then, without waiting to see if the first blow had been successful, he repeated the action, a little harder.

The man's eyes rolled up in his head. He let out a weak groan and fell back, his right leg still trapped under the fallen horse. Will stepped back to regain his breath. The second strike had probably been unnecessary, he realised. But he had enjoyed it.

'So much for you,' he said to the still form. 'And the horse you rode in on.' Thirty-seven Malcolm was worried. The venom had been in Halt's system for several days now and at any time, he could go into the final stages. He was peaceful for the moment, and his temperature was normal. But if he became agitated and feverish again, tossing and turning and calling out, that would signal that the end was only a few hours away. Will was racing against time to bring back the Genovesan before Halt reached that stage. Their best guess was that Tennyson's camp would be about four hours away. Four hours there and four hours back.

In one hour, Halt could be dead.

He glanced over to the tall young warrior, sitting hunched over his knees, staring into space. He wished there was something to do to help Horace, some encouragement he could offer. But Horace knew the situation as well as he did. And Malcolm wasn't in the habit of offering false hope and soothing words at a time like this. False hope was worse than the small hope they did have.

Halt gave a low moan and turned on his side. Instantly, Malcolm was alert, watching him like a hawk. Had he simply stirred in his sleep? Or would this be the beginning of the end? For a few seconds, Halt lay still and his anxiety began to abate. Then he muttered again, louder this time, and began to thrash about, trying to throw the blankets off. Malcolm hurried to his side, dropping to his knees and putting his hand on the bearded Ranger's forehead. It was hot to the touch – far too hot to be normal. Halt's eyes were screwed shut now but he continued to cry out. At first, they were just inarticulate sounds. Then he suddenly cried a warning.

'Will! Take your time! Don't rush the shot!'

Malcolm heard Horace's quick footsteps as the young man moved to stand behind him.

'Is he all right?' Horace asked. In the circumstances, it was a ridiculous question. Halt was anything but all right and Malcolm drew breath to give a cutting reply. Then he stopped. It was a natural reaction on Horace's part.

'No,' he said. 'He's in trouble. Hand me my medicine satchel, please, Horace.'

The satchel was actually within easy reach but he knew it would be better for the young man to think he was helping. Horace passed the leather case to Malcolm, who searched quickly through it, his practised fingers going quickly to the phial he needed. It contained a light brown liquid and he used his teeth to remove the stopper.

'Hold his jaw open,' he said briefly. Horace knelt on Halt's other side and forced the Ranger's mouth open. Halt struggled against him, trying to toss his head from side to side to avoid his touch. But he was weakened by the ordeal of the past few days and Horace was too strong for him. Malcolm leaned forward and allowed a few drops of the brown liquid to fall onto Halt's tongue. Again, the Ranger reacted, arcing his back and trying to break free.

'Hold his mouth shut until he swallows,' Malcolm said tersely. Horace obliged, clamping his big hands over the Ranger's mouth and closing it. Halt tossed and moaned. But after some time, they saw his throat move and Malcolm knew he had swallowed the draught.

'All right,' he said. 'You can let go.'

Horace relinquished his iron grip on Halt's jaw. The Ranger spluttered and coughed and tried to rise. But now Horace had his hands on his shoulders, holding him down. After a minute or so, his movements gradually began to weaken. His voice died away to a mumble and he slept fitfully.

Malcolm signalled for Horace to relax. There was perspiration on the young warrior's forehead and the healer knew it was from more than just exhaustion. It was nervous perspiration, brought on by his fear for Halt and his uncertainty. Powerful emotions, Malcolm knew, and capable of taking a heavy physical toll.

'Malcolm,' Horace said. 'What's happening?'

He had recognised that this was a new phase in Halt's suffering. Malcolm had told them that Halt would go through various phases but he hadn't described this, the final phase, in any detail. But Horace knew that any change in behaviour or condition could only be bad news now. Halt was deteriorating and Horace wanted to know how bad the situation was.

Malcolm looked up and met his worried gaze.

'I'm not going to lie to you, Horace. He's calmer now because of the drug I just gave him. That'll wear off in an hour or so and he'll start to thrash around again. Each time he does, it'll be worse. He'll drive the poison further and further through his system and that'll be the end.'

'How long can you keep giving him the drug?' Horace asked. 'Will could be back here at any time.'

Malcolm shrugged. 'Maybe twice more. Maybe three times. But he's weak, Horace, and it's a powerful drug. If I give it to him too often, it could kill him just as easily as the poison.'

'Isn't there anything you can do?' Horace said, feeling tears stinging his eyes. He felt so… helpless, so useless, standing by and watching Halt sink deeper and deeper. If the Ranger were in a battle, surrounded by enemies, Horace wouldn't hesitate to charge to his aid. He understood that sort of situation and could cope with it.

But this! This terrible standing by, waiting and watching, wringing his hands in anguish and able to accomplish nothing. This was worse than any battle he could imagine.

Malcolm said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He saw the anger in Horace's eyes, saw his face flushing with rage.

'You healers! You're all the same! You have your potions and spells and mumbo jumbo and in the end, it all comes down to nothing! All you can do is say wait and see!'

The accusation was unfair. Malcolm wasn't like the general run of healers, many of whom were mountebanks and charlatans. Malcolm dealt in herbs and drugs and knowledge of the human body and its systems. He was undoubtedly the most skilled and learned healer in Araluen. But sometimes, skill and knowledge simply weren't enough. After all, if healers were infallible, nobody would ever die. Deep down, Horace knew this, and Malcolm, knowing that he knew, took no offence. He understood that the warrior's anger was directed at the situation, at his own feeling of utter helplessness, and not at Malcolm himself.

'I'm sorry, Horace,' he said simply. Horace stopped his tirade and released a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He knew his words had been ill considered. And he knew too that Malcolm must feel an even worse sense of helplessness than he did. After all, this was what Malcolm was trained for and he could do nothing. Horace made a small sideways gesture with his hand.

'No. No,' he said. 'You've nothing to apologise for. I know you've done your best for him, Malcolm. Nobody could have done better. It's just…'

He couldn't finish the sentence. He wasn't even sure what it was he had been going to say. But he realised that his words spelt his acceptance of the fact that Halt would die. There was nothing more they could do for him. If Malcolm couldn't help him, nobody could.

He turned away, his hand up to his eyes, hiding the tears there, and walked away. Malcolm started after him, then decided it might be better to leave him. He turned back to Halt and dropped to his knees beside him once more. He frowned in concentration, staring at the Ranger. In another half an hour, the brown liquid would begin to lose effect and Halt would go into another paroxysm. He could ease that, but it would be a temporary solution. The attacks would continue and get worse. It was a downward spiral.

Unless…

An idea was forming in his mind. It was a desperate idea but this was a desperate situation. He breathed deeply several times, closing his eyes and concentrating. He forced his mind to ignore side issues and to focus on the main problem, turning the idea over in his mind, seeking the faults and the dangers and finding many of both.

Then he considered the alternative. He could keep Halt comfortable for a few more hours – maybe two or three – in the hope that Will would return. But he knew what a remote chance that was. Even if Will caught the Genovesan before that, he would travel more slowly on the return journey with a prisoner. In four hours, Halt would probably be dead. Not probably, he amended, almost certainly.

He came to a decision and rose, walking towards the young warrior who was leaning miserably against a tree some metres away. He saw the drooping shoulders, the bowed head, the body language that told him Horace had given up. Then he felt a sudden stab of doubt. Did he have the right to give him this renewed hope – hope that might well prove to be misplaced? If he buoyed Horace's expectations and Halt still died, how could he forgive himself?

Would it be better to simply accept the situation, do what he could for Halt and let nature take its course?

He shook his head, a new resolve forming in his mind. That was not his way. It never would be. If there was the slightest chance to save a patient, then he would take it. He would fight to the very end.

'Horace?' he said softly. The young man turned to him and Malcolm saw the tears that streaked his face.

'There might be something…' he began. He saw the hope in Horace's eyes and held up a hand to forestall him. 'It's a very slim chance. And it might not work. It could even kill him,' he warned. For a moment, he saw Horace recoil mentally from that outcome, then the warrior recovered himself.

'What do you have in mind?'

'It's something I've never done before. But it might work. The drug I gave him is a very dangerous drug. As I said, it could kill him, even without the poison. But if I were to give him enough so that he was almost dead, it might save him.'

Horace frowned, not understanding. 'How can you save him if you almost kill him?' And Malcolm had to admit that, put that way, it seemed a crazy plan. But he stuck to his guns.

'If I take him right to the edge, everything in his body will slow down. His pulse. His breathing. His entire system. And the effects of the poison will slow down as well. We'll buy him time. Maybe eight hours. Maybe more.'

He saw the effect those words had on Horace. In eight hours, Will would almost certainly be back – if he had managed to capture the Genovesan. Suddenly, Horace felt a terrible doubt. What if the Genovesan had killed Will? He pushed the thought aside. He had to believe in something today.

Will would be back. And if Halt were still alive, Malcolm could cure him. Suddenly, there was hope, where there had only been black despair.

'How do you do it?' he asked slowly. Malcolm chewed his lip for a second or two, then decided there was no easy way to express what he had in mind.

'I'll give him a massive overdose of the drug. But not quite enough to kill him.'

'And how much will that be? Do you know? Have you ever done this before?'

Again, Malcolm hesitated. Then he took the plunge.

'No,' he said. 'I've never done this before. I don't know of anyone who has. As for how much should I give him, frankly, I'll be guessing. He's weak already. I think I know how much to give him but I can't be sure.'

There was a long silence between them. Then Malcolm continued.

'It's not a decision I want to make, Horace. It should be made by a friend.'

Horace met his gaze and nodded slowly, understanding. 'It should be made by Will.'

Malcolm made a small gesture of agreement. 'Yes. But he's not here. And you're Halt's friend too. You may not be as close to him as Will is, but you do love him and I'm asking you to make that decision. I can't make it for you.'

Horace heaved a deep sigh and turned away, looking out through the trees to the empty horizon, as if Will might suddenly appear and make this all unnecessary. Still looking away, he said slowly:

'Let me ask you this. If this were your friend, your closest friend, would you do it then?'

Now it was Malcolm's turn to pause and consider his answer.

'I think so,' he said, after several seconds. 'I hope I'd have the courage. I'm not sure I would, but I hope I would.'

Horace turned back to him with the ghost of a sad smile on his face.

'Thanks for an honest answer. I'm sorry about what I said before. You deserve better than that.'

Malcolm waved the apology aside.

'Already forgotten,' he said. 'But what's your decision?' He indicated Halt, and as he did so, the Ranger began to stir again, muttering in a low voice. The first dose of the drug was beginning to wear off. Malcolm realised that this was an important moment, a window of opportunity.

'The drug's wearing off,' he continued. 'It's out of his system. That makes it easier for me to work out the right dosage. I don't have to allow for what I've already given him.'

Horace looked from Malcolm to Halt, and came to a decision.

'Do it,' he said. Thirty-eight Dusk was rolling in over the ridge when Abelard raised his head and gave a long whinny.

Horace and Malcolm looked at the small horse in surprise. Ranger horses didn't normally make unnecessary noise. They were too well trained. Kicker looked up curiously as well, then lowered his head and went back to his grazing.

'What's wrong with Abelard?' Malcolm asked.

Horace shrugged. 'He must have heard or scented something.' He had been sitting by the fire, staring into the coals as they alternately glowed and dulled in the inconstant wind that gusted through the trees. He rose now, his sword ready in his hand, and walked towards the edge of the copse where they were camped.

As he did so, he heard an answering whinny from some distance away. Then an indistinct shape appeared over the horizon to the south.

'It's Will,' he said. 'And he's got a prisoner.'

The outline of horse and rider had been blurred by the fact that Will was riding with the Genovesan, tied hand and foot, stomach down across the saddle bow in front of him.

He trotted Tug down the slope towards the copse, raising his hand in greeting as he saw Horace step clear of the trees. In front of him, the Genovesan grunted uncomfortably with each of Tug's jolting strides.

Malcolm had left the camp fire to join Horace in the open and he rubbed his hands in anticipation as he saw that the young warrior was right. Will had a prisoner, and the purple cloak was clear evidence that it was the Genovesan.

Will reined in beside them. He looked worn out, Horace realised, although that was no surprise, considering what the young Ranger had been through in the past few days.

'How's Halt?' Will asked.

Horace made a reassuring gesture. 'He's okay. It was touch and go for a while there. But Malcolm has put him into a deep, deep sleep to slow the poison down.' He thought it was better to put it that way than to say Malcolm had to nearly kill him to slow the poison down. 'He'll be fine now that you're back.'

Will's face was drawn with weariness and his eyes were bloodshot. But now that his worry about Halt had been answered, there was an unmistakable air of satisfaction about him.

'Yes, I'm back,' he said. 'And look who I ran into.'

Horace grinned at him. 'I hope you ran into him hard.'

'As hard as I could.'

Horace stepped forward to lift the Genovesan to the ground, but Will waved him back.

'Stand clear,' he said. He gripped the collar of the prisoner's cloak and heaved him up and away, nudging Tug to step to the opposite direction as he did so. The assassin slid down from the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. He hit the ground awkwardly, tried to keep his feet and failed, thumping into a heap on the ground.

'Careful!' said Malcolm. 'We need him, remember!'

Will snorted derisively at the Genovesan, squirming weakly, trying to regain his feet.

'He's fine,' he said. 'It'd take more than that to kill him. And we only need him talking, not standing.'

At Malcolm's signal, Horace stepped forward and heaved the Genovesan to his feet. The prisoner snarled at him in his own tongue and Horace regarded him from a very close range. Something in the warrior's eyes seemed to register with the assassin and he stopped his stream of abuse.

'What's your name?' Malcolm asked him, using the common language. The Genovesan switched his glare to the healer and shrugged contemptuously, saying nothing. It was an insulting action and it was also a mistake. Horace's open hand slapped hard across the side of his head, jerking it to one side and setting his ears ringing.

'Make no mistake, you vulture,' Horace said. 'We don't like you. We have no interest in making sure you're comfortable. In fact, the more uncomfortable you are, the better I'm going to like it.'

'Your name?' Malcolm repeated.

Horace sensed the man's shoulders beginning to rise again in that same dismissive shrug. His right hand went up and back, this time bunched into a fist.

'Horace!' Malcolm called out. He needed the man conscious to answer his questions. Horace kept his fist raised. The Genovesan's eyes were riveted on it. He'd felt the casual power behind the young man's slap. A punch would be a lot worse, he knew.

'He can still talk with a broken nose,' Horace said. But now the Genovesan seemed to decide there was no point to taking more punishment for the sake of concealing his name.

'Sono Bacari.'

Again, he shrugged. It seemed to be a favourite action with the man and he could imbue it with enormous contempt, Horace noted. It was as if he were saying, 'So my name is Bacari, so what? I only tell you because I choose to.' The arrogant attitude, and the dismissive action that accompanied it, antagonised Horace even further. He lowered his fist, and when he saw Bacari smile to himself, suddenly kicked the man's legs from underneath him, sending him sprawling heavily on the ground again, the fall driving the wind out of him. Horace placed the flat of his foot on the man's chest and pinned him down.

'Speak the common tongue,' he ordered.

Horace glanced at Will, who had dismounted and was leaning wearily against Tug's side, watching with a suspicion of a smile on his face. Like Horace, he felt not one ounce of compassion towards the Genovesan. And he knew it would be important for the man to understand that they would not spare him any pain in finding out the information they were seeking.

'If he doesn't behave, kick him in the ribs,' Will said.

Horace nodded. 'With pleasure.' He leaned down again to the man, who had regained his breath. 'Now let's try it again. In the common tongue. Your name?'

There was a moment's hesitation as the man, glaring in fury, met Horace's eyes. Then he muttered, 'My name is Bacari.'

Horace straightened up and glanced at Malcolm. 'All right. He's all yours.'

The healer nodded and gestured towards the camp fire, and the unconscious form beside it.

'Bring him over here, will you, Horace,' he asked. He walked to the camp fire and sat down cross-legged. Horace simply reached down, grabbed Bacari by the scruff of his neck and dragged him across the ground to a spot facing Malcolm. He jerked him upright into a sitting position and stood over him, his arms folded. Bacari was very aware of his threatening presence.

'Just give us a little room, please,' Malcolm asked in a mild tone. Horace stepped back a few paces, although he remained alert, watching the Genovesan keenly.

'Now, Bacari.' Malcolm's tone was calm and conversational. 'You shot our friend here with one of your bolts.' He indicated Halt, lying a few metres away, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Bacari seemed to register the Ranger's presence for the first time and his eyes widened. After all, he had seen them bury their companion. Or he had thought as much.

'Still alive?' he said, surprised. 'He should have been dead two days ago!'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Horace said sardonically.

Malcolm gave him a warning glance, then continued. 'You used a poison on the tip of your bolt.'

Bacari shrugged again. 'Maybe I did,' he said carelessly.

Malcolm shook his head. 'Certainly you did. You poisoned the tip of your crossbow with aracoina.'

That definitely took Bacari by surprise. His eyes widened and before he could stop himself he replied, 'How can you know that?' He realised it was too late to recover, that he had given away a vital piece of information.

Malcolm smiled at him. But the smile went no further than his lips.

'I know many things,' he said.

Bacari recovered from his initial surprise and pushed out his bottom lip in an insolent, careless expression.

'Then you know the antidote,' he said, his former dismissive manner having returned. 'Why not give it to him?'

Malcolm leaned forward to make full eye contact.

'I know there are two antidotes,' he said. Again Bacari gave an involuntary start of surprise as he spoke, and although he recovered quickly, Malcolm had noticed the reaction. 'And I know the wrong one will kill him.'

'Che sara, sara,' Bacari replied.

'What did he say?' Horace demanded instantly, taking a step forward. But Malcolm gestured him back again.

'He said, what will be, will be. He's obviously a philosopher.' Then he turned his gaze back to the Genovesan. 'Speak the common tongue. Last warning, or my big friend will slice your ears off and cram them down your murdering throat to choke you.'

It was the mild, conversational tone in which the brutal words were delivered that made the threat more frightening – that and the unblinking stare that Malcolm now fixed on the assassin. He saw that the message had gone home. Bacari's eyes dropped from his.

'All right. I speak,' he said softly. Malcolm nodded several times.

'Good. So long as we understand each other.' He noticed that the man's quiver still hung by his belt. Will had secured his hands behind his back with thumb cuffs so that the quiver and its contents were well beyond his reach. He had seen no reason to waste more time unbuckling it and discarding it. Malcolm leaned across to Bacari, reaching out for the quiver. Initially, Bacari tried to withdraw, thinking another blow might be coming. Then he relaxed as Malcolm carefully withdrew one of the bolts and inspected the point.

Malcolm's brows knotted in a frown as he saw the discoloured, gummy substance coating the first few centimetres of the steel tip.

'Yes,' he said softly, the disgust obvious in his voice. 'This is poisoned, all right. Now all we need to know is: which variety did you use? The blue flower or the white?'

Bacari broke Malcolm's gaze. He glanced at the still figure a few metres away, then allowed his eyes to roam, taking in the threatening form of Horace and the exhausted young Ranger standing back some distance, watching in silence. He sensed the expectancy in the two young men, read the tension in the air as they awaited his answer. In spite of their threats, he instinctively knew that these three would not kill him in cold blood. They might beat him, and he could stand that. In the heat of battle, he knew either of the younger men would kill him without hesitation. But here, with his hands tied behind his back and his feet hobbled? Never.

He smiled inwardly. He had seen their eyes and he was an expert at reading character. If the situation were reversed, he would kill them without a second's thought. He possessed the cold-blooded cruelty necessary to perform such an act. And because he had it himself, he could see that it was missing in them.

Sure of himself now, he looked back to Malcolm and allowed the inner smile to break through to the surface.

'I forget,' he said. Thirty-nine Bacari heard the sudden rush of feet and turned too late. The younger Ranger was upon him before he could make any attempt at evasion. He felt hands grip the front of his jacket and lift him to his feet. The young face was thrust close to his. Grey with fatigue, eyes red-rimmed, Will found renewed energy in the sudden burst of hatred he felt for this sneering killer.

Malcolm started to scramble to his feet to stop him but he was too late.

'You forget? You forget?' Will's voice rose to a shout as he shook the Genovesan like a rat.

He shoved him away violently. Bacari, his hands and feet securely tied, staggered, stumbled and fell, grunting with pain as he landed awkwardly on his side. Then the hands were upon him again and he was dragged to his feet once more.

'Then you'd better remember!' Will shouted, and sent him staggering and falling again with another shove. This time, Bacari fell close to the fire so that his left side was actually in the outer embers. He cried out in pain as he felt the glowing coals burn through his sleeve and begin to sear into the flesh.

'Will!' It was Malcolm, attempting to intervene, but Will shook him off. He grabbed the Genovesan by the feet and heaved him clear of the fire. As he reached for his feet, Bacari tried to kick out at him, but Will easily avoided the clumsy attempt. He lashed out in reply, the tip of his boot catching Bacari in the thigh, bringing another grunt of pain from the Genovesan.

'Stop it, Will!' Malcolm shouted. He could see that the situation was escalating. Will, exhausted physically and emotionally, wasn't thinking clearly. He was on the brink of a terrible mistake.

As Malcolm had the thought, he saw the Ranger's hand drop to the hilt of his saxe knife. With his left hand, Will pulled the struggling assassin to his feet once more, holding him so that their faces were only centimetres apart. Now Bacari recognised that blind rage as well and realised that he had pushed the matter too far. This grey-cloaked stranger was quite capable of killing him. He had miscalculated badly. He had forced him into this killing fury.

But still, he realised that his only hope for survival lay in not telling them what they wanted to know. So long as he held the key to their friend's survival, they couldn't kill him.

He felt the tip of the saxe knife now against his throat. The face, so close to his, was distorted with grief and rage.

'Start remembering! White or blue? Which one? Tell us. TELL US!'

Then Bacari saw a large hand descend onto the Ranger's shoulder. Horace gently but firmly pulled Will back from the edge of the killing madness that had overcome him.

'Will! Take it easy! There's a better way.'

Will turned to his friend, his eyes brimming now with tears of frustration and fear – fear for Halt, lying so silently, while this… this creature knew the secret that could save him.

'Horace?' he said, his voice breaking as he appealed to his friend for help. Will had done all he possibly could and it had come to nothing. Bone weary, totally exhausted, he had found the strength to trail this man for hour after hour. He had fought him, defeated him and captured him. He had brought him back here. And now Bacari sneered at them and refused to tell them which poison he had used. It was too much. Will could think of nothing further to do, no further avenue to explore.

But Horace could. He met his friend's desperate gaze and nodded reassuringly. Then, gently, he disengaged Will's hands from Bacari's jerkin. Dumbly, Will complied and stepped back. Then Horace smiled at Bacari. He turned him round and reached down to seize the cuff of his right sleeve in both hands. With a quick jerk, he tore the material for about fifteen centimetres, exposing the flesh of the man's inside forearm, and the veins there.

Bacari, his hands still fastened behind his back, twisted desperately to see what Horace was doing. His face was contorted now in a worried frown. Horace wasn't raging or ranting at him. He was calm and controlled. That worried the Genovesan more than Will's shouting.

Horace reached for the quiver still hanging from Bacari's belt. There were four or five bolts left in it. He withdrew one and inspected the tip. The gummy substance that Malcolm had indicated before could be seen on the sharpened iron point of this bolt as well. Horace held the bolt before Bacari's eyes, letting him see the poison, so there could be no mistake.

At that moment, Bacari realised what Horace had in mind. He started to struggle desperately, trying to loosen his bonds. But the thumb cuffs held him fast and Horace's grip on his right arm was like a vice. The young warrior put the razor-sharp tip of the bolt against Bacari's inner forearm, then deliberately pressed it into the flesh, penetrating deeply so that hot blood sprang from the wound and ran down Bacari's hands. Bacari screamed in pain and fear as Horace dragged the sharpened iron through the flesh of his arm, opening a deep, long cut. Now, Bacari could feel the blood pumping out in a regular stream. Horace had found a vein with the bolt. That meant the poison would penetrate the Genovesan's bloodstream and system much faster than it had done with the glancing scratch on Halt's arm.

'No! No!' the assassin screamed, trying to break free. But he knew it was already too late. The poison was in him, already beginning to spread, and he knew what was in store. He had seen his victims die before, many times. He stopped struggling and his knees sagged, but Horace held him firmly, keeping him standing. The young warrior tossed the crossbow bolt aside and looked around at his two friends, seeing the shock on their faces as they realised what he had done. Then he saw the expression on Will's face change to one of satisfied approval.

Malcolm was a different matter. He was a healer, dedicated to saving life, and Horace's action went against all his basic principles. He could never bring himself to intentionally put a life in danger the way Horace had done.

'Malcolm,' Horace was saying, 'the more the victim moves about and exerts himself, the faster the poison will spread through his system. Is that right?'

Wordless, Malcolm nodded confirmation.

'Good,' Horace said. He let go of Bacari's arm and tore the already ripped sleeve free. Then, working quickly, he wrapped it firmly around the bleeding wound in the Genovesan's arm.

'Can't have you bleeding to death before the poison kills you,' he said. He finished tying the makeshift bandage and released his grip on the Genovesan. Bacari, horrified at what had happened to him, sank slowly to his knees, head bowed. He looked to Malcolm, saw his only possible source of survival, and pleaded with the healer.

'Please! I beg you! Don't let him do this.'

Malcolm shrugged unhappily. The matter was out of his hands. Horace stooped swiftly and removed the ankle cuffs that secured Bacari. Then the assassin felt that powerful grip under his arm again as he was hauled to his feet.

'Up you come, my murdering friend. Can't have you sitting around all day. We're going to walk. We're going to run. We're going to get that poison just racing through you!'

And so saying, he began to propel Bacari before him, forcing the Genovesan into an awkward, shambling trot. They crossed the little copse, leaving the shelter of the trees. Horace pointed to the southern ridge.

'What do you say we go admire the view from up there?' he said. 'Sounds like a plan? Then let's go!'

With Horace holding the prisoner firmly by the elbow, they began to trot up the slope. Then he increased the pace so that they were running. Bacari slipped and fell half a dozen times, but on each occasion, Horace would drag him to his feet and get him running once more. Will and Malcolm could hear Horace's sarcastic exhortations as he drove Bacari to greater and greater efforts.

'Come on, my old Genovesan runner! Up you come!'

'On your feet, poison peddler!'

'Move it along! We have to keep that poison spreading!'

Gradually, the voice faded away as the two figures ran awkwardly up the slope, one half-dragging the other. Malcolm met Will's eyes. Will could see the disapproval there.

'Can you stop him?' the healer asked.

Will looked coldly at him. 'Perhaps I could. But why would I?'

Malcolm shook his head and turned away. Will moved to him and touched his shoulder, turning the healer back to face him again.

'Malcolm, I think I understand. I know you find it hard to condone this. But it has to be done.'

The little man shook his head unhappily. 'It goes against everything I've ever done and believed, Will. The idea of deliberately infecting a healthy body, of putting poison into it… it's just wrong for me!'

'Perhaps it is,' Will conceded. 'But it's Halt's only chance. You know that creature was never going to tell us which poison he used. No matter how much we threatened him, he didn't believe we'd follow through on the threats. And he was probably right. I couldn't put a knife to his throat and simply kill him if he refused to answer.'

'So this is different?' Malcolm asked and Will nodded.

'Of course it is. This way, the choice is up to him. If he tells us which poison he used, you can counteract it. You've said yourself the antidote will be effective almost immediately. This way, we're not killing him. We're here to save him. And if he dies, it will be his choice.'

Malcolm lowered his eyes. There was a long silence between them.

'You're right,' he said at length. 'I don't like it, but I can see there is a difference. And it's necessary.'

They heard the sound of thudding footsteps coming back down the hill, then Horace led a white-faced, shuffling Bacari into the clearing among the trees. There was an unmistakable expression of grim satisfaction on Horace's face.

'Guess what?' he said. 'Our friend has his memory back.'

The poison was derived from the white aracoina. Bacari babbled the information to Malcolm, his eyes wide with fear. Malcolm nodded and hurried to fetch his medical kit. He rummaged inside it and produced half a dozen small containers of liquids and sacks of powder. Hastily, he began measuring and mixing and within five minutes had a thin, yellow liquid prepared. He took the bowl containing the liquid and moved to Halt's side.

'No,' Will said, gesturing to the bowl. 'Not Halt. Give it to Bacari first.'

At first, Malcolm was surprised by the statement. Then he saw the reasoning behind it. There was still the chance that the Genovesan had deceived them about the poison. If he saw that he was about to be given the wrong antidote, the antidote that could kill him, he would have to tell them. But the killer looked quickly at Will as he heard the words and stepped forward, trying to twist so that his wounded arm, still tied behind his back, was closer to the healer.

'Yes! Yes!' he said. 'Give it to me now!'

Horace had been right. The fact that he had penetrated a vein with the poison meant that it was working far more quickly on the Genovesan than it had on Halt. Already, Bacari could feel the heat in his injured arm, the burning pain of the poison. And he could feel it moving up the arm as well. His pulse was starting to race – another side effect of the poison – and he knew that would force the venom around his system even more quickly.

Malcolm looked at him, glanced at Will and nodded. Halt was safe for the time being and it would take only minutes to administer the antidote to Bacari. He gestured to the man's arm.

'Untie him, please, Will,' he said. 'I need to get at that arm.'

Will reached behind the Genovesan and undid the thumb cuffs. As he did so, he dropped his hand warningly to the hilt of his saxe knife.

'Remember, we don't need you alive any longer. Be very careful in all your movements.'

Bacari nodded and dropped eagerly beside where Malcom was kneeling. He stretched out his arm for treatment, gasping in alarm as Malcolm removed the bandage and he could see the banded, discoloured flesh of his inside forearm. With the pressure of the constricting bandage removed, the arm was swollen badly. Malcolm took the injured arm, studied it for a moment, then turned it so that the inner part faced upwards. He had a small, very sharp blade in his free hand.

'I'm going to have to cut, you understand?' he said. 'I'm cutting into a vein to administer the antidote.'

'Yes! Yes!' the Genovesan said, his words stumbling over each other. 'Cut the vein. I know this! Just hurry!'

Malcolm glanced up at him, then back down to the arm. Deftly he found a vein and cut into it with the small blade. Blood welled up immediately and he nodded to a small square of linen that he had placed ready on the ground beside him.

'Wipe the blood away, please, Will.'

Will dropped to his knees to do so. As he cleared the wound, and in the seconds he had before blood welled up again, Malcolm quickly inserted a thin hollow tube into the cut vein. There was a bell-shaped end to the tube and he poured some of the yellow liquid into it, watching it as it ran down the inside, tapping the tube until the liquid coalesced into a single mass, without air bubbles in it.

He continued to hold the tube upright until the liquid ran down to the end that was inserted in Bacari's arm. Then, leaning forward, he put his lips to the bell-shaped opening and blew gently, forcing the antidote into the man's vein, where the bloodflow would distribute it around his system. Deftly, Malcolm placed a linen pad over the small incision he had made in the man's arm, then bound it firmly in place with a bandage.

Bacari's shoulders sagged in relief and he looked up at the healer, bowing his head several times in gratitude.

'Thank you. Thank you,' he said.

Malcolm shook his head contemptuously. 'I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I can't stand by and watch another human being die.' He looked at Will. 'You can tie this animal up again if you like.'

'I'll do that,' Horace said, stepping forward and picking up the thumb cuffs from where Will had dropped them. 'You give Malcolm a hand with Halt.'

Malcolm started to demur. He didn't really need any help. Then he saw the anxious look on Will's face and knew he would feel better if he were doing something to speed his mentor's recovery. He nodded briefly.

'Good idea. Bring my kit, would you?'

Kneeling beside Halt, he cleaned the end of the thin tube with a colourless, strong-smelling liquid he took from his satchel. Then he took Halt's arm from under the blankets and removed the bandage, exposing the sight of the shallow wound. He used more of the pungent liquid to clean his small blade, then went to work administering the antidote to Halt. Throughout the process, there was no sound or reaction from the Ranger, even when the blade cut into his arm. Will noticed that Malcolm used considerably more of the antidote liquid than he had used on Bacari.

'Poison's been in him longer than Bacari,' Malcolm said, sensing his curiosity. 'He'll need more of the antidote.' When he was done, Malcolm bandaged Halt's arm again. He looked up at Will, saw the anxiety in the young man's eyes and smiled reassuringly.

'He'll be fine in a few hours,' he said. 'All I have to do now is give him something to bring him awake again. The faster his system is working, the sooner the antidote will take effect.'

He prepared another compound and poured a little between Halt's lips. As the liquid trickled back into his throat, Halt swallowed reflexively and Malcolm nodded approval. He cleaned his instrument and rose to his feet, groaning slightly with the effort.

'I'm getting too old for this outdoor lark,' he said. 'I need a camp with a few armchairs around the fire.'

Will hadn't moved. He was still on his knees beside Halt, leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the bearded Ranger's face, looking for any sign of recovery. Malcolm touched his shoulder gently.

'Come on, Will,' he said. 'It'll be a few hours before there's any improvement. For now, you need food and rest. I don't want Halt to recover only to find you've collapsed.'

Reluctantly, Will stood and followed Malcolm. Now that the healer mentioned it, he was ravenous, he realised. And bone tired. His Ranger training told him that it was always wise to rest and recuperate when the chance arose. But there was one task left to be done, he realised.

'Malcolm,' he called and the little healer turned, his eyebrows raised in a question. Before he could say anything, Will continued. 'Thank you. Thank you so much.'

Malcolm grinned and made a dismissing gesture with his hand.

'It's what I do,' he said simply. Forty Bacari made his move shortly before dawn.

He knew it was the time when people's spirits were at their lowest ebb – when a sentry would become drowsy and careless. The first hint of grey in the eastern sky, the first sign of the pre-dawn light signalling the impending end of the dark hours, would give a false sense of relaxation and security. When the light came, the hours of danger were over.

That was the way people's minds worked – even trained warriors like the tall, broad-shouldered one who was now on watch.

The assassin had listened carefully as Malcolm and Horace had discussed their security arrangements for the night.

'We'll take alternate watches,' Horace had said. 'Will's exhausted and he needs a proper night's rest to get his strength back.'

The healer had agreed immediately. Will had been under immense strain – both physically and emotionally – and he could use a full night's sleep without interruption. Worn out as he was, he had refused to go to sleep before he saw signs that Halt was recovering. Halt's breathing had become deep and even, and there was colour back in his face, instead of the grey pallor that they had seen in the past few days. And his arm, when Malcolm inspected it, was almost back to normal. There was no swelling, and none of the ominous-looking discolouration that had surrounded the graze. The graze itself was almost healed over now as well.

Bacari lay, apparently sleeping, watching through slitted eyes as the night wore on. He could feel his own strength returning as the antidote counteracted the poison in his body. In the small hours of the morning, Malcolm woke Horace to take the last watch. Bacari waited an hour as the young warrior sat hunched, a little way from the camp fire. From time to time, he heard him stifle a yawn. Horace was weary as well. The past few days hadn't exactly been a rest cure for him and he'd gone without a lot of sleep. Now, in his second spell of guard duty for the night, it was beginning to catch up with him. He shifted position and breathed deeply. Then he blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes, forcing them wide open.

Within a few minutes, his shoulders had sagged and his eyelids began to droop again. He stood up and patrolled around the camp for some minutes, then returned to sit again.

Eventually, inevitably, he began to doze. He wasn't fully asleep and any small noise would rouse him instantly. But Bacari made no noise at all.

Will had refastened his thumb and ankle cuffs after Malcolm had administered the antidote. Slowly, carefully, Bacari stretched his bound hands down behind his back until he was touching the heel of his drawn-up right boot. He twisted the heel and there was a faint click as a small sharp blade shot out of a recess there. Gently, he began to saw the rawhide thong between the two cuffs up and down along the razor edge. The blade was short and several times the rawhide slipped away from it. Once, he gritted his teeth as he accidentally cut himself. But after half a minute's silent, steady work, the thong parted and his hands were free.

He waited several minutes before his next move, making sure that he had made no sound or movement to alert Horace. But the broad-shouldered figure remained still, head hunched forward and shoulders rising rhythmically with his breathing.

Bacari brought his hands round to the front and drew his knees up under his chin so that he could reach the ankle cuffs that bound him. He felt around in the dark until he found the release knot and twisted it. Instantly, the pressure on his ankles faded as the two loops widened. He slipped the twin loops over his feet, then carefully stripped the severed cuffs from his wrists as well. Now he was free.

But still he waited, allowing circulation to return to his limbs, mentally rehearsing his next sequence of actions.

He would kill Horace first. He had the means at his disposal. Then he would take the warrior's dagger – Bacari was no hand with a sword – and hamstring the two smaller horses. He would mount the larger horse and make his escape.

Later, at a time of his choosing, he would return to finish off the other two. Or not. Bacari was a pragmatist. He would enjoy having revenge on Will and Malcolm but if, by doing so, he would disadvantage or endanger himself, he would forego the pleasure. He was, after all, a professional and there was no profit in simply killing them for the sake of a little revenge. On the other hand, if Tennyson were willing to offer a bonus of some kind…

While he had been turning this over in his mind, he had been preparing for his attack on Horace. His cloak was fastened at the neck by a draw string. Carefully, he undid the knot at one end and slipped it out of the sewn fold that it was threaded through. The drawstring was in reality a thin cord and it measured some fifty centimetres in length. He wound the cord round each of his hands several times, leaving a long loop between them. Then, cat-like, he rose into a crouch and stole across the camp site towards the dozing figure of Horace.

Horace came awake in panic as he felt something whip over his head and then tighten inexorably around his throat, dragging him back away from the fire, cutting off his air and strangling any attempt he made to call out. He felt a knee in his back as Bacari used it to gain extra purchase, straining backwards on the garrotte and pulling Horace's head back so that he was off balance and unable to struggle effectively.

Too late, Horace realised what was happening and tried to force his fingers under the cord, between it and his neck. But it was already biting too deep and set too securely and there was no way he could relieve the dreadful pressure.

He looked desperately at the three sleeping figures around the camp fire. Will was exhausted, he knew. There was little chance that he would hear any sound. Malcolm wasn't attuned to this sort of life. He couldn't expect help from that quarter either. And Halt, of course, was still sleeping off the effects of the poison.

Even the horses were too far away to notice anything amiss. They had wandered further in the copse of trees, looking for grass. Besides, Ranger horses were trained to warn of danger and movement coming from without, not within.

He tried to call out but could manage only a small awkward croak. The minute he did so, the noose around his neck tightened even further and he started to black out as his body and brain were starved of oxygen.

His struggles, already ineffectual, weakened further and as Bacari felt it happen, he increased his pressure. Horace felt he was looking down a long tunnel now. He could see the camp site as if he were looking through a circular hole, where the outer edges were black and impenetrable. His lungs cried out for air and he plucked feebly at the cord around his neck. Too late, he thought to thrash out with his legs to make some sort of noise. But he was too weak to accomplish anything more than a feeble movement.

Horrified, he realised he was dying. The horror was mixed with a senseless fury as he realised it was Bacari who would kill him. It was galling to think that the assassin would triumph over him after all.

'Will!'

The shout rang through the trees. For a moment, Bacari was taken by surprise and the pressure on Horace's windpipe relaxed. Horace gasped and shuddered, managing to drag in one short breath before the noose tightened again. Who had called? It was a familiar voice. He tried to place it, then, as he blacked out, he realised who it had been.

It was Halt.

Years of training and experience had asserted themselves with Halt. Something had alerted him. Some slight noise, perhaps. Or maybe it was something less definable: some sixth sense of danger, developed over the years, that sent a warning to his brain that all was not well. He raised himself on one elbow and saw the dim figures struggling, just outside the circle of firelight. He tried to stand, realised he was too weak to help and forced all his remaining strength into one agonised shout to his apprentice.

Then fell back, defeated by the effort.

Exhausted, depleted, in the deepest possible sleep as he might be, Will's own training came to the fore. The call penetrated through the fog of sleep and, before he was fully awake, he rolled out of the blankets, springing to his feet, his saxe knife sliding free of the scabbard at his side.

He too saw the figures on the ground and he started towards them. But now Bacari released his grip on the garrotte and shoved Horace's limp body aside, reaching down to pluck the broad-bladed dagger from Horace's scabbard as he did so.

Dagger forward, held low in a classic knife fighter's stance, he moved towards Will. He assessed the situation quickly. Malcolm was no danger. So far, the healer hadn't even stirred. Horace was dead or unconscious, Bacari wasn't sure which. But either way, he would take no hand in this fight.

There was only Will, facing him with that large knife he wore at his side. While Bacari was armed with Horace's broad-bladed dagger. The Genovesan smiled. He was an expert knife fighter. Will's weapon might be a little longer, but the Genovesan could see from his stance that the Ranger was no expert at knife fighting and his knife skills would be no match for Bacari's own lightning sweeps, thrusts and reverse slashes – techniques that he had practised for years and perfected in the cut-throat, crowded towns of Genovese.

He shuffled forward, watching the Ranger's eyes. There was a light of uncertainty in them. Roused suddenly from sleep, Will was still slightly confused and unready for combat. His system would be flooding with adrenalin, his pulse racing. This was why Bacari had waited, breathing deeply, before he had launched his attack on Horace. He wanted to make sure that he was ready. That his nerves were settled and his reactions sharp.

Will, for his part, backed away. He saw the confidence in Bacari's eyes and realised he was facing an expert. The assassin had trained and practised with the dagger for years, just as Will had trained with the bow. And he knew his own limitations in this sort of fight.

The thought remained unfinished as Bacari suddenly slid forward with amazing speed. He feinted high with the dagger, and as Will went to parry the knife, he flicked it to his other hand and slashed low, opening a tear in Will's jacket, just scraping the skin as Will leapt desperately back out of reach.

Will felt warm blood trickling down his ribs. His reactions and speed had saved him that time. Just.

But the switch of hands had nearly caught him. Bacari was incredibly fast. It was like trying to parry a striking snake with his saxe – a snake that could switch direction in a heartbeat. He could try a throw, of course. But he had seen the Genovesan's speed and he knew he would probably be able to avoid a thrown saxe knife.

Bacari slid forward again, this time slashing with the knife in his left hand, and again Will was forced to leap back to avoid him. The movement gave Bacari time to switch back to his right hand and he attacked once more, thrusting first, then describing a bewildering series of high and low slashes and thrusts, lightning fast and perfectly controlled, so that he never left himself exposed to a return strike from Will.

Will remembered the last time he had faced this man, on the grassland, knowing that he couldn't afford to kill him. Then as that thought came, a strange sense of resolve followed it.

Bacari was before him now, on the balls of his feet, poised and ready to strike again. He began a dazzling succession of movements, switching the knife from one hand to the other, tossing and catching it like a juggler, forcing Will's attention to switch constantly from left to right, distracting him from the moment when the final attack would come.

Will switched the saxe to his left hand. The moment he did, Bacari tossed the dagger back to his right. And laughed.

'You're not very good at this,' he said.

'I used to watch a man who…' Will began and then, without warning or hesitating in his speech, he threw the saxe left-handed, an underarm spinning throw.

It was an old trick Halt had taught him years ago. When you're overmatched, deception and distraction are your best friends. Begin to speak. Say anything. Your opponent will expect you to finish the statement, but act before you do. Chances are, you'll catch him napping.

But Bacari knew the trick too. He had used it himself, many times. And now he simply stepped to one side and the saxe went spinning past him. He laughed.

He was still laughing when Will's throwing knife, drawn and thrown the moment the saxe had left his hand, buried itself in his heart. He looked down and saw it for a fraction of a second before his sight went black and his legs collapsed underneath him.

'I don't need you alive any more,' Will said coldly. Forty-one The small red deer bent its head to the grass to eat. Then some instinct warned it and the head came up again, the large ears twitching to catch any faint sound, the nose quivering for any scent of danger. Its senses told it that danger lay to the left, downwind, and it began to turn its head in that direction.

It was the last move it would make. The arrow came out of nowhere, hissing through the air and burying its razor-sharp broadhead in the animal's heart. With a low grunt of surprise, it tried to gather its hind legs under it to spring away. But there was no strength left in them and the little animal buckled to the grass.

Will rose from concealment, pushing back the cowl of his cloak. After so long on the road, they were short of food. The deer would give them fresh meat and strips to dry over the fire as well. He felt a faint sense of regret at having to kill the beautiful animal, but knew it was necessary.

Quickly, he field-dressed the deer where it lay. He whistled and Tug appeared from a clump of trees a hundred metres away, trotting towards him. He looked at the deer, which they had been stalking for over two hours.

It's not very big. Is that the best you could do?

'No sense killing more meat than we need,' Will told him. But he could see the little horse was unconvinced. He tied the deer's carcass behind the saddle and mounted up for the ride back to their camp in the trees.

Two days had passed since his final confrontation with Bacari. In that time, he had been amazed by the speed of Halt's recovery. The grey-bearded Ranger was still weak, of course. That was a result of the after-effects of the strain the poison had placed upon his body, and the fact that for several days he had eaten little but a few mouthfuls of broth.

But the fever, the disorientation, the morbid swelling and discolouration of his arm were all long gone. He was his old self again, and chafing to be back on the road.

In this matter, Malcolm had objected.

'You need rest. Complete rest for at least four days. Otherwise, you're likely to have a relapse,' he told Halt, in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

Of course, Will knew, Halt would have argued in any other situation, regardless of Malcolm's tone of voice. But he seemed to be deferring to Malcolm's judgement, at least for the time being.

There was another problem that had been weighing on Will's mind. He felt he should escort Malcolm back to Grimsdell. The healer's work was finished here and Will knew he had other responsibilities back in the dark forest that he called home. The road to Macindaw was an uncertain one, through wild, potentially dangerous territory, and Will felt an obligation to see Malcolm safely home. After all, he thought, the little healer had no weapons skills and his field craft was virtually nonexistent. But to do so would only delay their pursuit of Tennyson even longer.

It was Malcolm who solved the problem when Will had tentatively raised the subject with him.

'I'm coming with you,' he said simply.

That possibility hadn't occurred to Will. He stopped, a little surprised. Then he saw several problems with the idea.

'But Malcolm, it's going to be dangerous…'

The healer's lip curled. 'Oh deary, deary me,' he said, in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice. 'I'm so frightened. Perhaps I should throw my apron over my head and burst into tears.'

Will made a placating gesture, realising that his remark could have been taken as insulting. Realising, in fact, that it had been taken as insulting.

'That's not what I meant,' he began and Malcolm seized on his words.

'Oh? So you mean it's not going to be dangerous? Then there's no problem if I come along, is there?'

'No. I meant… I mean, I'm not questioning your courage…'

'I'm glad to hear it,' Malcolm said coldly. 'Exactly what are you questioning then?'

'Look, it's just…' Will paused, aware that he should choose his words carefully. He hadn't seen this acerbic side of Malcolm's nature before. He didn't want to make him angry again. Malcolm gestured for him to continue. 'I mean, we'll probably have to fight them and you're not…' Malcolm's brows drew together. Will had always thought of the little man as bird-like. Now, with those drawn brows, balding head and beaked nose, he looked positively vulturine.

'What, precisely, am I not?' he asked. Will was beginning to wish he had never begun this conversation but it was too late now to go back.

'I mean to say… you're not a warrior, are you?' It was weak, he knew. But Malcolm could hardly dispute the fact.

'So you're worried that I'll be a burden to you?' Malcolm asked. 'You'll have to look after me when the fighting starts?'

'No!' Will said. But he said it too quickly. In fact, that was exactly what he was worried about. Malcolm said nothing for a few seconds, simply raised one eyebrow in disbelief. Will found himself wishing that people would stop using that facial expression. It was becoming overdone.

'May I remind you,' Malcolm said finally, ' that I have been known to reduce a big, brave, famous Ranger to a state of near-gibbering terror?'

'Well, that's a bit rich,' Will said hotly. 'I certainly wasn't gibbering!'

'You weren't far from it,' Malcolm pointed out and Will's mind flashed back to that night in Grimsdell Wood, where voices spoke to him out of the dark, threatening and warning him. And where a gigantic figure suddenly towered over him in the mist. He had to admit Malcolm was right. He hadn't been far from it.

'Look, Will,' Malcolm continued, in a more conciliatory tone, 'I'm not a warrior, that's true. But I've survived in a hostile world for quite a few years. I have methods of my own. And there's another point. There's Halt.'

He saw that got Will's attention. The young Ranger's head came up, a worried look on his face, as if he suddenly feared that Malcolm had been hiding something about Halt's condition.

'Halt? What about him? He's all right now, isn't he?'

Malcolm raised his hand to allay Will's concern.

'He's fine. He's doing very well. But he is weak still. And from what I've seen of him, he's going to want to start out after this Tennyson person much sooner than he should. Am I right?'

Will hesitated. He didn't want to be disloyal to Halt, but he sensed that Malcolm was spot on.

'Yes. Probably,' he admitted.

Malcolm nodded several times. 'Just so. Well, he's a patient of mine. And I feel a sense of responsibility to him. I'm not going to ride off and let him undo all my good work. I need to be with you to keep an eye on him.'

Will considered what he had said for some time. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Finally, he nodded.

'All right,' he said. Then he smiled. 'I'll be glad to have you along.'

Malcolm smiled in return. 'I promise you, Will, I can look after myself. And who knows? I might even surprise you and make myself useful.'

For the past few days, when he wasn't checking on Halt, Malcolm had taken himself away from the camp site and built a small fire. He busied himself mixing and boiling potions and drying them out in the sun and over hot rocks to form a brownish powdery residue. As he worked, an acrid smell rose from the chemicals. Whenever Will asked him what he was doing, the little man had smiled enigmatically.

'Just making myself useful, that's all,' he would reply.

From time to time, the others would be startled by the sound of small explosions from the fireplace where Malcolm worked. The first time this happened, they rushed to see if he was all right. He waved them away cheerfully.

'Nothing to worry about,' he said to them. 'I'm just working with a new compound based on iodine powder. It's a little volatile and I have to get the mixture just right.'

Eventually, they had become used to these interruptions in their day, and the explosions grew less and less frequent as Malcolm apparently refined his formula.

Now, riding back to the camp, Will heard a more familiar sound and he frowned slightly.

It was the deep-throated thrum of a powerful longbow being released. And not just any longbow. He followed the sound, diverting slightly from the path to the copse of trees where they had sited their camp. Again he heard the thrumming sound, followed a few seconds later by a solid SMACK!

There was a slight depression in the ground, lined by alder trees, and the sound seemed to be coming from that direction. He rode towards it and, as he crested the slight rise above the depression, saw Halt. He had his massive longbow in his hand and as Will watched he nocked an arrow, drew and released almost immediately, without even seeming to take aim. Will followed the black streak of the arrow through the air and heard it smack into a small pine log, standing upright, about eighty metres away. There were three other arrows jutting from the soft wood, grouped so closely together that a man's hand could have covered them all.

'You're dropping the bow hand as you release,' he called, although Halt certainly wasn't.

His mentor looked around, saw him and replied pithily, 'I believe your grandmother needs lessons in sucking eggs.'

He turned back to his practice and dispatched another three arrows in the blink of an eye, all of them thudding into that same small section of pine log.

'Not bad,' Will was forced to concede.

Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Not bad? You should do so well.' He gestured at the deer slung behind Tug's saddle. 'Been hunting?'

Will nodded. 'We need meat.'

Halt snorted softly. 'Won't get much off that. Couldn't you find something bigger? It's barely the size of a large squirrel.'

Will frowned and glanced back at the carcass behind him.

'It's big enough,' he said. 'Why shoot anything bigger?'

Halt considered that, leaning on his bow and nodding several times. Then he asked:

'Did you see anything bigger?'

'Well, no. I didn't,' Will admittedly. 'But there's plenty of meat here for four people.'

Halt smiled. 'Three people and Horace?'

Will pursed his lips thoughtfully. Halt had a definite point, he realised. 'I hadn't thought of that.' And, of course, Tug chose that moment to toss his head and shake his mane. I told you so.

Everyone seemed to be conspiring to belittle his efforts, so he decided to change the subject. He nodded towards the pine log, now bristling with arrows.

'Any reason for all this practice?' he asked.

Halt shrugged. 'Wanted to make sure I had the strength to draw my bow,' he said. 'Apparently, I do.'

Halt's bow was one of the heaviest Will had seen. Years of practice had built up the bearded Ranger's arm and back muscles to the point where he could draw it without any seeming effort. Yet Will had seen strong men who, lacking the correct technique and specific muscle development, were unable to bring it past half draw. Seeing the speed and accuracy with which Halt had been sending his shafts thudding into the log, Will realised that Halt was right. His strength was back.

'Are we moving out?' he asked.

Halt nodded. 'Tomorrow at first light. Time we saw what Tennyson is up to.'

'Malcolm thinks you need another two days' rest,' Will said.

Halt's eyebrows lowered into a glare. He and Malcolm had already had words on this matter. In fact, it was the reason why Halt had come out here to test himself. He had been worried that perhaps Malcolm might have been right.

'Malcolm doesn't know everything,' he said shortly.

Will couldn't help grinning. 'And you do?'

'Of course I do,' Halt replied shortly. 'That's a well-known fact.' Forty-two Tennyson looked around the camp site and nodded contentedly. For several days, converts to the Outsiders cult had been coming into the camp. Now that they were gathered, he was ready to move in and whip them into a state of religious frenzy so that they would be ready to hand over their gold and valuables to him – just as they had done in Hibernia. It was a task in which he excelled.

The numbers were smaller here, of course. But they would be enough to provide him with enough booty for a fresh start somewhere else. Hibernia and Araluen were becoming increasingly dangerous for him and he planned to escape to a new location. He hadn't told his followers that he was planning to take the valuables they collected and abscond with them. They all assumed that he would begin rebuilding the Outsiders cult here in northern Araluen. And he was content to let them continue thinking that. He felt no loyalty towards the people who followed him.

As he had that thought, he frowned, wondering what had become of the Genovesan, Bacari. It had been days now since the mercenary had reported in. He knew that the leader of his pursuers had been fatally injured in the confrontation in the drowned forest. Bacari had seen him wounded by a poisoned bolt, and he was definite in his assurances that there was no way the cloaked stranger could survive that wound. That was good news. The other two were little more than boys and Tennyson was confident that without their leader, they would soon become discouraged, give the pursuit away and return to wherever it was they had come from. The fact that there had been no sign of them for the past few days seemed to confirm the idea. He knew they had been close on his heels for weeks. Now they had simply disappeared.

Perhaps Bacari had killed them – and been killed himself in a final confrontation with them. That was a possibility. More likely, he thought, the Genovesan had simply slipped away and left the country. After all, he had seen two of his compatriots killed and mercenaries like him had only one loyalty – to money. It was unlikely that he would continue to fight for Tennyson when he knew he was outnumbered and outmatched. But he had served his purpose. He had killed the leader of Tennyson's pursuers and, one way or another, caused the other two to abandon their pursuit. And this way, there was no need for Tennyson to pay him the final instalment of the fee he had been promised.

All in all, he thought, it had turned out well. The last of the local converts had arrived at the camp that morning. Tomorrow, he would break camp here and move them to the cave complex that had been picked out for the purpose. He would inflame them and excite them, as he had done with so many simple country folk before them, and convince them to contribute their gold and jewels to build another altar to Alseiass. Then, when the time was right, he would quietly slip away with it.

With the last of the Genovesans dead, Halt expressed his doubt that Tennyson would send anyone else back to spy on them or monitor their progress. In fact, he hoped that the preacher would assume they had given up the chase.

'After all,' he told them while they were preparing to leave the camp site, 'Bacari will have told him that he hit me with a poisoned bolt. And since Tennyson knows nothing about Malcolm here, he probably thinks that I'm dead.'

'Horace and I could still be following him,' Will pointed out.

Halt looked doubtful. 'Possibly. But he knows you're both young. And he doesn't know you as well as I do. Chances are, he will have seen me as the real threat.'

'I don't know whether to be insulted by that or not,' Horace said. Halt grinned easily at him.

'As I said, he doesn't know you as well as I do. He's an arrogant man and he'll probably think you're too young to offer any threat to him. But just in case,' he said, looking at Will, 'you'd better take the point.'

Will nodded. It was never wise to assume too much. He touched Tug's ribs with his heels and galloped ahead to scout the way. He reined in when he was about four hundred metres ahead and maintained that distance.

Malcolm, who was riding double with Horace, watched the distant figure as he scouted the land ahead of them, quartering back and forth to make sure there was no one waiting in ambush to either side of the trail they were following. Will reminded the healer of a hound, questing for a scent.

'He's a remarkable young man,' he said to Halt and he saw the small glow of pride in the bearded Ranger's eyes as he turned in his saddle to reply.

'The best,' he said briefly.

'You've known him how long?' Malcolm asked.

'Since he was a small boy. I first noticed him when he slipped into Master Chubb's kitchen to steal some pies.'

'Master Chubb?' Malcolm asked.

Halt grinned at the memory of that day. 'He's the chef at Castle Redmont. A formidable man, wouldn't you say, Horace?'

Horace grinned in his turn. 'He's deadly with his wooden ladle,' he said. 'Fast and accurate. And very painful. I once suggested that he should give ladle-whacking lessons to Battleschool students.'

'You were joking, of course?' Malcolm said.

Horace looked thoughtful before he replied. 'You know, not entirely.'

'So,' Malcolm said, turning back to Halt, 'what did you have to say to Will when you caught him stealing these pies – and apparently risking life and limb to do so?'

'Oh, I didn't let on that I was there. We Rangers can be very unobtrusive when we choose,' he said with mock modesty. 'I remained out of sight and watched him. I thought then that he had potential to be a Ranger.'

Malcolm nodded. But an anomaly in the sequence of the story had Horace frowning thoughtfully.

'Why?' he asked Halt.

Halt looked quickly at him. Something in Horace's tone set off alarms in his mind. Horace lately had a tendency to ask awkward questions, he thought. He answered carefully.

'Why? Because he was excellent at moving from cover to cover and remaining unseen. Chubb came into the room three times and never noticed him. So I thought, if he could manage that without formal training, he'd make a good Ranger.'

'No,' said Horace deliberately, 'that wasn't what I meant. I meant, why did you remain unseen? Why were you hiding in the kitchen in the first place?'

'I told you,' Halt said, with an edge to his voice, 'I was watching Will to see if he might have the potential to be a Ranger. So I didn't want him to see that I was watching.'

'That's not what you said,' Horace replied. A little furrow had formed between his eyebrows.

'Yes. It is.' Halt's answers were becoming shorter and shorter. Malcolm leaned back behind Horace's broad form to hide a smile. Halt's tone indicated that he no longer wanted to discuss this matter. But Horace wasn't inclined to give up.

'No. You said, when Malcolm asked, that this was the first time you'd noticed Will. So you couldn't have gone to the kitchen to see what he was going to get up to. You hadn't noticed him before that day. That's what you said,' he added, driving his point home.

'That's true. You did say that,' Malcolm chipped in helpfully and was rewarded with a glare from Halt.

'Does it matter?' Halt asked.

Horace shrugged. 'Not really, I suppose. I just wondered why you'd gone to the kitchen and why you took the trouble to remain unseen. Were you hiding from Master Chubb yourself? And Will just turned up by coincidence?'

'And why would I be hiding from Master Chubb in his own kitchen?' Halt challenged. Again, Horace shrugged innocently.

'Well, there was a tray of freshly made pies airing on the windowsill, wasn't there? And you're quite fond of pies, aren't you, Halt?'

Halt drew himself up very straight in the saddle. 'Are you accusing me, Horace? Is that it? Are you accusing me of sneaking into that kitchen to steal the pies for myself?'

His voice and body language simply reeked of injured dignity.

'Of course not, Halt!' Horace hurried to assure him, and Halt's stiff-shouldered form relaxed a little.

'I just thought I'd give you the opportunity to confess,' Horace added. This time, Malcolm couldn't conceal his sudden explosion of laughter. Halt gave them both a withering glance.

'You know, Horace,' he said, at length, 'you used to be a most agreeable young man. Whatever happened to you?'

Horace turned a wide grin on him. 'I've spent too much time around you, I suppose,' he said.

And Halt had to admit that was probably true.

Later that day, they reached the spot where Will had fought with Bacari. Will signalled for them to stop before they crested the final ridge, then he and Halt crept forward to survey the ground ahead.

The camp site that he had seen previously was now deserted.

'They've moved on,' Will said, and Halt rested his weight on his elbows, chewing a blade of grass thoughtfully.

'Wherever it is they're going,' he agreed. 'How many would you say there were?'

Will considered his answer for a few seconds before replying.

'It was quite a big camp,' he said. 'I'd say up to a hundred people.'

They rose and walked back down the slight slope to where Horace and Malcolm were preparing a quick meal of cold meat, fruit and bread.

'Is there time to make coffee?' Horace asked.

Halt nodded. 'There's always time for coffee.' He sat down by the small fire that Horace had built and glanced at Malcolm. He liked the healer and knew he had a good, analytical head on his shoulders.

'Tennyson's party has joined up with a larger group,' he said. 'What would you make of that?'

Malcolm paused thoughtfully. 'From what you've told me about his methods, I'd say the bulk of them are probably converts to his "religion" – people who've been living in this area.'

'That's what I thought. He usually has twenty or so in his inner circle – the ones who know the whole religion is a fake. They run things for him. They collect the money. But the bulk of his followers are gullible country folk, who actually believe his brand of nonsense.'

'But where would they have come from, Halt?' Horace asked. 'I thought you and Crowley destroyed the Outsiders movement in Araluen?'

Halt shook his head. 'We did our best. We got rid of the hierarchy. But you can never stamp these cults out entirely. They'll move into remote areas like this and recruit the locals. He's probably had agents in this area for the past six months or so – just the way he was doing in Selsey.'

'And it would have been a simple matter to send a messenger ahead to arrange that rendezvous point in the valley,' Will put in.

'Exactly. And now he's gathering his people together for another push. They'll keep recruiting, then when they have the numbers, they'll move on to the next area – just as they did in Hibernia.' Halt shook his head angrily. 'They're like vermin! You stamp them out in one place and they rise up again in another.'

Malcolm nodded. 'It's interesting, isn't it, how people are so ready to believe these charlatans? You realise you'll have to do more than just stamp this group out, don't you?'

Halt looked up at him. He had a good idea what the balding little healer was talking about.

'How's that?' he asked.

Malcolm pursed his lips and leaned forward, idly poking a stick into the glowing coals of the fire.

'If people believe in him, if they've accepted the line of claptrap he's peddling, it won't be enough to take him prisoner and put him on trial. Or even kill him, if that's what you had in mind.'

Halt nodded wearily. 'I know,' he said. 'A public trial would give him the forum he needs. And if he dies, he'll become a martyr. Either way, another person will step up to take his place and build on the doubt and uncertainty that he's raised in people's minds. It'll be one long repeating cycle.'

'Exactly,' Malcolm agreed. 'So there's only one course for you to follow. You have to discredit him. You have to prove to these followers of his that he is a cheat and a liar and a thief.'

'We managed to do it in Clonmel,' Horace said.

'We caught him unawares there, with the legend of the Sunrise Warrior. And we tricked him into pinning everything on trial by combat. He won't fall for that again. This time, we'll have to do something new. Something he's not expecting.'

'Like what?' Will asked and Halt gave that tired smile again.

'When I think of it, you'll be the first to know.' Forty-three The abandoned camp told them little that they didn't already know. They walked through the areas of flattened grass where tents had been pitched, inspected the blackened circles left by a score of small cook fires and examined the small items that had been discarded or forgotten – a shoe here with a broken strap and holes in the underside that were past repairing, a rusted cook pot, a broken knife. And, of course, food scraps and garbage that had been hastily buried and dug up once more by foxes after the people had left.

The ground was soft and there were still footprints in evidence round the camp. These showed that a reasonable proportion of the people who had stopped here had been women.

'All the more reason to believe these are converts,' Halt said.

Malcolm agreed, but raised a further point. 'Still, women or not, a hundred people is rather a large handful for the four of us to take on. Do you have any ideas how we're going to handle that task?'

'Simple,' Halt told him. 'We'll surround them.'

And he said it with such a straight face that, for a moment, Malcolm actually thought he was serious.

There was one item of interest to be found and that was the direction Tennyson and his newly augmented band of followers had taken when they broke camp and departed. After several weeks of travelling consistently to the southeast, Tennyson now swung to the left, heading due east. The small party gathered round Halt as he unfolded his chart of the area. He indicated a range of hills marked on the map, a day's journey away to the east.

'Looks as if he's heading for these hills – as we thought.'

Horace, craning to read the map over his shoulder, read the notation on the map where Halt was pointing. 'Caves,' he said.

Halt looked up and nodded. 'Those old sandstone cliffs and hills will be honeycombed with them, according to what it says here.'

Malcolm asked to see the map and when Halt handed it over he studied it for some minutes, tracing a path with his finger here, frowning as he read a notation there. Finally, he looked up at Halt.

'This is quite amazing,' he said. 'There's so much detail here. How did you come by this?'

Halt smiled and took the map back and folded it carefully.

'It's part of what the Ranger Corps does,' he told the healer. 'For the past twenty-five years or so, we've kept ourselves busy updating maps of the Kingdom. Each Ranger is responsible for his own area of operations and we send updated charts to Crowley each year. He has them copied and distributed.'

Malcolm nodded. 'Ah yes, I know Crowley. He contacted me shortly after Will spent time with us. He was interested to know more about my healing practices.'

'He said he was going to do that,' Will put in. He remembered telling Halt and Crowley about Malcolm during his debriefing session. They were interested in the healer's medical skills – and the other skills of deception and illusion that he had demonstrated. Knowing Malcolm, Will had been confident that he would share his medical skills with them, but not the other skills, which were his alone.

'In any event,' Halt said, bringing matters back to the present, 'I'd wager this is where Tennyson is heading.'

'Yes,' Malcolm agreed. 'If he's planning to set up a headquarters and add to his band of followers, a nice cave complex would be as good a place as any.'

'Well, standing here isn't going to get us any closer to him,' Halt said. 'We've given him too much of a lead already.'

He strode back to where Abelard waited for him and mounted quickly. Then he waited impatiently while the others followed his example. Will noticed him fidgeting with his reins as he watched Malcolm make two unsuccessful attempts to mount behind Horace.

'For god's sake, Horace,' Halt finally cried out. 'Can't you just haul him up behind you?'

'Take it easy,' Will said softly.

Halt looked at him quickly, then gave him a shamefaced smile. 'Sorry,' he said. 'It's just that after all these delays, I'm anxious to catch up with him.'

But it was that very anxiety and eagerness to close with Tennyson that eventually let him down. Halt was pushing himself too hard. Under normal circumstances, he would have had no trouble keeping up to the pace he was setting. But he wasn't fully recovered from the effects of the poison, or the days lying close to death in his blankets. Halt had used up a large part of his natural energy reserves and it would take more than a day or two to restore them.

That evening, when they camped, he slid from the saddle and stood, head bowed and exhausted. When Will went to unsaddle and water Abelard, he offered only token resistance.

Will and Horace took care of the minor chores, gathering firewood, building the fire and preparing the meal. Horace even set out Halt's bedroll and blankets for him, laying them out on a small pile of leafy branches that he gathered together. Halt reacted with surprise when he saw it.

'Thanks, Horace,' he said, touched by the young warrior's concern for him.

Horace shrugged. 'Think nothing of it.'

They noticed that when the meal was done, and after the obligatory cups of coffee, Halt didn't linger round the camp fire talking, as he would usually do. He took himself off to his bedroll and slept soundly.

'The sleep of the exhausted,' Malcolm said wryly, eyeing the still figure.

'Is he all right?' Will asked anxiously.

'He's fine, so far as the poison is concerned. But he's working himself too hard. He doesn't have the strength to keep this pace up. See if you can get him to ease up a little.' He knew that if the suggestion came from Will, there was more chance that Halt might take heed. Will wasn't so sure.

'I'll try,' he said.

But the following morning, refreshed by a long night's sleep, Halt wasn't in any mood to take things easily. He fussed and fretted while they had breakfast and packed up their camp. Then he mounted Abelard and set out at a cracking pace.

By eleven that morning, he was swaying in the saddle, his face grey with fatigue, his shoulders slumped. Will rode up beside him, leaned over and seized Abelard's reins, bringing the little horse to a stop. Halt shook himself out of the exhausted daze that had claimed him and looked around in surprise.

'What are you doing?' he asked. 'Let go of my reins!' He tried to pull the reins out of Will's grip but the young Ranger held firm. Abelard neighed in consternation, sensing that all wasn't well with his master.

'Halt, you have to slow down,' Will told him.

'Slow down? Don't talk such nonsense! I'm fine. Now give me back those reins.' Halt tried again to pull the reins from Will's grasp but realised with some surprise that he couldn't break his former apprentice's grip. Abelard, sensing the tension between them, neighed nervously. Then he shook his mane and turned his head so that he could look Halt in the eye. That was something else that surprised Halt. Normally, if someone had grabbed hold of his reins, Abelard would have reacted violently against them. Instead, in this confrontation, he seemed to be taking Will's side.

That, more than anything else, made Halt feel that perhaps Will was right. Perhaps he hadn't recovered as fully as he thought. Time was that he would have shaken off the effects of the poisoning in a matter of a few hours. But perhaps that time was behind him. For the first time, Halt had a sense of his own limitations.

At Malcolm's urging, Horace brought Kicker up alongside Abelard, on the other side to Tug and Will.

'Will's right,' he said. 'You're pushing too hard. If you keep this up, you'll have a relapse.'

'And that will lose more time than if you simply take a little time to recover now,' Malcolm put in. Halt glared from one to the other.

'What is this?' he asked. 'Are you all conspiring against me? Even my horse?'

It was the last three words that made Will smile. 'We figured you mightn't listen to a healer, a Ranger or a knight of the realm,' he said. 'But if your horse agreed with them, you'd have no choice but to pay attention.'

In spite of himself, Halt couldn't help the faintest hint of a smile touching his own mouth. He tried to hide it but the corners of his mouth twitched defiantly. He realised, when he considered the position honestly, that his friends weren't urging him to rest in order to annoy him. They were doing so because they cared about him and they were worried about him. And he realised that he respected their judgement enough to admit that perhaps they might be right and he might be wrong. And there were very few people who could bring Halt to admit that.

'Halt, you need to rest. If you'll just stop being stubborn and admit it, we'll make better time in the long run. Stay here for a day, get your strength back. Horace and I can push on ahead and scout the situation. If you're right, Tennyson will have set up at these caves. So there's no rush any more to catch up with him.'

Will's tone was reasonable, not argumentative, and he saw from Halt's body language that he was on the brink of giving in. Seeing that he needed just one more mental shove, Will provided it, invoking the ultimate authority in the bearded Ranger's world.

'You know Lady Pauline would agree with me,' he said.

Halt's head jerked up at the name. 'Pauline? What does she have to do with this situation?'

Will held his gaze steadily. 'If you continue the way you are, I'll have to go back and face her, and tell her I failed in the task she set me.'

Halt opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him. He closed his mouth again, realising how foolish he must look. Will seized the opportunity to continue.

'And if you continue like this, and run yourself into the ground, I'm not going to have the nerve to face her.'

Halt considered that statement and slowly nodded his head. He could understand Will's sentiments there.

'No,' he said thoughtfully, 'I shouldn't imagine you would.' Then, to Malcolm's surprise, Halt slowly dismounted.

'Well,' he said mildly, 'perhaps I should rest up for a day or so. I wouldn't want to overdo things.' He looked around, saw a small grove of trees a few metres away from the track they had been following and nodded towards them. 'I suppose that's as good a place to camp as any.'

Will and Horace exchanged relieved glances. Before Halt could change his mind, they dismounted and began to set up camp. Halt, now that he had given in to their concerns, decided he might as well take advantage of the situation. He found a fallen tree and sat down by it, resting his back against it and letting out a small sigh.

'I'll start getting my strength back straight away,' he told them, a satisfied smile on his face.

Horace shook his head as he and Will he began to gather stones for a fireplace.

'Even when he gives in, he has to have the last word, doesn't he?' he said.

Will smiled in reply. 'Every time.' But he felt a sense of relief that Halt was willing to stop pushing himself to the limit.

Malcolm, on the other hand, was intrigued to learn more about the person whose name could bring Halt to such a state of meek compliance. He sidled up to Will as the young man was unstrapping his camping equipment from Tug's saddle.

'This Lady Pauline,' he began, 'she must be a fearful person. She sounds like a terrible sorceress.' His face was deadpan but Will sensed the underlying amusement and replied in kind.

'She's very slim and beautiful. But she has amazing power. Some time ago, she convinced Halt to have a haircut for their wedding.'

Malcolm, who had noticed Halt's decidedly slapdash hair styling, raised his eyebrows.

'A sorceress indeed.' Forty-four There were still some hours of daylight left for travel. So after a quick meal, Will and Horace remounted and pushed on after the Outsiders.

Sensing that in the days to come he would have a need for concealment, Horace was now eager to experiment with the camouflage cloak that Halt had given him. This became a source of some annoyance for Will as they followed the trail through the tree-covered dales. From time to time, when they were passing small clumps of trees or bushes, Horace would rein in Kicker beside them, pull his cowl forward, wrap the cloak around himself and attempt to sit without any movement.

'Can you see me now?' he would ask.

Sighing, Will would pretend to search for him, thinking that his friend, the foremost knight in the Kingdom of Araluen, a warrior who would be feared and respected on any battlefield, was behaving like an overgrown child with a new toy.

'I can just make you out,' he would say through gritted teeth. At which Horace would ride a few metres further away and repeat his 'freezing in place' exercise.

'How about now?' he would ask expectantly. Knowing that if he didn't provide the answer Horace wanted to hear they would go through this procedure another half dozen times, Will would nod his head slowly, as if in wonder.

'Amazing,' he would say. 'If I didn't know you were there…' He paused, looking for a way to end that statement, and finished, rather lamely, 'I wouldn't know you were there.'

Which, in itself was true, although if Horace had analysed the statement in any depth, he might have realised that Will had effectively said nothing. But it seemed to satisfy him for the time being.

Shortly before nightfall, Will was intently studying the tracks left by the Outsiders. Even though he felt relatively safe following them, it didn't hurt to keep a careful watch for any sign of an ambush. And with the failing light, he had to concentrate a little harder. He had dismounted to look more closely at several signs when he was interrupted by yet another questioning call from Horace.

'Will?'

Without turning towards him, Will replied, through slightly gritted teeth, 'Yes, Horace?'

'Can you see me now?'

'No. I can't see you at all, Horace,' Will said, continuing to check on a line of footprints that led away from the trail, through the grass and behind a leafy bush. A few seconds' examination showed that the diversion and subsequent concealment had been for personal hygiene reasons, rather than any sinister intent.

'You're not looking.'

The voice was insistent. At the previous year's harvest festival on Seacliff Island, Will had watched a small child swinging enthusiastically on a wood and rope swing, set up in the play area, all the while shouting imperiously to her father, 'Daddy! Look at me! Look at me!'

He was reminded of that now as he turned to see Horace and Kicker, standing relatively motionless in front of a large, leafy bush.

'Horace,' he said wearily, 'you're sitting on top of a great big brown battlehorse. It's nearly two metres high and three metres long and it weighs a quarter of a tonne. Of course I can see you.'

Horace looked crestfallen. He glanced down at the massive form of Kicker, motionless beneath him. It was difficult for a battlehorse to remain inconspicuous, he realised.

'Oh,' he said, disappointment evident in his voice. 'But if Kicker weren't here? Could you see me then?'

'A little hard to answer, Horace,' Will said. 'Because Kicker is there and it's hard to ignore him. He sort of draws the eye, and that goes against the whole concept of camouflage and concealment, you see.'

Horace chewed his lip thoughtfully. Will couldn't resist the temptation.

'I saw that. You chewed your lip.'

Horace made an impatient gesture. He had considered that moment to be in the nature of a time-out.

'Saw that too,' Will said relentlessly. 'If you want to remain unseen, you have to avoid chewing your lip and waving your arm. And it's best if you don't sit on top of a whacking great battlehorse while you're doing it.'

'All right. I suppose so,' Horace said. There was a slight tone of annoyance in his voice. 'But if you use your imagination…'

'You want me to imagine Kicker isn't here?' Will asked him.

'That's right,' Horace replied, determined not to be put off by the sarcasm in Will's voice. 'If he wasn't here, could you see me then?'

Will suddenly had the sense that they could be here for hours. He sighed heavily. 'Well, if I imagine Kicker isn't here, then I would find it exceedingly difficult to see you, Horace.'

'Thought so,' Horace said, with a satisfied smile.

'Particularly since you'd appear to be floating two metres in the air,' Will continued in a mutter.

'What was that?' Horace asked suspiciously.

'I said you'd appear to be not anywhere,' Will said, thinking quickly, and Horace nodded, satisfied once more. Will thought it might be a good idea to change the subject.

'Let's push on for a few more hours before we stop for the night,' he suggested. Horace shrugged agreeably.

'Suits me,' he said. Then he added an afterthought, 'Are you sure you won't lose track of me? I could just disappear in the dark…'

'I'll do my best,' Will said.

Just for a moment, he wished his friend would disappear.

They had a cold camp that night and rose at dawn to continue. They were drawing closer to their quarry now – assuming that the cave complex was Tennyson's planned destination. Horace abandoned his light-hearted attempts at concealment and became far more businesslike in his approach.

It occurred to Will, as it had to Halt in recent times, that Horace might well have been engaging in a subtle piece of leg-pulling with all his 'Can you see me now?' antics. Horace had years of leg pulling and practical jokes to make up and Will had the uncomfortable suspicion that the tall warrior had been secretly chuckling to himself the day before.

The ground began to rise now as they found themselves heading for the line of hills. The trees were fewer and farther between and they moved carefully, conscious that there could be hidden watchers observing their approach.

But there was no sign that they had been seen and eventually the ground levelled out into a plateau, leading to the foot of the hills proper. The trees grew more thickly as the ground levelled out and the two friends reined in, concealed by the shadows of a large grove, surveying the open ground that remained before them. Just a few hundred metres distant, the hills rose into the sky, steep and forbidding, a natural barrier. There was no sign of Tennyson or any of his followers.

'Nobody here,' Horace muttered.

'Nobody we can see,' Will amended. He was peering closely at the base of the hills. The sun was sinking in the west and, even though it threw direct light on the hills, the irregular folds of the sandstone created patches of light and shade and several darker patches could well have marked the entrance to caves. Or they could have been just deeper shadows.

Will had a sudden concern that Tennyson hadn't stopped here after all. That he had continued, maybe climbing the hills through some as yet unseen pass and was now heading away on the far side of the ranges.

Yet, reason told him, the Outsider leader could have done that at any time in the past few weeks. He had headed specifically for this range, where, according to the map, there was a large number of caves. If he'd wanted to simply disappear into the east, he could have done so without the difficulty of having to find a way over the hills.

And now that he could see them, Will realised they were closer to cliffs than hills and finding a way across them would be difficult indeed.

Horace nudged him with his elbow. 'Smell that?'

Will raised his head and sniffed the air experimentally. He caught the very slightest scent of woodsmoke on the air. It was faint, but it was definitely there.

'They're here all right. They're starting to get dinner ready,' Horace said.

'But where?' Will asked, scanning the cliff faces once more. Then Horace touched his arm and pointed.

'Look,' he said. 'There's a tree growing at an angle from the face of the cliff – about ten metres up.' He waited until Will nodded that he could see it. Then he held his hand out at arm's length, squinting with one eye closed, and held up first one finger, then two, vertically.

Then he folded the second finger down again. 'To the left of the tree, about one and a half fingers, there's a cleft. In the rock.'

Will mimicked the action of holding the fingers up and sighting down them. It was a simple but effective way of providing directions and he soon saw the cleft Horace had spotted.

A thin grey ribbon of smoke issued from it. The faint breeze grabbed it almost immediately, and dissipated it. But it was there. And so, he realised, was Tennyson.

'They're in the caves,' he said, and Horace nodded.

'We're going to have to get closer to take a look,' Will said, scanning the ground in front of them. There was plenty of low cover, but not enough to conceal Tug and Kicker. 'We'll have to leave the horses here and push forward.'

'You're planning to go into the caves?' Horace said, his voice very level. Will glanced at him. Since they had been small children, Horace had disliked confined spaces. It was one of the reasons that he never wore a full face helmet, preferring the simple cone-shaped cap. When they were younger, Will had used the fact to escape him on numerous occasions.

'I'll need you to keep an eye on things outside,' he said and saw Horace's shoulder slump in relief.

'You're sure?' he asked. 'I'll come with you if you really need me.'

Will reached over and squeezed his shoulder. 'I appreciate the offer,' he said. 'But it'll be easier for me to move around inside without being seen.'

'All right then,' Horace said. 'I can't say I'm disappointed.'

'Besides,' Will couldn't resist saying. 'With your newfound camouflage skills, I'd probably lose you in there.' Forty-five They waited until late afternoon. Will knew the light was more uncertain and deceptive at that time. Then, leaving Tug and Kicker in the grove of trees, they stole forward. Horace was wearing the camouflage cloak but this was no time for joking and he listened intently as Will gave him some last-minute instructions.

'Keep the cowl up so your face is shaded,' he said. 'When we stop, lie perfectly still, keeping the cloak around you. Halt's old saying used to be trust the cloak. It'll conceal you.'

'What about my legs and feet?' Horace asked. As he was a good deal taller than Halt, more of his legs were exposed below the cloak. Will shook his head in a dismissive gesture.

'Don't worry about them. The cloak will conceal your body and people don't expect to see disembodied legs lying around. They see what they expect to see.'

Horace grinned. 'Is that more of Halt's wisdom?'

Will grinned in return, nodding his head.

'One other thing,' Will reminded him. It was something the tall warrior had heard before but it always bore repeating. 'If we're moving and someone appears, just freeze. Stand perfectly still. It's the movement -'

'That attracts attention and gets you seen.' Horace finished the statement. 'I know.'

'So long as you do. The temptation to try to hide is almost irresistible in that situation.'

They moved forward, Will taking the lead and slipping silently and almost invisibly through the uncertain light. He dropped behind an outcrop of rocks some thirty metres away from the trees and signalled Horace to follow. He watched the warrior for a few metres, then turned his attention to the hills ahead. Tennyson didn't seem to have any guards in place. But that didn't mean they weren't concealed somewhere. A part of his mind was impressed with the progress that Horace was making with his silent movement. He still made a certain amount of noise, of course. It took years of training to achieve the level of silence with which a Ranger could move. But he was surprisingly quiet and Will doubted that any casual listener in the vicinity would have realised that someone was moving through the grass. Horace slowly lowered himself into cover beside him. Will glanced at the face inside the folds of the cowl. He could feel the tension in Horace's body. The young warrior was concentrating fiercely on moving with minimal noise and visibility. Too fiercely, in fact.

'Relax a little. There's a tendency to make more noise if you're all tensed up,' Will told him in a lowered voice. 'You're doing fine. You're definitely getting the hang of this.'

He saw the brief flash of Horace's teeth, bared in a grin of pleasure.

'Think I'd make a Ranger?' he asked.

Will snorted derisively. 'Don't get ahead of yourself,' he said. Then he gestured towards the hills ahead of them. 'Come on.'

Moving carefully, in short increments, it took them over half an hour to reach the base of the hills. There, they found a jumble of rocks – sandstone mainly – which had fallen from higher up the slopes. There was plenty of cover and they settled in a cleft between two boulders, looking around to spot the entrance to one of the caves.

'See anything?' Will asked.

Horace shook his head. 'No. But I can still smell that smoke.'

They both looked up to the spot where they had seen smoke issuing from a cleft in the rocks. Now they could see nothing. But Horace was right. The smell of woodsmoke was still strong on the evening air.

Will surveyed the rocks and open ground around them. There was no sign of any human habitation. Finally, he leaned closer to Horace and whispered, 'You stay here and keep an eye on things. I'll see if I can find a way in.'

Horace nodded. He settled himself between two large boulders, placing himself so that he had a good field of vision yet stayed relatively concealed himself. His hand went to the sword at his side but he left it undrawn. If he needed it, he could have it out and ready in a heartbeat. Yet if he drew it now, the gleaming blade might reflect the dull light and give his position away.

Will ghosted forward until he reached the base of the cliffs. Flattening himself against the almost sheer rock, he edged along laterally. A large buttress of sandstone jutted out and he slid round it, disappearing from view for a few seconds. Then he reappeared, signalling to Horace, pointing to the rock face on the other side of the outcrop. His meaning was clear. He had found an opening. He was going inside.

Horace waved that he understood and Will disappeared again, walking soft-footed around the sandstone outcrop.

The opening was well concealed, all but invisible until you were almost upon it. It was barely a body width wide, nothing more than a slit in the rock, but on closer inspection, Will saw that it ran deeper.

He turned side on and slipped through the cleft. His quiver snagged momentarily on the rough rock at his back and he had to wriggle it free. Then he continued.

Horace would have loved this, he thought. It was pitch dark and the narrow, constricting passage twisted like a snake so that the walls seemed to bear down upon him. He fought back a moment of panic, understanding for the first time in his life how such a place could unnerve his friend. He inched forward, beginning to fear that this was a false trail and the narrow gap would eventually peter out, leading nowhere. Then, rounding a final right angle, he found himself in a larger open space – about the size of a bedchamber. The ceiling of the cave was high, and light came through several clefts high in the wall. It was the last light of day and only faint, yet after the total darkness of the passage he had just traversed, it was a welcome change.

He hesitated at the entrance, taking stock of his surroundings. There was no sign of anyone here and the light was too dim for him to inspect the sandy floor for footprints. He toyed with the idea of lighting a torch, but decided against it. The darkness was his protection, his friend, his shield. In these stygian conditions, the sudden bright flare of a flint on steel might well be noticeable for hundreds of metres.

He stepped out into the open space. His eyes were of little use in this dimness, so he reached out around him with his other senses: his hearing, his sense of smell and that peculiar sixth sense that he had been trained to develop and listen to – an instinctive awareness of the space around him, and the possible presence of other people in it, that had alerted him so many times in the past to potential danger.

The air was surprisingly fresh. He had expected it to be dank and earthy here inside the rocks. But then, of course, the clefts that provided light would also ensure that the cave was well ventilated. He turned around, slowly, describing a full circle. His eyes were closed as he sought to concentrate on his other senses. He reached out with them.

He heard voices.

Many voices, in a low rising and falling pattern that could only be one thing. Chanting. They came from the far wall of the cavern and he crossed quickly to it, feeling his way along until his fingers discovered another cleft. This one was lower, barely a metre and a half in height. He bent and slipped through it, once again in darkness, reaching ahead and upward and crabbing forward in a half crouch. Gradually, the ceiling became higher and he could walk upright – his outstretched hand above him touching only empty air.

This tunnel ran relatively straight, without the twists and turns of the first. And after the first few metres, it widened out into a comfortable thoroughfare.

At least, he assumed it did. He stayed touching the wall of rock and stretched his hand out into the darkness, searching for the far wall. He encountered nothing.

The muffled sound of chanting, which had continued as he progressed through the darkness, gradually became stronger and louder, then suddenly stopped. Instinctively, he stopped as well. Had he made some noise? Had he alerted the chanters? Did they suddenly realise that he was here?

Then a single voice began to speak. He couldn't make out the words; they were muffled and distorted by the rock. But he could hear the timbre and the pitch and the cadence of the voice. It was the voice of a trained speaker, an orator accustomed to swaying his listeners to his own point of view.

He'd heard the voice before. It was Tennyson.

He sighed with relief.

'So you're here after all,' he said softly, into the darkness.

He edged forward again and the voice became more distinct. Now he was able to make out individual words. One in particular he heard repeated over and over again: Alseiass.

Alseiass, the false golden god of the Outsiders.

Now Tennyson seemed to be asking the crowd questions. His voice would rise in an interrogative tone and there would be a pause, then an answering roar from the crowd. And while Tennyson's questions weren't yet decipherable, the answering roar from the crowd definitely was.

'Alseiass!' they cried, in answer to his every question.

The tunnel Will was following veered slightly to the right and as he rounded an elbow in the wall, he saw something ahead.

A glimmer of light.

He moved forward more quickly, his soft boots making no sound on the sand underfoot. Ten more metres and the light was stronger with each pace.

Then he reached the opening. And before him, in the light of fifty or more torches, he saw the man they had been pursuing for the past month. White robed, burly and with long, grey hair, he stood on a natural rock platform in the massive cavern that had opened out from the narrow tunnel. Around him were grouped about twenty followers, also dressed in white. And beyond them were close to a hundred people – men, women and children, mostly dressed in rough homespun country clothing, all listening with rapt attention to the words that came from the prophet's mouth. And as Will watched, he heard, and this time understood, the question that the fake prophet was posing to his new followers.

'Who will lead us out of the darkness? Who will take us to a new golden age of friendship and prosperity? Tell me his name?'

And the reply came from over a hundred voices, young and old.

'Alseiass!'

Will shook his head sadly. The same old rigmarole. The same old mumbo jumbo. But people were just as willing to buy it here as they had been in Hibernia. People were gullible, he thought, particularly when they were told they could buy their way to happiness.

'You know, my friends, that times were bad before Alseiass came among you.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

'Your stock were dying or disappearing. Your homesteads were burnt and levelled. Isn't that true?'

The crowd called out their confirmation of his words. So, thought Will, the Outsiders have had their armed brigands operating in this area as well – no doubt long before Tennyson arrived.

'But since you have taken Alseiass as your god, have these attacks stopped?'

'Yes!' cried the crowd. Some embellished the shout with cries of 'Bless Alseiass!' and 'Praise the golden god!'.

'And is it time we gave thanks to Alseiass? Is it time we built him the golden, jewelled altar that he desires – an altar that you can worship at for generations to come?'

'Yes!' cried the crowd. This time, at the prospect of donating gold and other valuables, there was a little less enthusiasm. But the white robes around Tennyson added their voices to the cry.

Except, Will thought to himself, that altar will be covered with a thin veneer of gold and when you move on, the rest of it will go with you.

But Tennyson's congregation didn't seem aware of that fact. Spurred on by the white robes, and by Tennyson himself, they continued to raise their voices until the massive cavern rang with their cries of praise for Alseiass and his priest, Tennyson.

Time to leave, Will thought. He'd seen all this before. Forty-six 'The entrance is hard to find,' Will said. 'That's why they don't need guards outside.'

He sketched with a pointed stick in the dirt beside the fireplace. Halt, Horace and Malcolm were gathered around him, watching carefully as he explained the layout of Tennyson's new headquarters.

'That first entry tunnel leads to this. A cavern about the size of a small room. High ceilinged, well lit and ventilated. But completely bare.'

'So, even if someone finds that entrance, they can still get this far and think this is all there is to it?' Malcolm put in.

Will nodded. 'That's why there are no guards. The entrance to the second tunnel is well hidden – and it's barely more than waist high.'

'More fun for me,' Horace said heavily.

Will flashed him a smile. 'It's not so bad. It stays low for a few metres then it widens out and the ceiling gets higher. Plenty of room in this tunnel, once you're past the first few metres.'

'It's those first few metres that are the problem,' Horace said. He looked at Malcolm hopefully. 'Don't you have a potion that will cure my hatred of confined spaces?'

Malcolm shook his head. 'Sadly no. But it's a very understandable affliction. I think the cure to it is to face the fear and overcome it.'

Horace nodded gloomily. 'How did I know you were going to say that? What's the good of a healer if he can't give you a potion for the really important things?'

Halt gestured to the map drawn in the dirt, signalling for Will to get back to his briefing.

Will nodded and continued. 'The tunnel veers to the right here – that's where I saw their lights – and opens out into the cathedral.'

'The cathedral?' Halt said sardonically. 'Are you getting carried away with Tennyson's religious fervour, Will?'

Will grinned. 'It seemed like a good name for it, Halt. It's easily the size of a small cathedral. I can call it the Great Hall if you'd rather,' he added. Halt didn't answer. Will hadn't expected him to.

'And how many people in all?' Halt asked.

'Counting twenty of Tennyson's white robes…'

'His white robes? Who are they?' Malcolm interrupted.

'They're his bully boys and collectors,' Will explained. 'His henchmen, if you like, the ones who are in on the secret.' Malcolm signalled his understanding and indicated for Will to proceed. 'Counting them, there's close to one hundred and twenty, I'd say. Plus there's obviously one of the bandit gangs operating in the area.'

Halt chewed on a twig for a few seconds. 'The outlaws can wait,' he said. 'Our first priority is to discredit Tennyson in front of these new converts, then take care of him and his henchmen.'

'How do you propose doing that?' Malcolm asked. He looked at the three determined faces before him. Only three of them. And Will had said there were at least twenty of Tennyson's henchmen still with him.

'There will probably be violence involved,' Halt said, with deceptive mildness in his voice.

'Three against twenty?' Malcolm queried, pushing the matter.

Halt shrugged. 'Few, if any, of those twenty will be trained warriors. They'll mostly be thugs, used to killing from behind and terrorising unarmed farmers. It's amazing how those people melt away when they face people who know one end of a weapon from the other.'

Malcolm wasn't completely convinced. But then, he thought, he'd seen Will and Horace in action at the storming of Castle Macindaw, where the two of them had forced their way to the top of the walls and held out against the garrison until their own men could scale the ladders and join them. Maybe they could handle twenty roughnecks.

Horace, watching him, saw the doubt in his eyes. 'There's an old saying, Malcolm,' he said. 'One riot, one Ranger. Do you understand?'

'I assume it means that in the event of a riot or disturbance, all it takes is one Ranger to restore order?' Malcolm said.

Horace nodded. 'Exactly. Well, looking around, I see we have twice as many Rangers as we need here. So I imagine I'll be able to have a little holiday while they take care of matters.'

Halt and Will both snorted disdainfully and he smiled at them. 'I'll be happy to sit back and watch you both do all the work,' he added.

'In other words, it'll be business as usual?' Will asked.

Horace looked a little hurt. He'd left himself open for that, he realised. Then he became more serious.

'Halt, I've been thinking…' He paused, looking expectantly at the two Rangers. 'Aren't you going to say always a dangerous thing?' he asked.

Halt and Will exchanged a glance, then shook their heads. 'No. You're expecting it. There's no fun in it when you're expecting it,' Will told him.

Horace shrugged, disappointed. He'd had a snappy comeback ready for them. Now he'd have to save it for another time.

'Oh, well, anyway, it occurred to me that you want to discredit Tennyson, not just take him prisoner and march him off to Castle Araluen?'

Halt nodded. 'That's important. We have to destroy his myth. What do you have in mind?'

'Well, I thought it might help if he was confronted by the shade of King Ferris.'

Halt considered the idea. Tennyson had never realised that on the first occasion when 'Ferris' had challenged and defied him, he was actually facing Halt, disguised as his twin brother. And on other occasions when he had seen the Ranger, his features had been obscured by the deep cowl he wore.

'Not a bad idea, Horace,' he said. 'Tennyson deals in hocus-pocus and trickery. If we serve up some of the same, it might throw him off balance. And he might just be surprised into some sort of damning admission.'

He fingered his beard, which had grown back in the weeks that had passed since Horace had shaved it to resemble his twin's.

'Pity,' he said. 'I was just getting used to having my beard back in its usual condition.'

'Scruffy,' Will said, before he could stop himself. Halt turned a withering gaze on him.

'I prefer to think "luxuriant",' he said, with considerable dignity.

Will hurried to agree. 'Of course. That was the word I was looking for. I don't know why I ever said scruffy.'

And he managed to say it with such a straight face that Halt couldn't help knowing that, inside, Will was holding his sides with laughter. Forty-seven The following day, before they broke camp and set out, Malcolm insisted on giving Halt a complete physical examination.

'Let's make sure you're up to all this exertion,' he said. 'Take off your shirt and sit down here.' He indicated a fallen log that was close to the fireplace.

'Of course I'm up to it,' Halt told him briskly. But then he realised he'd met his match when it came to stubbornness. The healer stepped back and drew himself to his full height. Since he was a little shorter than Halt, who wasn't the tallest person in the Kingdom, this, of itself, didn't amount to a great deal. But his air of authority added immensely to his stature.

'Look here,' he said severely, 'your former apprentice dragged me across league after league of wild country, on a half-mad horse in the middle of the night, to come here and save your miserable, ungrateful hide. Which I did, without complaint or hesitation.

'Now I intend to finish the job I started – and not let you finish the job the Genovesan started. So I intend to give you a complete check-over now to make sure you're fit again – and up to the relatively minor task of confronting a hundred-odd enemies with just two people to back you up. Is that perfectly all right with you?'

When he put it that way, Halt had to admit that he had a point. And he knew he owed the bird-like man his life. But still, it went against the grain for Halt to submit meekly to anyone's orders – as King Duncan had discovered on several occasions. He threw out one last challenge.

'And if it's not all right with me?' he said belligerently. But Malcolm matched his attitude, stepping forward so that his face was only a few centimetres from the Ranger's.

'Then I'll ask Will to report the fact to this Lady Pauline I've heard so much about,' he said. He was rewarded by a quick flicker of doubt in Halt's eyes.

'And I'll do it,' Will called from the other side of the camp site, where he had been sitting quietly for several minutes enjoying the clash of wills between these two stubborn men.

'Well, I suppose you might as well…' Halt said, and, stripping off his shirt, he straddled the log. Malcolm began his examination, peering into his throat and eyes and ears, tapping him on the inside of the elbows with a soft wood mallet, placing a hollow tube with a bell-shaped end against his back and chest and putting his ear to the other end.

'What's that for?' Horace asked. He had moved closer as Malcolm went to work and now he stood a few paces away, watching with interest, in spite of Halt's growing irritation.

'It's none of your business,' the Ranger growled warningly. But Horace was not to be deterred.

'What can you hear?' he asked Malcolm. The healer hid a smile as he answered. 'His heart and lungs.'

Horace made a small moue of interest. 'Really? What do they sound like?'

'It's none of his business what my heart and lungs sound like,' Halt began.

But Malcolm was already beckoning Horace forward. 'Have a listen for yourself.'

Halt reflected how difficult it was to retain dignity and authority when someone else was poking and probing and tapping and you were sitting, half dressed, on a log. He glared at Horace but the young warrior ignored him. Stepping forward eagerly, Horace held the end of the tube in his ear, bending to put the large end against Halt's back. His eyes widened as he listened.

'That's amazing!' he said. 'Is that boompa boompa boompa sound his heartbeat?'

'Yes,' Malcolm said, smiling. Like most people, he enjoyed showing off his expertise in his chosen field. 'It's very strong and regular.'

'I'll say it is!' Horace was impressed both by Malcolm's medical knowledge and the sheer volume of Halt's heartbeat when it was amplified by the tube. 'You're like a regular bass drum in there, Halt.'

'How kind of you to say so,' Halt said, a sour expression on his face. But Horace was still eager to quiz Malcolm further.

'And what about that great, rushing, hooooooosh-hoooooosh sound? It's vaguely like a draught horse breaking wind?'

'That's his lungs. His breathing,' Malcolm replied. 'Again, quite healthy – although that's an original description of the sound, I must say. Haven't seen that in any of my medical texts.'

'Let me have another listen!' Horace said and he bent once more towards Halt's back. But the angry Ranger twisted round on the log to confront him.

'Get away from me! Listen to your own heart and lungs if you must!'

Horace shrugged apologetically, showing him the straight listening tube. 'That's a little difficult, Halt. I'd have to twist my head right round behind my back to do that.'

Halt smiled evilly at him.

'I'm sure I could manage that for you,' he said.

Horace regarded him for a moment, trying to ascertain if he were joking. He decided that he wasn't totally sure, so he stepped away, handing the tube to Malcolm. 'Might be best if you continue,' he said.

Malcolm took the tube back, and continued with his examination. Fifteen minutes later, he announced that he was satisfied.

'You're strong as a horse,' he told Halt.

The Ranger glared back at him. 'And you're stubborn as a mule.'

Malcolm shrugged. 'People do say that,' he replied, without taking offence.

Horace, who had withdrawn to watch the rest of the examination, now stood and moved forward as Halt pulled his shirt over his head again. The Ranger looked up at him, still less than pleased with him.

'What do you want?' he asked belligerently. 'My heart and lungs have been put away for the day, I'm afraid.' But Horace pointed to Halt's face.

'The beard,' he said. 'If you decide to impersonate Ferris again, you'll need a shave.'

'Which I can attend to myself,' Halt told him. 'But if you want to make yourself useful while I'm doing so, get a few strips of leather and plait a headband like the one Ferris wore.'

Horace nodded and, while Halt fetched hot water and trimmed his regrowing beard back to a semblance of Ferris's more subdued version, Horace found some leather thongs in his pack and plaited them together, creating a reasonable facsimile of the simple royal crown of Clonmel.

Halt was rinsing the lather from his face when he noticed Malcolm carefully packing a small box with a dozen irregular-shaped balls of what appeared to be dried, brown mud.

'Are they more of those whizzbangs you were playing with?' he asked.

The healer nodded. He didn't look up from his task and Halt, stepping closer, could see that he had the box packed with bundles of cut grass, which he used to keep the mud-balls separated. The tip of Malcolm's tongue protruded through his teeth as he concentrated on his work.

'What do they do, exactly?' Halt asked.

The final ball packed carefully in the grass, Malcolm looked up. 'If I throw one on the ground,' he explained, 'it will create a loud bang and a thick cloud of yellow-brown smoke. They're very volatile. That's why I need to pack them so carefully.'

'And what did you plan on doing with them?' Halt asked.

'I thought they might come in handy if you needed a diversion. They won't actually injure anyone…' He hesitated, then amended that thought. 'Well, aside from setting their ears ringing. They're just noise and smoke makers.'

Halt grunted thoughtfully but said nothing more. He was beginning to see a possible use for the noisemakers.

Finally, with their preparations complete, they struck camp and moved forward, closer to the range of cliffs where Tennyson had gone to ground – literally. They left the horses well back in the grove of trees that Horace and Will had discovered the previous day, then crept forward to observe the caves.

'Now what?' Malcolm asked.

'We wait and watch,' Halt told him. Malcolm took the hint and settled down, finding himself a comfortable vantage point from which to watch the comings and goings at the cliffs.

Not that there was much to see. A group of four men left the cave in the late morning, returning several hours later, burdened down by the carcass of a deer.

'Hunting party,' Horace said.

Both Halt and Will looked at him sarcastically.

'You think?' Will asked. 'Maybe they found the deer and brought him back to repair him.'

'I was only saying…' Horace began. But Halt silenced him.

'Then don't,' he said briefly.

Horace muttered briefly to himself. One of the trials involved in travelling with Rangers was times like these. Halt and Will seemed to have boundless reserves of patience, never finding it necessary to lighten the passing hours with idle chatter. Horace didn't think there was any harm in making the occasional remark, even if it weren't absolutely necessary. Or enlightening. It was just… making conversation, that was all.

'And stop muttering,' Halt said. Scowling, Horace obeyed.

In the early afternoon, half a dozen people, four men and two women, emerged from the caves, blinking in the sunlight and shading their eyes with their hands. They didn't seem to have any real purpose in emerging.

'What are they up to?' Will asked softly.

Horace was about to reply 'probably getting fresh air' when he remembered Halt's curt orders from several hours back. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.

'Probably just getting a breath of fresh air,' Halt said.

Horace glared at him. It wasn't fair, he thought.

The small group stayed outside in the sunshine for half an hour, then retreated once more inside the cave. Horace, who had been watching the upper reaches of the cliff, noticed a small ribbon of smoke trickling out of the cleft in the rock once more. He mentioned it to Halt.

'Hmmm… well spotted. Could be starting to get the evening meal together.' He turned to Will. 'When you were in Tennyson's camp, what was his schedule for prayer meetings?'

'Morning and late afternoon,' Will replied promptly. 'After the second one, they'd usually have dinner.'

'So, assuming he hasn't changed his schedule, they might be getting ready for a little bit of hymn-singing and "hand over your money" any time now.'

Will nodded. 'That'd be my guess.'

Halt looked at his three companions.

'Let's get ready to join them, shall we? I'd hate to miss the sermon.' Forty-eight Will led the way, slipping around the rock buttress and into the narrow entrance to the cave system. The others waited for him outside the entrance. After several minutes, he reappeared, beckoning them forward.

'The first chamber is empty,' he reported. 'I can hear them in the inner chamber. Sounds like they're chanting.'

Halt waved him forward. 'Lead the way.'

Will disappeared into the narrow slit in the rock face once more. Halt followed, giving him a few seconds to get ahead, then Horace started after him. Before he entered the cave, Malcolm laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

'Horace,' he said, 'this might help if you feel a little panicky.'

He handed the warrior a small canvas packet. Horace opened it and looked at the contents, puzzled. It appeared to be a small pile of rotten bark, covered in some kind of greenish fungus. He sniffed it experimentally. It was decidedly earthy to smell.

'It's moss, mixed with a kind of fungus,' Malcolm explained. 'It occurs naturally on trees throughout the north. But it glows in the dark. It'll give you a little light. Just enough for you to get your bearings, but not enough to be seen further down the tunnel. Just unwrap it if you need it.'

'Thanks, Malcolm,' Horace told him and, turning sideways, he squeezed his way through the narrow entry to the tunnel. He was a good deal larger than Halt and Will and it took a little effort for him to force his way through. He had to draw in his chest and hold his breath, but finally, he made it.

For the first few metres, there was enough light from the entrance to keep him oriented. But after the tunnel began to twist and turn, it became darker and he felt the old familiar sense of panic as he imagined the blackness around him squeezing in on him. In his mind, the darkness was a solid thing, like the rock itself, and he began to fantasise that it was crushing him, holding him in a gradually tightening vice so that he couldn't breathe. His heart began to race as he stared around him, seeing nothing. His chest was tightening and then he realised that, in his nervousness, he had actually neglected to breathe. He drew in a deep shuddering breath.

From a few metres away, he heard Malcolm's soft whisper. 'Open the packet.'

Remarkable, Horace thought. The panic had been so complete that he had forgotten the packet Malcolm had given him only a few minutes before. He felt for the cover and flipped it open.

A soft, green light glowed from the centre of the packet. It was dim, but after the total, impenetrable blackness, it was more than enough to let him see the rough walls of rock only a few centimetres from his face. Instantly, his breathing eased and he felt his heart rate relax a little. He still wasn't happy about being in a confined space, but it was infinitely better than being in a totally dark, confined space.

'What's that?' Halt's voice said out of the darkness ahead of him. Then Horace could make out the dim shape of the Ranger's face reflected in the green light. He was only a metre or so away.

'Malcolm gave it to me,' he explained. He heard Malcolm close up on the other side of him.

'It's not bright enough to be seen past the next bend in the tunnel,' the healer said.

'You're probably right,' Halt agreed. 'Regular bundle of tricks, aren't you?' But he knew of Horace's aversion to confined dark spaces and realised the small green glowing bundle wasn't posing any risk. 'All right, Horace. I'll go ahead. If you hear me click my fingers, it means I can see you coming. Cover it up as soon as you hear it.'

And with that, he melted away into the darkness again. Horace gave him a few seconds' start and followed on. In spite of his best efforts, his footsteps grated in the sand underfoot and his belt and scabbard tended to scrape against the rocks at his back. When they reached the first chamber, he decided, he'd take them off and carry them. There would be less chance of their snagging that way. He rounded another outcrop in the rock and realised he could see a dim grey light ahead. He covered the glowing bark and put the package away inside his jacket. The light grew stronger until he emerged into the chamber Will had described.

Shafts of light from the late afternoon sun struck through the clefts set high in the walls of the chamber. Horace breathed in deeply. The smaller of the two caverns wasn't the sort of place he would choose to spend time in. But it was a lot less constricting and challenging than the narrow, black tunnel he had just passed through.

Will and Halt had moved to the inner wall of the chamber and were crouched, listening. As Malcolm emerged from the tunnel in his turn, he and Horace moved across to stand beside the Rangers. Horace could see the small, low-level entrance to the next part of the tunnel. He set his jaw in a tight line. He wasn't going to like going through there, luminous bark or no luminous bark. Will glanced up, saw his pale face and grinned encouragingly.

'All right so far?' he asked.

Horace tried to grin in return but he knew it was a feeble effort. 'Loving it.'

Then Halt hushed them both with an impatient gesture, bending closer to the mouth of the second tunnel.

'Listen,' he said and they all gathered more closely around him. They could hear the faintest suggestion of a voice carrying down the tunnel. It was too faint to discern words, but they could hear the rise and fall of the cadence of the speech. Then the sound stopped and a fraction of a second later, a louder sound could be heard. This time it was recognisable. It was the sound of a large group of voices, responding to that first lone voice. They still couldn't make out the words – the echo created by the twists and turns in the tunnel and the muffling effect of the solid rock itself saw to that. But the enthusiasm and energy behind the response was unmistakable.

'Fanatics,' Halt said. 'Don't you just love 'em?' He glanced up at Will and jerked his head towards the tunnel.

'See what they're up to,' he said. Will nodded briefly. He crouched and disappeared into the black mouth of the tunnel.

Horace unconsciously felt inside his jacket for the package of luminous bark. Then, remembering his previous thought, he unbuckled his sword, wrapping the belt itself around the scabbard. Halt glanced up at him, saw the action and nodded.

'Good idea,' he said. He unslung his quiver from over his shoulder. For a second or two, he debated whether to unstring his bow. It would be easier to carry that way and less cumbersome in the confined space of the tunnel. But the thought of emerging unarmed at the far end was not one that held any appeal.

It was ten minutes before Will's face reappeared at the entrance. He grinned up at them.

'All clear,' he said. Then he scrambled out and stood erect. 'There's no guard in the tunnel or at the entrance,' he told them. 'Tennyson has an altar at the far end of the cavern and all the faithful are in a half circle, facing him.'

'And not the tunnel?' Halt said, a satisfied note in his voice.

Will nodded. 'We'll come out behind them, and at a forty-five degree angle to the way they're facing. Nobody will be looking in our direction. Even Tennyson will find it hard to see us. His end of the cavern is lit up by candles, torches and a large fire. We'll be more or less in darkness. And there are plenty of rocks to provide cover for us.'

The voices were discernible again as Tennyson began another sequence of question and answer with the crowd. It was all too familiar to Horace, Halt and Will. They'd heard it before. Malcolm, who had been appraised by them about Tennyson's operating methods, could guess pretty accurately what was being said in the cavern. As Halt had said, it would be a version of praise Alseiass and hand over your money. Although, the healer thought with a wry smile, perhaps a little less blatant.

'All right,' Halt said. 'Let's get going. Lead the way again, Will. And Horace, the minute you see light at the end of the tunnel, cover up that moss of yours.'

Horace nodded. Halt bent and disappeared into the low entrance. The tall warrior took several deep breaths, preparing himself. He felt a light touch on his arm.

'I'll be right behind you,' Malcolm said. 'Let me know if you're in trouble.'

The healer had personal knowledge of Horace's courage and he knew this fear of dark, confined spaces had nothing to do with physical bravery. It was something locked deep in Horace's mind – perhaps some incident in early childhood that he had long forgotten. Knowing this, he recognised the real courage that Horace was showing in overcoming his fear.

'I'll be fine,' the young warrior said, his face set in tight lines. Then he relaxed and grinned ruefully. 'Well, maybe not fine,' he admitted. 'But I'll manage.'

Holding his sword in one hand, he reached into his jacket for the canvas packet, then ducked down and shuffled forward into the tunnel.

After the brief period in the dim light of the cavern, the darkness of the tunnel seemed overwhelming once more. He reached up with his scabbarded sword, tracing the roof line above him. Then, as it receded out of reach, he stood slowly erect. Once again, he felt the terrifying sensation of blindness, the feeling that his world had been reduced to his own personal space, with nothing beyond it. The fear that his eyes no longer functioned. His heart began thumping more rapidly once again and he flipped back the cover on the luminous moss, seeing that wonderful little glow of light nestled in the palm of his hand. Behind him, he heard Malcolm shuffling along the tunnel.

Calmed by the little light source, Horace continued down the tunnel, moving with greater assurance now that the darkness wasn't total. He glanced up several times but the dim glow from the moss wasn't sufficient to reach the ceiling high above him. It was swallowed by the blackness. Rounding another twist in the tunnel, be became aware of a dim grey light ahead. Quickly, he covered the moss and made his way round one last corner of rock. Light seemed to pour in from the large cavern as he approached the end of the tunnel, where Will and Halt crouched, surveying the scene before them.

As Will had told them, the cavern was the size of a small cathedral, with a high, soaring roof that disappeared into the darkness above it. The far end of the high cavern was a blaze of light, where torches and candles were set in brackets. In the middle of the floor was a vast fireplace and the leaping flames from this cast shadows on the walls. Beyond the fire, and lit by what appeared to be scores of torches and candles, was an altar. It was the usual Outsiders' altar, built in gold and silver and decorated with precious gems. Yet if this one ran true to form, the gold was a thin veneer over wood and the silver and gems were fake. The real items would be safely stowed in Tennyson's packs.

Tennyson was in full flight, arms thrown wide, as he delivered an impassioned appeal to the assembly.

'Alseiass loves you!' he intoned. 'Alseiass wants to bring light and joy and happiness into your lives.'

'Praise Alseiass!' the congregation cried.

'You say the words!' Tennyson told them. 'But are your hearts sincere? For Alseiass only hears prayers from those who believe. Do you truly believe?'

'Yes!' the crowd replied.

Malcolm, his mouth close to Horace's ear, whispered, 'More to the point, do people really fall for this claptrap?'

Horace nodded. 'It never ceases to amaze me how gullible people can be.'

'There's danger in this land!' Tennyson continued. His voice now was full of foreboding. 'Danger and death and destruction. Who can save you from this danger?'

'Alseiass!' the crowd roared. Tennyson threw his head back now and looked up above them all, into the dark recesses of the ceiling of the cavern.

'Show us a sign!' he asked. 'Show us a sign, Golden Alseiass, god of light, that you hear the voices of these people before you!'

Malcolm eased forward a little to get a better view. He had spent years devising signs and manifestations in the depths of Grimsdell Wood – signs such as the one Tennyson was now asking for from his nonexistent god.

'This ought to be good,' he said, to no one in particular. Forty-nine Watching the fake preacher, Will noticed that, as he called for Alseiass to show a sign to the congregation, he glanced up at the jumble of rocks at the rear of the cavern – to a spot some twenty metres from the tunnel entrance where Will and the others crouched, concealed by the shadows.

Following the direction of his eyes now, Will saw a flicker of movement. Then there was the dull gleam of reflected light among the rocks and he made out the figure of a man there, hidden by the rocks from the worshippers below him.

He nudged Halt and pointed. As the older Ranger looked, a sudden ball of light seemed to sweep across the cavern's walls behind the altar where Tennyson was standing. There was a quick, collective gasp of surprise from those among the crowd who had noticed it, then a low buzz of excited conversation.

Then the flash of light travelled across the cavern again, this time in the opposite direction. As it reached a spot behind Tennyson, it described three flashing circles, then darted away again and disappeared. This time, alerted, more of the crowd saw it and there was a louder reaction. Tennyson let it die down a little, then raised his voice to speak over the excited muttering.

'Alseiass is the god of light and enlightenment!' he intoned. 'His light of mercy can be seen even in the darkest reaches of the earth. Do you see his light?'

Led by the white robes, the crowd took up the cry again. 'Praise to Alseiass! Praise the god of light!'

Halt beckoned Will closer and put his mouth near Will's ear to speak.

'He's got a helper up there with a mirror and a lantern,' he whispered. 'He's reflecting the lantern light on the walls.'

Will shook his head. 'Pretty basic trick,' he commented. But Halt shrugged.

'It's working. They can all "see the light".' He gestured to the pile of rocks where the man sheltered. 'Get up there and take care of him. Quietly.'

Will started to move away, then he hesitated and turned back. 'You want me to knock him out?'

Halt answered brusquely, wondering what the delay was about. 'No. I want you to invite him to dinner. Of course I want you to knock him out! Use your strikers.'

Will shrugged unhappily. 'I don't have them. Lend me yours?'

Halt couldn't believe his ears. He hissed angrily at Will, alarming Horace and Malcolm, who were sure he would be overheard.

'What do you mean you don't have them? They're part of your kit, for god's sake!' He couldn't believe that Will, a fully qualified Ranger, could be so undisciplined as to forget his strikers. Young people, he thought, shaking his head. What was the world coming to?

'I lost them,' Will said. He didn't add that he had lost them trying to capture Bacari alive, in order to save Halt's life. But he thought the older Ranger was being unduly harsh under the circumstances.

'You lost them? You lost them?' Halt repeated. 'D'you think we issue valuable equipment so you can just lose it?'

Will shook his head. 'No. But I…'

He didn't get any further. Horace interrupted their discussion, an incredulous look on his face.

'Will you two stop blithering on?' he demanded in a fierce whisper. 'Any minute now, someone will hear you and the fat will really be in the fire!'

Halt glared at him for a moment, then realised he was right. He thrust his hand into an inside pocket and retrieved one of his own strikers, which he shoved into Will's hand.

'Here. Take this! And don't lose it!'

On the altar, Tennyson was again exhorting the crowd to call upon Alseiass to show them another sign. There was a quick flash of light across the cave, followed by more cries of surprise and wonder. Watching carefully, Halt could see Will's dark shape climbing the rock pile, seeming to flow upwards across the jumble of boulders like a giant spider. He reached the spot where Tennyson's helper crouched with his lantern and mirror and paused, concealed from the man, a metre or so below his hiding place.

'Show us your light again, Alseiass!' Tennyson cried. 'Let these people know they are worthy of you!'

Halt saw the crouching figure at the lantern move slightly, preparing to send another flash of light across the cavern. Then Will rose behind him. The young Ranger's arm went up, then down, as he crashed the brass striker into the man's head, behind the ear. Tennyson's disciple slumped forward without a sound. Will turned to Halt and gave him a thumbs up. Halt waved acknowledgement, then gestured for Will to remain where he was. It was a good tactical position, with a clear overview of the cavern, but concealed from those below him.

'Alseiass!' Tennyson called, a little louder and with a slight edge to his voice. 'Let us see your light!'

Hidden among the rocks, Will raised the polished metal mirror the man had been using as a reflector and pointed to it, looking interrogatively at Halt. Did the senior Ranger want him to send light flashing across the cavern, the gesture said. Halt shook his head. He had another idea in mind and this seemed to be a perfect opportunity to put it into effect.

'Alseiass! We need to see your light!' Tennyson called. It was more of a command than a prayer, Halt thought. The people in the congregation were beginning to look restless.

Halt leaned close to Malcolm and indicated a large boulder a few metres away on their left.

'I'm going to move over to that boulder,' he said. 'When I call out to Tennyson, lob one of your mudballs in front of me.' Malcolm nodded his understanding. He crouched, gingerly set the wooden case down and opened the lid. Halt slid through the shadows to the boulder he had indicated. Malcolm took one of the balls out of the case, closed the lid and stood upright again. He made eye contact with Halt and the Ranger nodded to him. Malcolm saw Halt discard his cloak and don the leather circlet that Horace had made up – a replica of the simple crown of Clonmel. Using his fingers, he roughly combed his hair to either side, parting it in the middle and holding it in place with the leather loop.

Malcolm readied the ball for an underarm toss. At that moment, Tennyson chose to implore Alseiass once more.

'Alseiass! Show us a sign, we beg you!'

Halt took a deep breath, then shouted in a voice that rang through the cavern, waking the echoes.

'Tennyson! Tennyson! You are a fake and a liar!'

Heads turned, seeking the source of the words. As they did, Malcolm tossed the ball underarm, lobbing it high in the air to land on the spot just in front of Halt. The sand covering the cavern floor was relatively soft. But the ball came down from a considerable height and, as Malcolm had pointed out, it was extremely volatile.

There was a loud BANG! followed by a giant cloud of yellow-brown smoke. A trickle of sand and pebbles, loosened by the vibrations set up by the explosion, slithered down from the ceiling of the cave.

Then Halt stepped forward, passing through the cloud, and people gasped as he appeared to materialise out of the smoke.

'Tennyson! Your god is false. And you are a liar!'

Tennyson was completely startled by this turn of events. He peered through the smoky interior of the cavern to see the slight figure standing at the rear of the cave. He took in the hair, parted in the middle, held back from the face by the simple leather circlet, and the neatly trimmed beard. Suddenly, with a rush of fear, he knew who this was.

'You!' he cried, before he could stop himself. 'But you're dead! I k-' He stopped, just a little too late.

'You killed me?' said the figure. 'Yes, you did. But I've come back. And I want my revenge.'

'No!' Tennyson cried, holding up one hand as if to ward off the apparition before him. Taken by surprise, he was completely unnerved by the sight of the man he had believed dead. He knew to be dead.

'Say my name, Tennyson. Say my name and I may spare you,' Halt demanded.

'It can't be you!' Tennyson shouted. But the doubt was obvious in his voice. Aside from one brief meeting, he had never seen Halt at close quarters and then the Ranger's hair and beard had been long and unkempt. But he knew Ferris when he saw him, and the voice, with its distinctive Hibernian accent, was instantly recognisable. And he knew Ferris was dead. The Genovesan assassin had assured him of the fact. He had shot Ferris from behind, with a poisoned crossbow bolt. There was no possibility that the King could have survived. Yet here he was, calling for revenge. And there was only one way that could have happened. Ferris had returned from beyond the grave.

Halt moved forward, forcing his way through the assembled worshippers. They moved back from him, clearing a path, as they sensed Tennyson's uncertainty and fear.

'Say my name!' Halt demanded. As he advanced, Tennyson drew back a few paces. He glanced desperately to one of his white robes, a heavily built thug armed with a spiked mace.

'Stop him!' he cried, his voice breaking in fear.

His henchman started forward, the mace rising in his right hand. Then his face contorted with pain as his right leg collapsed underneath him. The weapon dropped from his hand as he fell awkwardly to the sand, clutching at the arrow that had suddenly appeared in his thigh.

'Good boy, Will,' Halt muttered to himself. The people around him whispered fearfully and drew back further. In the dim light of the cavern, none of them had seen the arrow in flight. And only a few of them could see it now. All they knew was that the white robe had suddenly been struck down in agony. Tennyson saw the arrow and now he knew a new fear. The next could well be aimed at him, he knew. And he knew that those mysterious cloaked archers who had dogged his steps from Dun Kilty and through Celtica very rarely missed what they aimed at.

'Ferris?' he said, uncertainly, 'Please… I didn't…'

Whatever he was about to say, he didn't get the chance to finish. Halt stopped and threw his arms wide.

'You want to stop me, Tennyson? Then ask Alseiass to do it. I'm a ghost. He's a god. Surely he outranks me?' His voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'So come on! Let's ask Alseiass to stop me in my tracks. Ask him to smite me with lightning! Go ahead!'

Tennyson could do no such thing, of course. He hesitated, looking to his white robes. But they weren't eager to come forward, having seen their companion struck down by an arrow out of the darkness. In addition, those who had followed Tennyson from Hibernia had seen Ferris before, and surely this was him, standing before them in the cavern, challenging Tennyson.

'You won't ask him?' Halt said. 'Well, I'll do it for you! Come on, Alseiass! You're a fake and a fraud and you don't exist! Prove me wrong and strike me down!'

A frightened ripple ran through the crowd and those nearest Halt shrank back further, half fearful that Alseiass might in fact strike him with a bolt of lightning. But, as nothing happened, as there was no answer to his blasphemous challenge, they began to look suspiciously towards the prophet who had come among them preaching the word of Alseiass.

They began to mutter among themselves. The atmosphere in the cavern was suddenly thick with suspicion. Sensing that the moment was right, Halt addressed them directly now, turning his back on the heavy-set figure on the altar.

'If Alseiass is real, let him strike me now! Let him show his power. Tennyson has told you that Alseiass can protect you from the bandits who are attacking your homes and villages. How can he do that if he can't even answer a simple challenge like this?' He looked up at the roof of the cavern. 'Come on, Alseiass! Let's hear from you! Strike me down! Flash your light at me! Do something! Anything!'

An expectant hush fell over the people in the cavern. They waited, but nothing happened. Finally, Halt shook his head and looked around the people watching him. He dropped the thick Hibernian brogue he had been using and spoke in his normal voice.

'People of Araluen, you've seen for yourself that this so-called god has no real power. That's because he isn't a real god. He's a fake. And that man,' he said, jerking a thumb in Tennyson's direction, 'is a fraud and a thief and a murderer. He murdered the King of Hibernia, King Ferris, who, coincidentally, looks a lot like me. You heard him call me Ferris. You saw how terrified he was when he thought that I was Ferris, back from the grave. Why would he feel that way if he hadn't been the one who killed Ferris?'

Tennyson, who had been cowering before what he believed to be a ghost, slowly drew himself up, leaning forward to look more closely, realising finally that he had been tricked. He could see that Halt's words were reaching the people gathered in the cavern, slowly turning them against him.

'He's told you that he's here to protect you from the bandits who are raiding in this area. He hasn't told you that those bandits are actually working hand in glove with him. And he's asked you for gold and jewellery to build his altar, hasn't he?'

He looked at the faces around him. Heads nodded in confirmation. Then the confusion and doubt on their faces slowly began to give way to suspicion and anger.

'Take a closer look at that altar and you'll find it's plain wood, coated with a thin layer of gold. And the jewels are fake. The real gold and jewels are in Tennyson's saddle bags, ready for the day when he and his friends slip away with them.'

'He's lying!' Tennyson suddenly found his voice. The stranger had admitted that he was no ghost and Tennyson's confidence began to return. He knew he could sway a mob when it came to a contest of words. After all, this person was a nobody, a nonentity.

'He's lying! Alseiass has protected you! You know that! Now this stranger comes among you and blasphemes the god and accuses me. You know me. You know Alseiass. But who is he? A stranger. A wanderer. A vagabond!'

'A King's Ranger,' Halt interrupted and there was a further buzz of interest from the crowd.