The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 18

Duffy's Ford crossed a long, slow curve in the river.

Over hundreds of years, the action of the water running through the curve had cut away the bank, eroding it so that the river gradually became wider. As that happened, the moving water was spread over a larger area, and its speed and depth were both reduced accordingly, providing a crossing point for travellers. There was no logical reason why people on the road shouldn't break their journey at any point along the way but travellers tend to look for landmarks or significant features to sit back, relax and enjoy a meal. Duffy's Ford, with its wide, flat grassy banks, sheltered by willows, provided an ideal location.

As is often the case, the fact that travellers were drawn to a location resulted in the growth of a small settlement designed to serve their needs. The trees had been cleared and there was a small huddle of buildings to one side of the ford.

Or there had been. Will dismounted and walked forward to look around. He studied the blackened remains of what had been a group of buildings, where wisps of smoke still rose in places. The largest, which had provided food and drink to passers-by, had been a rambling, single-storey affair, gradually added to over the years. Will guessed, correctly, that it had provided overnight accommodation to those who wanted it. Now less than half the building remained. The rest was a pile of blackened ashes. The roof had gone, of course, being made of thatch. And the mud and daub walls had cracked in the heat of the fire that had swept through the building and collapsed. But some of the timber framework remained in place – a skeletal structure of blackened beams and uprights that tottered precariously over the charred remains of beds, tables, chairs and other furnishings. There were several half-burnt casks in one room. Will guessed that it must have been the tap room, where thirsty travellers could relax over a glass of ale. Remarkably, demonstrating the capricious nature of a fire like this, one corner had remained relatively untouched and there were several dark bottles still standing on a shelf behind the collapsed charred bench that had been the bar. Gingerly, Will picked his way through the ashes and debris and picked one up. He unstoppered it and sniffed the cork, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the powerful smell of cheap brandy. He re-stoppered it and went to put it back but then a thought struck him. It could come in handy at a later date. So he slipped the bottle into an inner pocket.

He made his way back onto clear ground and walked around the perimeter of the ruined central building, turning his attention to the other three destroyed structures. One had been the stables, placed behind the mainbuilding. There was nothing left there. It had burnt fiercely, the flames not even extinguished by a heavy rainstorm that had saved some of the main building.

`Probably full of straw,' he said to himself. The dried-out hay would have been perfect fuel, defying the efforts of the rain to quell the flames.

Beyond the ruined stable there were two other, smaller buildings. In front of one was a stone fireplace, where an assortment of blacksmith's tools – hammers, awls and pliers – were scattered. It made sense, he realised, for a smithy to set up shop here. There's be plenty of trade from passing travellers needing wagons repaired, horses shoed or tack mended. The other building had probably been a residence – perhaps for the smithy and his family. There was little left of it now. The small settlement had a forlorn feeling to it – deserted and lifeless.

As the last word came to his mind he became conscious of something else – the by now familiar nauseatingly sweet smell of rotting bodies. As he walked further to the back of the smithy, he made out the shapes of several carcasses in the small meadow behind it. Sheep, most of them. But there was also one huddled furry body that had been the dog that guarded them.

The survivors of the attack must have buried or carried away the bodies of the four human victims. But they had no time or inclination to dispose of the remains of the animals.

`Can't say I blame them,' he said, and moved back to the main building, where the strong smell of charred wood and ashes masked the unpleasant smell of corruption. He began to cast around the site for tracks, stopping almost immediately at the sight of a large red-brown stain on the grass on the shallow slope leading to the river. Blood.

There were more signs in that spot. Footprints, faint now after a few days had passed, and the marks where several horses had ridden up from the river. The hoofprints were deep and easily visible in the softened ground – far deeper than a walking animal would have left. These horses had been galloping. And one of them had galloped right past the spot where the large blood stain still marked the grass.

He looked around, from the river to the main building, picturing what had happened.

The raiders had crossed the river then, led by several mounted men, had charged up the shallow slope, across the open grassy meadow. One of the men from Duffy's Ford had run forward to stop them – or perhaps delay them while the others tried to escape. And he'd been cut down here.

Will searched around the immediate area and soon found a sickle lying a few metres away, almost hidden by the long grass. He turned it over with the toe of his boot. Already, a few rust stains were showing on the curved blade. He shook his head. The makeshift weapon would have given its owner little chance against the determined raiders. He had been cut down without a second thought. Probably a sword or spear thrust, Will thought, a weapon that would have given its owner a longer reach than the short-handled sickle. The desperate and brave defender had never really had a hope of defending himself.

He followed the hoofprints back up the slope for a few metres. One horse had diverted to the right and he followed it to another drying brown blood stain. He dropped to one knee to study the ground more closely and made out the faint trace of footprints in the grass and mud. Small footprints, he saw. A child.

He closed his eyes briefly. He could see the scene in his mind's eye. A boy or girl, terrified by the galloping, screaming men, had tried to run for the shelter of the trees. One of the raiders had swung out of line to pursue the little running figure. Then he'd cut his victim down from behind. Without pity. Without mercy. He could have let the child escape. What harm could a child have done them? But he hadn't. Will's lips set in a hard line as he realised that this atrocity had been committed, at least ostensibly, in the name of religion.

`You'd better pray that your god will protect you,' he said quietly. Then he rose from the crouching position he'd assumed to view the tracks. There was no point studying further on events that had taken place here. He knew the general outline and he could picture some of the details as well.

Now it was time to track these murderers back to their lair, wherever that might be.

He remounted Tug and urged the little horse into the river. The raiders had come from the other side. Presumably they had returned there as well. The water came no higher than Tug's belly and there was little current to contend with. The small horse splashed easily across the sandy bottom to the far bank. Leaning out of the saddle, Will searched for the party's return tracks.

It didn't take him long to find them. It had been a large party, perhaps twenty or thirty men, he estimated. It was certainly the largest group to have crossed the ford in the preceding few days, so the tracks were easy to follow. Added to that, they'd made no attempt to cover the sign of their passing, although perhaps a person without a Ranger's skill at tracking wouldn't have been able to follow them.

Or perhaps the raiders simply didn't expect anybody to dare make the attempt.

That was more likely the case, Will thought. They'd been raiding and killing and burning throughout Hibernia, virtually unopposed, for months now. It was logical that they would have begun to believe that there was no one who could be a threat to them. Will smiled grimly to himself as he followed the trail of hoofprints and footprints to the south-west.

`Just keep believing that,' he said. Tug swung his head curiously at the unexpected sound of his master's voice. Will patted the coarse-maned neck reassuringly.

`Nothing,' he said. 'Just ignore me.'

Tug tossed his head briefly. Fine. Let me know if you want to talk.

The raiding party had moved onto a narrow trail now and there was less need to search for every heel print, every indentation in the damp ground. Time enough for that when he reached a fork in the track. For the moment, Will could simply follow the track, noting the occasional sign that a group of people had passed by – broken branches, threads of cloth caught on twigs and at one point, a dried pile of horse droppings. This sort of tracking he could do in his sleep, he thought.

Eventually, the trail forked and he saw that the band had diverged to the left, taking the smaller of the two trails. The ground began to gradually rise and the tree cover, although still substantial, was thinning out as they climbed higher. In the middle distance, Will could make out the steep cliffs of an escarpment. He had the sense that they were nearing the end of their search. He doubted that the raiders would have climbed the escarpment. Their disregard for the possibility that they might be followed dictated against it. If they hadn't taken any steps to cover their tracks, he doubted that they'd bother with the difficulty of climbing that forbidding line of black granite cliffs, although to do so would have given a virtually unassailable sanctuary.

He reined Tug in, sniffing the air experimentally. There was a trace of something on the faint breeze – something that was just a little unexpected, just a little out of place. He turned his head from side to side, still sniffing, trying to determine what it was. Then he had it.

Smoke. Or rather, ashes. The wet ashes of a dead camp fire.

They moved on, the smell becoming stronger and more pungent. A hundred metres further along the track, he found its source, in a spot where the trail widened out to form a substantial clearing. There was ample evidence that the raiders had camped here for the night. There were the blackened circles of four fires, and flattened spaces on the grass where men had rolled into their blankets and slept. More dung showed where the band's half dozen horses had been picketed.

Will sat on a tree stump and considered the scene, Tug watching him with intelligent eyes.

`They camped here, so we can't be too close to their eventual destination,' he said. That made sense when he thought about the escarpment he had seen earlier. It must still be a good half day's ride away from their current position. If darkness had been closing in when they reached this point, it would have been an ideal place for them to camp.

`At least we know we're on the right trail,' he told Tug and the little horse cocked his head to one side.

I never doubted it.

Will grinned at him. Sometimes, he wondered how accurate his interpretations of Tug's unspoken messages were. And he wondered if other Rangers talked to their horses the way he did when they were alone. He had a suspicion that Halt did, but he'd never seen proof of the fact.

He stood, looking at the sky. There were still three or four hours of daylight left. If the trail remained as easy to follow as it had been so far, there was no reason why he shouldn't reach the raiders' camp that evening.

He rode on. The path widened a little and although it was still gradually climbing uphill, it tended to wind and twist less than it had previously. There was no need to proceed slowly. He could see where the trail led and there was no chance in the next hour or two of catching up with the raiders. They were at least two days ahead of him. So he let Tug fall into an easy lope, eating the kilometres beneath them.

As the day wore on, the black cliffs came closer. Just after midafternoon, the sun dropped behind them, throwing the surrounding countryside into shadow. When he estimated that the escarpment was an hour's ride away,

Will eased Tug to a halt. He dismounted and rested the little horse for ten minutes, splashing some water from his canteen into a small folding leather bucket so the horse could drink. He took a mouthful himself and chewed on a piece of dried smoked beef. He smiled quietly as he thought of Horace's grumbling over such rations. Will quite liked the taste of smoked beef. The chewing, of course, was another matter altogether. He might like the taste but the consistency was similar to an old boot.

He remounted and walked Tug forward. From here on, it would pay to proceed cautiously. On the evidence so far, it was unlikely that the raiders would have an outer screen of sentries around their headquarters, but it never hurt to be careful. He nudged Tug in a signal and the horse walked soft-footed, picking his way carefully as he had been trained to do, his hoofs making barely a sound on the damp earth of the track.

Once again, it was his nose that gave him warning. The unmistakable, penetrating smell of fresh woodsmoke wafted through the trees to him. They were riding along the crest of a gully and the black cliffs were ahead, seeming close enough to touch. They were only one or two hundred metres high, he saw. Not the biggest cliffs he'd ever come across. But their sides were sheer, glistening black rock. They'd be unclimbable if there wasn't some tenuous winding track leading to the top. The smell of smoke was stronger now and he thought he caught the faint sound of voices. He brought Tug to a stop and slipped down from the saddle.

`Stay here,' he said and moved silently up to the next bend in the trail. He had resumed his Ranger's cloak when he left camp that morning. Now he ghosted among the trees, taking advantage of the uncertain afternoon light that made him almost impossible to discern.

At the bend, he stayed in the shadow of the trees and found himself looking across the wide gully to an open space at the foot of the cliffs. Tents were set out in uneven, ragged lines and fires gleamed among them. He could see men moving among the tents, or sitting round the fires. He estimated there must be at least one hundred and fifty men camped below him. Armed men, he saw. He thought about the way the people of Craikennis had dismissed the threat of a raid, and their confidence in their own numbers. If a band this size attacked a town like Craikennis, the defenders would have little chance of resisting.

He slid to the ground, his back against a tree, and studied the camp for the next hour, until night fell. He gradually identified the largest, central tent in the camp. Judging by the number of men coming and going there, it must be the leader's headquarters. Equally important, as dusk was falling he watched the picket line being set – a half circle of sentries who took up their positions where the open ground gave way to the treeline again. Even this group, overconfident as they might be, wouldn't settle for the night without some form of guard.

He noted one man who had moved a little further into the trees than his neighbours. From his elevated position, Will could see him easily. And he could see that the man wouldn't be visible to his fellow sentries. Perhaps he had found a more comfortable spot to spend his hours on watch. Or perhaps he preferred not to be constantly under the eye of the guard commander.

Either way, it was a mistake – and one that Will planned to take advantage of.