The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 37

Will stood towards the back of the crowd in the marketplace. Tennyson's followers had been hard at work for some hours, preparing for the time when he would address the assembled crowd. A raised platform had been constructed and, to one side, there was a cooking fire surmounted, by a large spit. Two of the Outsiders, stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat, were turning the spit, which suspended a sheep's carcass above the fire. As the spit turned, fat from the beast dripped down onto the glowing coals of the fire, causing flames to leap and splutter and fragrant smoke to drift around the market ground.

Will hadn't eaten and the smell of the roasting meat set his stomach growling. From time to time, the Outsider in charge carved choice pieces from the outside of the meat. Another tore pieces of flat country bread to use as plates and the meat and bread were distributed to the waiting crowd. A cask of wine and another of ale had been broached and the townsfolk were invited to bring theirmugs and tankards forward to be filled up. The atmosphere was a jovial one, almost like a holiday. The food and wine were good and it was a pleasant break in the day-to-day humdrum life of the town. The market ground buzzed with conversation and goodwill.

Then Tennyson began to speak. At first he was cheerful and welcoming, beginning with a series of amusing anecdotes – often at his own expense – that set the crowd chuckling. He was a good performer, Will thought. He spoke of the happy times he and his followers spent as they moved through the countryside, caring for each other and worshipping their god. A choir of a dozen Outsiders filed onto the platform with him and, at his signal, they launched into song.

They sang popular country songs that had their audience tapping their feet and swaying in time until, at Tennyson's urging, the townsfolk joined in the chorus. Then the choir sang a simple hymn of joy to Alseiass. It had an easy and catchy chorus that the crowd could join in – and did. Then the choir moved off stage and, as more wine circulated, Tennyson's mood became less cheerful.

He was a skilful orator. He did it by degrees, first becoming wistful as he described the evil that had seemed to spread over Clonmel in recent months – a dark cloud that was so diametrically opposed to the simple, cheerful life espoused by Alseiass and his followers. His tone darkened into indignation, then anger as he described horrors like the massacre at Duffy's Ford, and others that had gone before. The details were unfamiliar to most in the crowd, but there had been rumours of evil-doing at half a dozen towns and villages through the south of the

Kingdom. The place names were familiar and since rumour is by nature imprecise, Tennyson was able to embellish and exaggerate events, painting a picture of bleak horror while he assumed an air of righteous indignation at the suffering of the people of Clonmel.

Will sensed the change in the crowd's mood. There was fear stalking among them, unseen and as yet unrecognised, as Tennyson pointed out how the killings, the attacks, the burnings, were gradually tracing a path north, towards Dun Kilty itself. The uneasiness grew as the level in the wine mugs fell. And as Tennyson detailed atrocity after atrocity, his white-robed followers began to echo his words. Then members of his newly converted group would step forward and attest to the truth of what he spoke.

`The prophet Tennyson has the right of it!' a new convert would cry. 'I was at Carramoss,' (or Dell or Clunkilly or Rorkes Creek or whatever the site he had mentioned might be) 'and I saw these things for myself!'

`There's evil stalking this land,' Tennyson said, reaching the heart of his address. 'Evil in the form of the dark spirit Balsennis! He's a depraved spirit who preys on the simple folk of this land and brings his dark hordes to plague and murder them! We've seen his hand before, haven't we, my people?'

He addressed this last question to the solid cadre of followers behind him and their voices chorused confirmation of the fact. Then Tennyson continued, his voice rising in intensity and volume.

`He must be stopped! His evil followers must be crushed and defeated! And who will do that for you? Who will protect you from his attacks? Who will face thebandits, criminals, murderers and outlaws who flock to his banner? Who will turn them back in confusion and defeat?'

The crowd muttered restlessly. There was no answer that they knew to his question.

`Who has the power to stand against Balsennis and protect you from his dark and evil,ways?'

Once more, Tennyson allowed the muttering and uncertainty to work its way through the crowd. Then he stepped forward and his deep, sonorous voice went up yet again in volume.

`Will your King do it?'

Silence. An awkward, nervous silence as the crowd looked at each other, then looked hurriedly away. This close to Castle Dun Kilty, no one was willing to make the first step towards denouncing the King. Yet, in their hearts, they all knew that the answer to the question was no. Tennyson's voice rose out of the silence again.

`Has your King -' the contempt in his voice was all too obvious as he said the word 'king' '- done anything to alleviate the suffering of his people? Has het'

The intensity of his voice, the passion that showed in his face, demanded an answer. From the rear of crowd, a few hesitant voices rose.

`NoP

And once the lead had been given, more voices joined in, until the cries denouncing King Ferris were coming from all sides, and the volume was growing.

`No! No! The King does nothing while the people suffer!'

`He's safe in his mighty castle! What about the rest of us?'

The first few voices were probably plants, Will realised. They were Tennyson's cronies, scattered through the crowd and dressed in simple country clothes, without their tell-tale white robes. But the voices that swelled the chorus condemning the King were coming now from the people of Dun Kilty.

Tennyson raised his hands for silence and, as the yelling gradually died away, he spoke again.

`Who was it who turned back the attack on Mountshannon? Was it the King?'

Again, the chorus of 'No!' boomed around the market square. As it subsided, Tennyson asked another question.

`Then who? Who saved the people of Mountshannon?'

And behind him, a group of villagers from Mountshannon shouted their enthusiastic response, practised over the past week in half a dozen villages and settlements along their way.

`Alseiass!' they shouted. 'Alselass and Tennyson!'

And the people of Dun Kilty took up the cry until it echoed back from the buildings around the market square, redoubling itself as it did so, becoming one long, rolling cry: `Alseiass-and-Tennyson-yson-Alselass-seiass-Tennysonyson-Alseiass.' And it seemed to Will that the people were hypnotised by the rolling, echoing roar until they had to join in and reinforce the sound, the echo and the hysteria that was sweeping over the square.

This is getting very dangerous, he thought. He had never experienced mob hysteria before. Standing in the middle of it, he felt the full, ugly, unreasoning force of it.

Tennyson's hands went up again and the rolling thunder of voices gradually stilled.

`Who stood against evil at the gate to Craikennis?' he demanded. And this time, before his planted followers in the crowd could answer, Will decided to take a hand.

`The Sunrise Warrior!' he yelled at the top of his voice.

Instantly, a hush fell over square. People around him turned to stare and Tennyson, taken by surprise, was silenced for a few seconds. Will seized the opportunity.

`I was there! He destroyed his enemies with a flaming sword! He drove them back! Hundreds of them defeated by one man – the mighty Sunrise Warrior!'

He heard voices echoing the phrase 'Sunrise Warrior' around the square. For rumours had reached Dun Kilty of events at Craikennis and there was confusion now as to who had actually saved the town. But Tennyson shouted him down, pointing a finger at him.

`There is no Sunrise Warrior! He's a myth!'

`I saw him!' Will insisted but Tennyson had the advantage of a raised platform and a trained orator's voice.

`Lies!' he thundered. 'It was the Golden God Alseiass!'

Again, a chorus of 'Alsealss! Praise Alseiass!' arose from the white robes around him. Tennyson's finger continued to point at Will and the young Ranger realised that Tennyson was pointing him out to his followers in the crowd. Any moment now, a knife would slip between his ribs, he thought.

`He lies!' Tennsyon continued. 'And Alseiass strikes down those who bear false witness!'

Will glanced around quickly. He saw a glimpse of dull purple in the crowd, off to his right side and slipping through the crowd towards him. He watched from the corner of his eye as the figure drew nearer. Even without the wide-brimmed hat, he recognised him for one of the Genovesans. And he saw the gleam of a dagger held close against the man's leg.

`The Sunrise Warrior!' he shouted again. 'He can save us! Praise the Sunrise Warrior!'

A few people took up the cry and it began to spread. Will, watching Tennyson, saw him nod towards someone close to him in the crowd. He looked to his right. The Genovesan was almost upon him. Will saw surprise, then annoyance, in the foreigner's eyes as he realised that he had been spotted by his quarry. A fraction of a second later, Will brought his right elbow up to face height and pivoted on his right heel, slamming the point of his elbow into the man's face, breaking his nose and sending him reeling back against the people around them. Blood sprang from his nose and the dagger clattered to the ground. Seeing it, those closest to him drew back, shoving each other and calling out warnings.

Will decided enough was enough. Dropping, into a crouch so that Tennyson could no longer see him, he shoved through the crowd, running to a new position some fifteen metres away. Once there, he stood erect again and yelled: 'Praise the Sunrise Warrior!'

Then he dropped to a crouch again and burrowed through the crowd before Tennyson could pinpoint him.

Tennyson had seen the flurry of violent movement that resulted in his assassin being sent reeling. But then he lost sight of the infuriating heckler who was destroying his momentum. Now, as the voice rang out from another part of the crowd, he went on the attack.

`The Sunrise Warrior?' he sneered. 'Where is he? Let'ssee him if he's so powerful. Produce him here and now. There is no Sunrise Warrior!'

His sycophants echoed the scornful words, demanding that the Sunrise Warrior step forward and be seen. But now a deep voice answered them, and a scuffle of movement could be seen at the front of the crowd, below the platform where Tennyson stood.

`You demand the Sunrise Warrior, you charlatan? Then here he is! And here I am with him!'

At least a hundred surprised voices all exclaimed at once. 'The King!'

And a stocky figure in a green brocade cloak shoved his way onto the stage, flanked by a broad-shouldered warrior with a sunrise insignia on his surcoat, and a slimmer, dark-haired warrior who many recognised as the King's steward, Sean Carrick.

There was a collective gasp of surprise from the people assembled in the marketplace. It was Ferris, they all realised. And confirming it was the fact he was escorted by half a dozen members of the palace guard, who now took up positions screening him.

Will's eyes narrowed. He saw the drawn-back, dark hair, the shaved face and the royal robes. But somehow, he knew this wasn't Ferris. It was Halt. And just in time, he thought. Then, as the robed figure revealed the full force of his personality, he knew he was right.

`Who will protect you?' he thundered. 'I will! And not this mountebank, this sideshow performer from a county fair! He talks about some unseen god. I have the real power of ancient legend with me! The Sunrise Warrior!'

He indicated Horace, who drew his sword with a ringing sound of steel on leather and raised it high above his head, exposing, as he did so, the bright orange sunrise insignia he wore on his chest.

`The Sunrise Warrior!' The words ran around the square. Horace stepped back, re-sheathing his sword, leaving the focus on Halt once more.

`This man,' Halt continued, indicating Tennyson, whose face was twisted in rage, 'is a liar and a thief. He'll draw you in with words of honey then he'll take all you own. And he'll do it in the name of a false god!'

`There's nothing false about Alseiass,' Tennyson began.

`Then produce him for us!' Halt bellowed, cutting Tennyson off. Unpopular the King might be, but he was still the King. And with Halt playing the role he projected a powerful aura of authority. 'Produce him as I have produced the legendary warrior who'll defend us! You asked to see the Warrior and here he is! Now I demand to see this false god you prattle about! Produce him – if you can!'

The crowd began to drift his way, echoing the demand. Seizing the opportunity this gave him, Halt turned to challenge them.

`How many of you had ever heard of this "Golden God" before this huckster told you about him?' he demanded. There was no answer and he followed up with a roar. 'Well? How many?'

Feet shuffled awkwardly in the crowd. Then he spoke again.

`And how many have heard of the Sunrise Warrior?' This time, there were a few mumbled 'yeses' from the crowd, then the trickle became a torrent. Alseiass was new and unfamiliar. They all knew the legend of the Sunrise Warrior.

Tennyson, lips compressed in an angry line, stepped forward, hands up to silence them.

`Prooff he shouted. 'Let's see proof! Anyone can put on a shirt with a picture of the sun on it and claim to be this mythical warrior! We want proof!'

A few voices agreed, then more and more. A mob was a fickle animal, Will thought. Operating on blind instinct, it could be swayed first one way, then the other.

`Give us proof!' they shouted.

Now it was Halt's turn to raise his hands for silence.

`What proof do you want?' he shouted. 'The Warrior saved the village of Craikennis! He defeated two hundred and fifty men with his flaming sword!'

`And who saw this?' Tennyson demanded quickly. 'No one here! If he's the mighty warrior you claim, let him prove it in the surest manner of all! In combat!'

Now the crowd were really aroused. They might not know which of the two men they believed, but they were all eager at the thought of seeing a duel to the death. This was turning out to be a most diverting day.

`Trial by combat!' they chorused, and the demand swelled until Halt again raised his hands. The shouts died away and he faced Tennyson.

`And who is your champion?' he demanded.

Tennyson smiled. 'Not one but two. Let him face my twin retainers, Gerard and Killeen!'

He threw an arm back in a dramatic flourish to indicate the two islander giants. They stepped up onto the platform and the crowd howled in delight at the size of them.

Again, Halt had to wait for the shouting to die down. `You expect him to fight two men?' he asked.

Tennyson smiled again, appealing to the crowd.

`What's two men to a warrior who defeated two hundred and fifty?' he asked and the crowd yelled their support.

Halt hesitated. He'd expected a challenge to combat but he didn't believe Horace, with all his skill, could fight these two giants at the same time.

As he searched for a way out of the predicament, Horace stepped forward again. He moved close to Tennyson, invasively close, and the look in his eye caused the self-proclaimed prophet to take a small pace back. But even a small pace was enough to establish Horace's dominance.

`You talk of trial by combat, you cowardly fake!' He didn't seem to be shouting but his voice carried to all sides of the crowd. 'Trial by combat is single combat!'

Will decided it was time to join in again and make sure the crowd supported Horace. At the moment, he realised, they were ready to agree to anything.

`He's right!' he shouted. 'Single combat!'

And he felt a huge surge of relief when those around him took up the cry.

`Single combat! Single combat!' As he'd hoped, they didn't care about what was fair, but they wanted a show and they knew single combat would last longer than a one-sided competition of one on two.

Again, Horace's voice rang out over the square. His eyes were locked on Tennyson's.

`I'll fight both your mountains of blubber!' he said. `One at a time. One after the other. I'll defeat them and then I'll fight you, if you've the courage!'

And he shoved Tennyson hard in the chest, sending the white-robed man staggering back a pace. Behind Horace, the two islander giants started forward to their leader's defence. But they'd barely moved when Horace spun to face them. His sword seemed to leap into his hand of its own volition, and stopped with its gleaming point at the throat of the nearest of the two, stopping them both in their tracks.

There was a gasp of admiration at his blinding speed. Most of those present didn't even see him move. One moment he was facing Tennyson. The next his sword was threatening the two immense islanders. Instantly, Will saw there was another way to enlist the crowd's support.

`Two fights!' he yelled. 'Two fights instead of one!'

And they took up the cry. Now they had a chance of seeing twice as much bloodshed. And to this baying, half-drunk rabble, that meant twice the entertainment.

Tennyson, his face red with anger, glared at the crowd. He seemed about to demur but the shouting intensified, drowning him out.

`Two fights! Let's see two fights! Two fights! Two fights! Two fights!'

It became a rhythmic, insistent chant, one that brooked no argument. Tennyson understood mobs and as he listened to that repetitive, mindless chant, he knew he had no way of changing their mind.

He raised his hands and the chant died away. The mob watched him expectantly.

`Very well!' he agreed. 'Two fights!'

And the mob roared in exultation, taking up the chant again. Halt looked at Horace, a question in his eyes. Horace nodded confidently.

`Not a problem… your majesty.' He grinned as he added the last two words.