The Siege of Macindaw

12

It was snowing again. The heavy cloud cover masked the arrival of dawn, particularly in the forest where Will and Horace were camped. Consequently, there was no moment when Will knew the sun had risen, just a gradual brightening in the dull gray light that covered the countryside. Without noticing the transition from dark to light, Will realized he could see his hand clearly when he held it up, where, a few minutes previously, he had been conscious only of a dark blur.

Their little camp, consisting of a low two-man tent and a canvas shelter strung between two trees, was in a clearing they had hacked out, twenty meters to the side of the track that led toward the border with Picta. They were far enough from the track to remain unseen by anyone passing by, close enough to hear if anyone did.

Two days had passed since Will had read Alyss's message. The two companions had decided to keep watch over the track, in order to intercept and observe the mysterious Scotti general whenever he arrived. Once they knew the size of his party, they could organize an ambush for his return trip.

In addition to their observation post, Malcolm had placed a screen of observers in the woods, keeping watch over the trails and paths that led down from the mountains that barred the way into Picta. His people were used to seeing without being seen, he told them. Their safety had depended for years on their ability to remain hidden.

In the tent, Will heard Horace stir. Then the warrior's face, tangle haired and bleary eyed, appeared at the small triangular entrance. Will was sitting on his heels under the canvas shelter.

"Morning," Horace said grumpily. Will nodded, saying nothing. Horace crawled out through the tent entrance. He reflected that it was impossible to exit from a small tent like this without ending up with two wet patches on the knees. He stood stiffly, stretching himself and groaning slightly.

"Any sign of them yet?" he asked.

Will looked at him. "Yes," he said. "A party of fifty Scotti came through just twenty minutes ago."

"Really?" Horace looked startled. He wasn't fully awake yet.

Will rolled his eyes to heaven. "Oh, my word, yes," he said."They were riding on oxen and playing bagpipes and drums. Of course not," he went on."If they had come past, I would have woken you – if only to stop your snoring."

"I don't snore," Horace said, with dignity.

Will raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he said. "Then in that case, you'd better chase out that colony of walruses who are in the tent with you."

Horace reached for the canteen hanging from a tree nearby and took a long draft of the icy water. Then he rummaged in a pack for a piece of hard bread and some dried fruit. He frowned at it. "Breakfast," he said distastefully.

Will shrugged unsympathetically. "I've had worse."

Horace bit off a piece of bread and hunkered down beside the Ranger under the canvas awning. Already, there were snowflakes in his hair and dusting his shoulders from the few minutes he had spent in the open air.

"So have I," he said. "But I don't have to like it."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Horace shifted restlessly every so often. Will, trained to remain silent and unmoving for hours at a time, regarded his old friend sympathetically. Warriors were, by definition, men of action. It went against all their training to simply sit and wait for events to take place.

More to take Horace's mind off the boredom of waiting than for any other reason, he asked, "Do you see much of Evanlyn these days?"

Horace glanced at him quickly. Evanlyn was the Crown Princess Cassandra of Araluen. When Will and Horace had first met her, she had been traveling under the name Evanlyn. Horace knew there had been a special bond between Will and the Princess when they had both been captives of the Skandians. He wondered how strong that bond was these days. It was the first time Will had mentioned her since Horace had arrived. Not surprising, really, he thought. They'd had little opportunity to discuss personal matters since he'd arrived in the fief. The recruiting of the Skandians, Alyss's signals and now the imminent arrival of the mysterious Scotti general had taken up most of their attention.

"I see her from time to time," he said briefly.

Will nodded, giving nothing away. "Unavoidable, I suppose," he said."After all, you are based at the castle. I suppose you'd bump into her occasionally, wouldn't you?"

"Well… a little more than occasionally," Horace said carefully. In fact, he and the Princess saw a good deal of each other socially, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to go into that with Will. In the past, he had sensed a slight tension between himself and his friend when it came to Evanlyn, and he didn't want to re-create it now. He realized that Will was watching him and felt the need to add more.

"I mean, there are balls and dances and such," he said. He didn't add that he was usually invited by Cassandra as her partner for these occasions. "And picnics, of course," he added, immediately wishing that he hadn't. Will arched an eyebrow.

"Picnics?" he said. "How lovely. Sounds like life is one big picnic at the castle these days."

Horace took a deep breath, then decided it might be better if he didn't respond. He stood up and rubbed the small of his back, where the muscles were still stiff.

"I'm getting too old for this camping-out lark," he said. Will noticed the deliberate change of subject and had the grace to feel embarrassed at the way he had been acting. After all, it wasn't Horace's fault that he was based at Castle Araluen. And as an old friend of Evanlyn – Cassandra, rather – it was only logical that he should spend time with her.

"Sorry, Horace," he said,"I spoke out of turn there. I suppose I'm a little edgy. I hate all this waiting around doing nothing."

As a matter of fact, he was completely accustomed to it, and it didn't bother him. Horace looked at him, recognizing the gambit as a peace gesture. His face lit up with that easy grin of his, and Will knew that the awkward moment had passed.

And of course, it was at that instant that Malcolm's man Ambrose slipped into the clearing, calling to them in a hoarse whisper,"Ranger! Sir Horace! The Scotti are coming!"

There were nine of them all told: General MacHaddish and eight warriors forming his escort.

MacHaddish marched at the head of the small column. He was a muscular man but quite stocky – few Scotti were tall. His head was shaven, apart from one long, tightly plaited pigtail that hung down on the left side of his crown. He was wrapped in a coarse woolen tartan upper garment that was nothing more than an elongated blanket. It wound around his shoulders and torso, leaving his arms bare, even in this freezing cold weather. He wore a long kilt of the same material and sheepskin boots. A two-handed broadsword was slung at his back, its massive hilt protruding above his head. The left side of his face was painted in thick stripes of blue, marking him as a general of the second, or lower, rank. On his right cheek and his bare arms, darker-toned tattoos were etched permanently into his skin.

In his left hand, he carried a small, iron-studded shield, a little bigger than a dinner plate.

His men were similarly dressed, in the same dull red-and-blue-checked tartan. But the paint on their faces extended around the eyes only, forming a blue mask on each of them and marking them as common soldiers. One or two wore swords, although none as large as the general's broadsword. Most of them carried clubs – heavy affairs studded with spikes – and the same small, round shields. In each boot top, Will could make out the hilt of a long dirk, for fighting at close quarters.

The Ranger stood, unmoving and wrapped in his cloak, less than two meters from the edge of the track, as the nine men moved past him at a steady jog. Horace, some five meters farther back in the trees, marveled at the way his friend could merge so successfully into the background as to become virtually invisible. Even Horace, who knew exactly where Will was standing, found it hard to pick him out. The ability to get so close to a potential enemy was a real benefit, Horace thought. One could observe so much more detail at that distance.

The shuffling crunch of the Scottis' boots in the thickening snow died away as the small column rounded a bend in the track. Horace watched the last trace of dull red tartan fade among the trees, then stepped forward to where Will was waiting. "What now?" he asked.

The Ranger glanced up at him. "We'll follow at a distance, make sure they've gone to Macindaw. Then we'll arrange a reception for them when they head home."

Horace voiced a doubt that had been nagging at him for some time. "What if they go home by a different route?"

Will was silent for a few seconds.

" Then we'll have to improvise something," he said, then added, with a flash of annoyance, "For god's sake! Stop trying to make me worry!"