The Burning Bridge Read online

  “Oh, dear,” said Carney. “Have we got our daddy’s sword with us?”

  Horace eyed him, suddenly very calm. “I’ll give you one chance,” he said, “to turn around and leave now.”

  Bart and Carney exchanged mock terrified looks.

  “Oh, dear, Bart,” said Carney. “It’s our one chance. What’ll us do?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Bart. “Let’s run away.”

  They began to advance on Horace and he watched them coming. He had the practice stick in his left hand now and the sword in his right. He tensed, balanced on the balls of his feet as they advanced on him, Carney with the rusty, ragged-edged sword snaking in front of him and Bart with the spiked cudgel laid back on his shoulder, ready for use.

  Will scrambled to his feet and began to move toward his weapons. Seeing the action, Carney moved to cut him off. He hadn’t gone a pace when Horace attacked.

  He darted forward and his sword flashed in an overhead cut at Carney. Startled by the sheer speed of the apprentice warrior’s move, Carney barely had time to bring his own blade up in a clumsy parry. Thrown off balance and totally unprepared for the surprising force and authority behind the stroke, he stumbled backward and sprawled in the dust.

  In the same instant, Bart, seeing his companion in trouble, stepped forward and swung the heavy club in a vicious arc at Horace’s unprotected left side. His expectation was for Horace to try to leap back to avoid the blow. Instead, the apprentice warrior stepped forward. The practice stick in his left hand flicked up and outward, catching the heavy cudgel in its downward arc and deflecting it away from its intended line. The club’s spiked head thudded dully into the stony ground and Bart let go a deep “whoof” of surprise, the impact jarring his arm from shoulder to wrist.

  But Horace wasn’t finished yet. He continued the forward lunge, and now he and Bart stood shoulder to shoulder. It was too close for Horace to use the blade of his sword. Instead, he swung his right fist, hammering the heavy brass pommel of his sword hilt into the side of Bart’s head.

  The bandit’s eyes glazed and he collapsed to his knees, semiconscious, head swaying slowly from side to side.

  Carney, backpedaling furiously through the sand, had regained his feet. Now he stood watching Horace, puzzled and angry, unable to grasp the fact that he and his companion had been bested by a mere boy. Luck, he thought. Sheer dumb luck!

  His lips formed into a snarl and he gripped the sword tightly, advancing once more on the boy, mouthing threats and curses as he went. Horace stood his ground, waiting. Something in the boy’s calm gaze made Carney hesitate. He should have gone with his first instincts and given the fight away then and there. But anger overcame him and he started forward again.

  By now, he was paying no attention to Will. The Ranger’s apprentice darted around the campsite, grabbing his bow and quiver and hastily stepping his right foot through the recurve to brace the bow against his left while he slid the string up into its notch.

  Quickly, he selected an arrow and nocked it to the string. He was about to draw back when a calm voice behind him said:

  “Don’t shoot him. I’d rather like to see this.”

  Startled, he turned to find Gilan behind him, almost invisible in the folds of his Ranger cloak, leaning nonchalantly on his longbow.

  “Gilan!” he began, but the Ranger made a sign for silence.

  “Just let him go,” he said softly. “He’ll be fine as long as we don’t distract him.”

  “But,” Will began desperately, looking to where his friend was facing a full-grown, very angry man. Sensing his concern, Gilan hurried to reassure him.

  “Horace will handle him,” he said. “He really is very good, you know. A natural, if ever I saw one. That bit with the practice stick and the hilt strike was sheer poetry. Lovely improvisation!”

  Shaking his head in wonder, Will turned back to the fight. Now Carney attacked, hacking and lunging and cutting with a blind fury and terrifying power. Horace gradually gave way before him, his own sword moving in small, semicircular actions that blocked every cut and hack and thrust and jarred Carney’s wrist and elbow with the strength and impenetrability of his defense. All the while, Gilan was whispering an approving commentary beside Will.

  “Good boy!” he said. “See how he’s letting the other fellow start proceedings? Gives him an idea of how skillful he might be. Or otherwise. My God, Horace has the timing of that defensive swing just about perfect! Look at that! And that! Terrific!”

  Now Horace had apparently decided not to back away any farther. Continuing to parry Carney’s every stroke with obvious ease, he stood his ground, letting the bandit expend his strength like the sea breaking on a rock. And as he stood, Carney’s strokes became slower and more ragged. His arm was beginning to ache with the effort of wielding the long, heavy sword. He was really more accustomed to using a knife to the back of most of his opponents and he hadn’t looked for this engagement to go past one or two crushing, hacking strokes to break down the boy’s guard before killing him. But his most devastating blows had been flicked aside with apparent contempt.

  He swung again, losing his balance in the follow-through. Horace’s blade caught his, spun it in a circle, holding it with his own, then let it rasp down its length until their crosspieces locked.

  They stood there, eye to eye, Carney’s chest heaving, Horace absolutely calm and totally in control. The first worm of fear appeared in Carney’s stomach as he realized that, boy or not, he was hopelessly outmatched in this contest.

  And at that point, Horace went on the attack.

  He drove his shoulder into Carney’s chest, unlocking their blades and sending the bandit staggering back. Then, calmly, Horace advanced, swinging his sword in confusing, terrifying combinations. Side, overhead, thrust. Side, side, backhand, overhead. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Forehand. Backhand. One combination flowed smoothly into the next and Carney scrambled desperately, trying to bring his own blade between himself and the implacable sword that seemed to have a life and an inexhaustible energy all its own. He felt his wrist and arm tiring, while Horace’s strokes grew stronger and firmer until finally, with a dull and final clang, Horace simply beat the sword from his numbed grasp.

  Carney sank to his knees, sweat pouring off him and running into his eyes, chest heaving with exertion, waiting for the final stroke that would end it all.

  “Don’t kill him, Horace!” called Gilan. “I’d like to ask him some questions.”

  Horace looked up, surprised to see the tall Ranger standing there. He shrugged. He wasn’t really the type to kill an opponent in cold blood anyway. He flicked Carney’s sword to one side, way out of reach. Then, setting one boot against the defeated bandit’s shoulder, he shoved him over in the dust on his side.

  Carney lay there, sobbing, unable to move. Terrified. Worn-out. Physically and mentally defeated.

  “Where did you come from?” Horace asked Gilan indignantly. “And why didn’t you give me a hand?”

  Gilan grinned at him. “You didn’t seem to need one, from what I could see,” he replied. Then he gestured behind Horace to where Bart was slowly rising from his kneeling position, shaking his head as the effect of the hilt strike began to wear off.

  “I think your other friend needs a little attention,” he suggested. Horace turned and casually raised his sword, swinging it to clang, flat-bladed, against Bart’s skull.

  Another small moan and Bart went facedown in the sand.

  “I really think you might have said something,” Horace said.

  “I would have if you were in trouble,” Gilan said. Then he moved across the clearing to stand over Carney. He seized the bandit by the arm and dragged him upright, frog-marching him across the clearing to throw him, none too gently, against the rock face at the far side. As Carney began to sag forward, there was a hiss of steel on leather and Gilan’s saxe knife appeared at his throat, keeping him upright.

  “It seems these two caught you napping?” Gilan asked Will.


  The boy nodded, shamefaced. Then, as the full import of the comment sank in, he asked: “Just how long have you been here?”

  “Since they arrived,” Gilan said. “I hadn’t gone far when I saw them skulking through the rocks. So I left Blaze and doubled back here, trailing them. Obviously they were up to no good.”

  “Why didn’t you say something then?” Will asked incredulously.

  For a moment, Gilan’s eyes hardened. “Because you two needed a lesson. You’re in dangerous territory, the population seems to have mysteriously disappeared and you stand around practicing sword craft for all the world to see and hear.”

  “But,” Will stammered, “I thought we were supposed to practice?”

  “Not when there’s no one else to keep an eye on things,” Gilan pointed out reasonably. “Once you start practicing like that, your attention is completely distracted. These two made enough noise to alert a deaf old granny. Tug even gave you a warning call twice and you missed it.”

  Will was totally crestfallen. “I did?” he said, and Gilan nodded. For a moment, his gaze held Will’s, until he was sure the lesson had been driven home and the point taken. Then he nodded slightly, signifying that the matter was closed. Will nodded in return. It wouldn’t happen again.

  “Now,” said Gilan, “let’s find out what these two beauties know about the price of coal.”

  He turned back to Carney, who was now going quite cross-eyed as he tried to watch the gleaming saxe knife pressed against his throat.

  “How long have you been in Celtica?” Gilan asked him. Carney looked up at him, then back to the heavy knife.

  “Tuh-tuh-tuh-ten or eleven days, my lord,” he stammered eventually.

  Gilan made a pained face. “Don’t call me ‘my lord,’” he said, adding as an aside to the two boys, “These people always try to flatter you when they realize they’re in trouble. Now…” He returned his gaze to Carney. “What brought you here?”

  Carney hesitated, his eyes sliding away from Gilan’s direct gaze so that the Ranger knew he was going to lie even before the bandit spoke.

  “Just…wanted to see the sights, my…sir,” he amended, remembering at the last moment Gilan’s instruction not to call him “my lord.” Gilan sighed and shook his head with exasperation.

  “Look, I’d just as soon lop your head off here and now. I really doubt that you have anything useful to tell me. But I’ll give you one last chance. Now let’s have THE TRUTH!”

  He shouted the last two words angrily, his face suddenly only a few inches away from Carney’s. The sudden transition from the languid, joking manner he had been using came as a shock to the bandit. Just for a few seconds, Gilan let his good-natured shield slip and Carney saw through to the white-hot anger that was just below the surface. In that instant, he was afraid. Like most people, he was nervous of Rangers. Rangers were not people to make angry. And this one seemed to be very, very angry.

  “We heard there were good pickings down here!” he answered immediately.

  “Good pickings?” Gilan asked, and Carney nodded dutifully, the floodgates of conversation now well and truly open.

  “All the towns and cities deserted. Nobody there to guard them, and all their valuables left lying around for us’n to take as we chose. We didn’t harm nobody though,” he concluded, a little defensively.

  “Oh, no. You didn’t harm them. You just crept in while they were gone and stole everything of value that they owned,” Gilan told him. “I should think they’d be almost grateful for your contribution!”

  “It was Bart’s idea, not mine,” Carney tried, and Gilan shook his head sadly.

  “Gilan?” Will said tentatively, and the Ranger turned to look at him. “How would they have heard that the towns were deserted? We didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Thieves’ grapevine,” Gilan told the two boys. “It’s like the way vultures gather whenever an animal is in trouble. The intelligence network between thieves and robbers and brigands is incredibly fast. Once a place is in trouble, word spreads like wildfire and they come down on it in their scores. I should imagine there are plenty more of them through these hills.”

  He turned back to Carney as he said it, prodding the saxe knife a little deeper into the flesh of his neck, just holding it back so that it didn’t draw blood.

  “Aren’t there?” he asked. Carney went to nod, realized what might happen if his neck moved, gulped instead and whispered:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I should imagine you’ve got a cave somewhere, or a deserted mine tunnel, where you’ve stowed the loot you’ve stolen so far?”

  He eased the pressure on the knife and this time Carney was able to manage a nod. His fingers fluttered toward the belt pouch that he wore at his waist, then stopped as he realized what he was doing. But Gilan had caught the gesture. With his free hand, he ripped open the pouch and fumbled inside it, finally withdrawing a grubby sheet of paper, folded in quarters. He passed it to Will.

  “Take a look,” he said briefly, and Will unfolded the paper, revealing a clumsily drawn map with reference points, directions and distances all indicated.

  “They’ve buried their loot, by the look of this,” he said, and Gilan nodded, smiling thinly.

  “Good. Then without their map, they won’t be able to find it again,” he said, and Carney’s eyes shot wide open in protest.

  “But that’s ours…” he began, stopping as he saw the dangerous glint in Gilan’s eyes.

  “It was stolen,” the Ranger said, in a very low voice. “You crept in like jackals and stole it from people who are obviously in deep trouble. It’s not yours. It’s theirs. Or their family’s, if they’re still alive.”

  “They’re still alive,” said a new voice from behind them. “They’ve run from Morgarath—those he hasn’t already captured.”

  12

  SIR MONTAGUE KEPT ALYSS WAITING FOR OVER AN HOUR BEFORE deigning to receive her.

  Halt and Alyss waited in the anteroom to Montague’s office. Halt stood to one side, leaning impassively on his longbow. Montague was an oaf, he thought. As a Courier on official business Alyss should have been greeted without delay. Obviously aware of her youth, the Master of Cobram Keep was attempting to assert his own importance by treating her as an everyday messenger.

  He watched the girl approvingly as she sat, straight-backed and erect, in one of the hard chairs in the anteroom. She appeared calm and unflustered in spite of the insult she was being offered. She had changed from her riding clothes when they were a few kilometers from the castle and she was now dressed in the simple but elegant white gown of a Courier. The bronze laurel branch pin, the symbol of her authority, fastened a short blue cape at her right shoulder.

  For his part, Halt had left his distinctive mottled Ranger’s cloak folded on the pommel of Abelard’s saddle. His longbow and quiver, however, he retained. He never went anywhere without them.

  Alyss glanced up at him and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, to her. Don’t let him make you angry. She returned the nod, acknowledging the message. Her hands, which were clenched into fists on her knees, slowly relaxed as she took several deep breaths.

  This girl is very good, Halt thought.

  Montague’s secretary had obviously been well briefed by his master. After peremptorily waving Alyss to a chair and leaving Halt to stand, he had busied himself with paperwork and resolutely ignored them—rising several times to take items in to the inner office. Finally, at the sound of a small bell tinkling from beyond the door, he looked up and gestured toward the office.

  “You can go in now,” he said disinterestedly. Alyss frowned slightly. Protocol dictated that a Courier should be properly announced, but the man obviously had no intention of doing so. She rose gracefully and moved toward the door, Halt following. That got the secretary’s attention.

  “You can wait here, forester,” he said rudely. Without the cloak, there was little to distinguish Halt from a yeoman. He was dressed in simple b
rown leggings, soft leather boots and a green surcoat. The double knife scabbard had apparently escaped the secretary’s notice. Or perhaps he didn’t realize its significance.

  “He’s with me,” Alyss said. The unmistakable tone of authority in her voice stopped the man cold. He hesitated, then rose from behind the desk and moved toward Halt.

  “Very well. But you’d better leave that bow with me,” he said, without quite the certainty that he had displayed earlier. He held out his hand for the bow, then met Halt’s eyes. He saw something very dangerous there and he actually flinched.

  “All right, all right. Keep it if you must,” he muttered. He backed away, more than a little flustered, retreating behind the secure bulk of his desk. Halt opened the door for Alyss, then followed her as she entered the office.

  Montague of Cobram was seated at a large oaken table that served as a desk. He was studying a letter and didn’t look up from it as Alyss approached. Halt was willing to bet that the letter was about something totally unimportant. The man was playing silly mind games, he thought.

  But Alyss was up to the challenge. She stepped forward and produced a heavy scroll from her sleeve, slapping it briskly down on the table before Montague. He started in surprise, looking up. Halt hid a smile.

  “Alyss Mainwaring, Sir Montague, Courier from Redmont Castle. My credentials.”

  Montague wasn’t just an oaf, Halt thought. He was a fop as well. His satin doublet was formed in alternating quarters of scarlet and gold. His reddish blond hair was left in overlong curls, framing a somewhat chubby face with slightly bulging blue eyes and a petulant mouth. He was of average height, but of some what more than average weight. He would be passably handsome, Halt supposed, if he could shed a few kilos in weight, but the man obviously liked to indulge himself. He recovered now from his momentary surprise and leaned back in his chair, adopting a languid, slightly disapproving tone.

  “Good heavens, girl, you can’t come in here throwing your credentials on the desk like that! Don’t they teach good manners at Redmont Castle these days?”