As it began to grow dark, Gilan finally called an end to their search. They returned to the Riadhah’s house, where they unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down in the shelter of the small porch at the front of the building.
They spent an uneasy night in the house. At least, Will did and he assumed Horace was as uncomfortable as he was. Gilan, for his part, seemed relatively unperturbed, rolling himself into his cloak and falling instantly asleep when Will relieved him after the first watch. But Gilan’s manner was more subdued than normal and Will guessed that the Ranger was more concerned by this baffling turn of events than he was letting on.
As he stood his watch, Will was amazed at how much noise a house could make. Doors creaked, floors groaned, the ceiling seemed to sigh with every breath of wind outside. And the village itself seemed full of loose items that would bang and clatter as well, bringing Will to a nervous, wide-eyed attention as he sat by the unglazed window in the front room of the house, the wooden shutters hooked back to keep them secure.
The moon seemed keen to join in on the subterfuge as well, soaring high above the village and casting deep pools of shadow between the houses of the village. Shadows that seemed to move slightly when you caught sight of them out of the corner of your eye, then stopped as soon as you stared directly at them.
More movement came as clouds flew across the face of the moon, alternately causing the main square to be illuminated, then plunged into sudden darkness.
Just after midnight, as Gilan had predicted, a steady rain set in and the other noises were joined by the gurgle of running water and the plash-plash-plash of drops falling off eaves and into puddles below.
Will woke Horace to take over the watch at around two in the morning. He piled up a stack of cushions and bed-covers on the floor of the main room, wrapped his cloak around him and lay down.
Then he lay awake for another hour and a half, listening to the creaks, the groans, the gurgles and the splashes, wondering whether Horace had dropped off to sleep and whether, even now, some unseen horror was creeping up on the house, bloodthirsty and unstoppable.
He was still worrying about it when he finally fell asleep.
They were on the road early the following morning. The rain had stopped just before dawn and Gilan was keen to press on to Gwyntaleth, the first large town on their route, and find some answers to the puzzles that they had found so far in Celtica. They had a quick, cold breakfast, washed down with icy water from the village well, then saddled up and rode out.
They wound down the stony path from the village, taking their time on the uneven surface. But when they hit the main road once more, they urged their horses into a canter. They held the canter for twenty minutes, then rested the horses by riding at a walk for the next twenty. They maintained that alternating, steady pattern through the morning.
They ate a quick meal in the middle of the day, then rode on. This was the principal mining area of Celtica and they passed at least a dozen coal or iron mines: large black holes cut into the sides of hills and mountains, surrounded by timber shoring and stone buildings. Nowhere, however, did they see any sign of life. It was as if the inhabitants of Celtica had simply vanished from the face of the earth.
‘They may have deserted their border post, and even their villages,’ Gilan muttered once, almost to himself. ‘But I’ve never yet met a Celt who would desert a mine while there was an ounce of metal still to be torn from it.’
Eventually, in midafternoon, they came over a crest and there, in a valley dropping away from them, were the neat rows of stone roofs that formed Gwyntaleth township. A small spire in the centre of the town marked a temple – the Celts had their own unique religion, which had to do with the gods of fire and iron. A larger tower formed the main defensive position for the town.
They were too far away to make out whether there might be any movement of people in the streets. But, as before, there was no sign of smoke from the chimneys and, even more significantly, according to Gilan, no noise.
‘Noise?’ Horace asked. ‘What kind of noise?’
‘Banging, hammering, clanking,’ Gilan answered him briefly. ‘Remember, the Celts don’t just mine iron ore. They work the iron as well. With the breeze blowing from the south-west as it is, we should be able to hear the forges at work, even from this distance.’
‘Well, let’s go see then,’ Will said, and began to urge Tug forward. Gilan, however, put up a hand to restrain him.
‘I think perhaps I might go on ahead alone,’ he said slowly, his eyes never leaving the town in the valley below them. Will looked at him, puzzled.
‘Alone?’ he asked and Gilan nodded.
‘You noted yesterday that we were making ourselves pretty obvious when we rode into Pordellath. Perhaps it’s time we became a little more circumspect. Something is going on and I’d like to know what it is.’
Will had to agree that it made good sense for Gilan to go on alone. After all, he was possibly the best unseen mover in the Ranger Corps, and Rangers were the best unseen movers in the Kingdom.
Gilan motioned for them to fall back from the crest they were standing on, and down the other side to a spot where a small gully formed a sheltered camp site, out of the wind.
‘Set up a camp here,’ he told them. ‘No fires. We’ll have to stay with cold rations until we know what’s going on. I should be back some time after dark.’
And with that, he wheeled Blaze and trotted him back over the crest and down the road towards Gwyntaleth.
Will and Horace took half an hour or so to set up the camp site. There was little to do. They attached their tarpaulin to some scrubby bushes growing out of the stone wall of the gully, weighing down the other end with rocks. At least there were plenty of them. This gave them a triangular shelter in case the rain set in again. Then they prepared a fireplace in front of the shelter. Gilan had said no fires, but if he arrived back in the middle of the night and changed those orders, they might as well be ready.
It took a considerably longer time to stack a supply of firewood. The only real source was the scrubby heather that covered the hillsides. The roots and branches of the bush were tough but highly flammable. The two boys hacked out a reasonable supply, Horace using the small hatchet he carried in his pack and Will his saxe knife. Eventually, with all their housekeeping taken care of, they sat on either side of the empty fireplace, their backs leaning against rocks. Will spent a few minutes running his sharpening stone over the saxe knife, restoring its razor-sharp edge.
‘I really prefer camping in forest areas,’ Horace said, shifting his back for the tenth time against the unyielding rock behind him.
Will grunted in reply. But Horace was bored and kept on talking, more for the sake of having something to do than because he really wanted to.
‘After all, in a forest, you have lots of firewood, ready to hand. It just falls out of the trees for you.’
‘Not while you wait,’ Will disagreed. He, too, was talking more for the sake of it than anything else.
‘No. Not while you wait. Usually it’s already happened before you arrive,’ Horace said. ‘Plus in a forest, you’ve usually got pine needles or leaves on the ground. And that makes for a softer sleeping place. And there are logs and trees to sit on and lean against. And they have a lot fewer sharp edges than rock.’
Again, he wriggled his back to a temporarily more comfortable spot. He glanced up at Will, rather hoping that the apprentice Ranger might disagree with him. Then they could argue to pass the time. Will however, merely grunted again. He inspected the edge of his saxe knife, slid the knife back into its scabbard and lay back. Uncomfortable, he sat up again, undid the knife belt and draped it over his pack, along with his bow and quiver. Then he lay back, his head on a flat piece of stone. He closed his eyes. The sleepless night he had spent had left him drained and flat.
Horace sighed to himself, then took out his sword and began honing its edge – quite unnecessarily, as it was already razor-sharp. But it was som
ething to do. He rasped away, glancing occasionally at Will to see if his friend was asleep. For a moment, he thought he was, but then the smaller boy suddenly squirmed around, sat up and reached for his cloak. Bundling it up, he put it on the flat stone he was using as a head rest, then lay back again.
‘You’re right about forests,’ he said crankily. ‘Much more comfortable places to camp.’
Horace said nothing. He decided his sword was sharp enough and slid it back into its oiled leather scabbard, leaning the sheathed weapon against the rock face beside him.
He watched Will again, as he tried to find a comfortable spot. No matter how he twisted and squirmed, there was always a pebble or a piece of rock poking into his back or side. Five or ten minutes passed, then Horace finally said:
‘Want to practise? It’ll pass the time.’
Will opened his eyes and considered the idea. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he was never going to get to sleep on this hard, stony ground.
‘Why not?’ He rummaged in his pack for his practice weapons, then joined Horace on the far side of the tent, where he was scraping a practice circle in the sandy gully floor. The two boys took up their positions, then, at a nod from Horace, they began.
Will was improving but Horace was definitely the master at this exercise. Will couldn’t help admiring the speed and balance he showed as he wielded the wooden sword in a dazzling series of backhands, forehands, side cuts and overheads. Furthermore, when he knew he had beaten Will’s defensive posture, he would, at the last moment, hold back from whacking him. Instead, he would lightly touch the spot where his blow would have fallen, to demonstrate the point.
He didn’t do it with any sense of superiority, either. Weapons practice, even with wooden weapons, was a serious part of Horace’s life nowadays. It wasn’t something to crow about when you were better than your opponent. Horace had learned only too well in dozens of practice bouts at the Battleschool that it never paid to underestimate an opponent.
Instead, he used his superior ability to help Will, showing him how to anticipate strokes, teaching him the basic combinations that all swordsmen used and the best way to defeat them.
As Will ruefully acknowledged, knowing how to do it was one thing. Actually doing it was an entirely different matter. He realised how much his former enemy had matured and wondered if the same changes were evident in himself. He didn’t think so. He didn’t feel any different. And whenever he saw himself in a mirror he didn’t seem to look any different either.
‘Your left hand is dropping too far,’ Horace pointed out as they paused between bouts.
‘I know,’ Will said. ‘I’m expecting a side cut and I want to be ready for it.’
Horace shook his head. ‘That’s all very well, but if you drop it too far, it’s easy for me to feint a side cut then swing up into an overhand. See?’
He showed Will the action he was describing, beginning the sword in a wide sideways sweep then, with a powerful wrist movement, taking it up into a high swinging downward stroke. He stopped the wooden blade a few centimetres from Will’s head and the Ranger apprentice saw that his counterstroke would have been far too late.
‘Sometimes I think I’ll never learn these things,’ he said.
Horace patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. ‘Are you kidding?’ he asked. ‘You’re improving every day. And besides, I could never shoot or use those throwing knives the way you do.’
Even while they had been on the road, Gilan had insisted that Will practise his Ranger skills as often as was practical. Horace had been impressed, to say the least, when he had seen how adept the smaller boy had become. Several times, he had shuddered when he thought what might happen if he had to face an archer such as Will. His accuracy with the bow was uncanny, as far as Horace was concerned. He knew that Will could place arrows into every gap in his armour if he chose. Even into the narrow vizor slit of a full-face jousting helmet.
What he didn’t appreciate was that Will’s accuracy was nothing more than average as far as Ranger standards were concerned.
‘Let’s try it again,’ Will suggested wearily. But another voice interrupted them.
‘Let’s not, little boys. Let’s put down our nasty sharp sticks and stand very still, shall us?’
The two apprentices whirled around at the words. There, at the mouth of the small U-shaped gully where they had built their camp, stood two ragged-looking figures. Both were heavily bearded and unkempt and both were dressed in a strange mixture of clothing – some of it tattered and threadbare, while some items were new and obviously very costly. The taller of the two wore a richly brocaded satin vest, but it was thick with dirt. The other sported a scarlet hat with a bedraggled feather in it. He also carried an iron-spiked wooden club, holding it in a hand that was swathed in a dirty bandage. His companion had a long sword, jagged and nicked along the edges. He flourished it now at the two boys.
‘Come on now, you boys. Sharp sticks’re danger-orius for the likes of you,’ he said, and let go a hoarse, guttural laugh.
Will’s hand dropped automatically to reach for the saxe knife, encountering nothing. With a sinking feeling, he realised that his knife belt, bow and quiver were all neatly piled on the far side of the fireplace, where he had been sitting. The two intruders would stop him before he could reach them. He cursed himself for his carelessness. Halt would be furious, he thought. Then, looking at the sword and club, he realised that Halt’s annoyance might be the least of his worries.
Will felt Horace’s hand on his shoulder as the bigger boy began to pull him back from the two bandits.
‘Back away, Will,’ Horace said quietly.
The man with the club laughed. ‘Yes, Will, you back away. You stay away from that nasty little bow I see over there. We don’t hold no truck with bows, do us, Carney?’
Carney grinned at his companion. ‘That we don’t, Bart, that we don’t.’ He looked back at the two boys and frowned angrily. ‘Didn’t we tell you to drop those sticks?’ he demanded, his voice rising in pitch and very, very ugly in tone. Together, the two men began to advance across the clearing.
Horace’s grip now tightened and he jerked Will to one side, sending him sprawling. As he fell, he saw Horace turn to the rocks behind him and grab up his sword. He flicked it once and the scabbard sailed clear of the blade. That easy action alone should have warned Bart and Carney that they were facing someone who knew more than a little about handling weapons. But neither of them was overly bright. They simply saw a boy of about sixteen. A big boy, perhaps, but still a boy. A child, really, with a grown-up weapon in his hand.
‘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 towards 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 backwards 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 expec
tation 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 outwards, 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, semi-conscious, head swaying slowly from side to side.
Carney, back-pedalling 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 camp site, 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.