Burning Bridge (8 page)

“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.”

S
IR
M
ONTAGUE KEPT
A
LYSS 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 brown 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?”

He looked distastefully at the scroll and shoved it to one side.

“They teach protocol, Sir Montague,” Alyss replied, very evenly. “And it requires that you examine and acknowledge my credentials before we proceed.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Montague said, waving a dismissive hand at the scroll. “Take it as read. Take it as read. Now, girl, what brings you here?”

Halt interjected quietly, “The correct form of address, Sir Montague, is ‘Lady Alyss.’”

Montague looked at Halt in genuine surprise, as if he considered him some lower form of life who lacked the ability of speech.

“Is that so, forester?” he said. “And what might your name be?”

Alyss went to speak, but a warning glance from Halt stopped her. He replied, still in the same quiet tone: “Some people call me Arratay, Sir Montague. It’s Gallican,” he added mildly.

Montague raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Gallican, you say? How exotic! Well, Master
Arratay,
perhaps you could leave the talking to me and young Alyss here, would that suit you?”

Halt shrugged and Montague took the movement for assent.

“Wonderful.” Then, dismissing Halt, he turned his attention back to Alyss. “So, sweetheart, what do you have for me? A letter perhaps? Some self-important note from Fat Baron Arald, I’ll be bound?”

There were two small spots of color in Alyss’s cheeks, the only outward sign of the anger that was building up inside her at the man’s offhanded manner. She produced Nigel’s heavy linen envelope from the satchel she wore at her side and offered it across the desk.

“I have an official legal position, prepared under Baron Arald’s seal. He requests that you study it.”

Montague made no move to take the letter.

“Set it down. I’ll look at it when I have time.”

“The Baron requests that you look at it now, sir. And give me your answer.”

Montague rolled his eyes to heaven and took the envelope. “Oh, very well, if it will make you happy.” He sliced the envelope and took out the sheet of parchment inside it, skimming through it, muttering to himself, “Yes…yes…seen it…heard it before…nonsense…rubbish…nonsense.”

He set the page down and pushed it away from him, shaking his head wearily.

“When will you people learn? You can send me all the letters you like. The fact remains, Cobram is an independent hold, owing no allegiance to Redmont Fief. The treaty makes that very clear.”

“I’m instructed to draw your attention to Items Three and Five in the letter, sir. And paragraph nine as well. They make it quite clear that the wording of the treaty is faulty and your claim to independence is totally spurious,” Alyss replied. And now, for the first time, Montague shed the air of world-weariness that he’d assumed. He stood angrily.

“Spurious!” he shouted. “Spurious? Who the devil are you, a little girl in a grown-up’s dress, to come in here insulting me and saying my claim is spurious? How dare you?”

Alyss stood her ground, unmoved by his sudden anger.

“I repeat, sir, you are requested to read those items,” she said quietly. Instead, Montague threw the letter down on the desk between them.

“And I refuse!” he shouted. Then his eyes narrowed. “I know who’s behind this. I see the hand of that sour-faced shrew Lady Pauline here!”

Now Alyss’s own anger flared. “You will speak respectfully of Lady Pauline, sir!” she warned him. But Montague was too angry to stop.

“I’ll speak of her, all right! I’ll tell you this. She’s a woman meddling in a man’s world, where she has no place. She should have found a husband years ago and raised a brood of squalling babies. Surely there’s a deaf and half-blind man somewhere who would have taken her.”

“Sir!” said Alyss, her own voice rising. “You are going too far!”

“Is that right, sweetheart?” Montague replied sarcastically. “Well, let me give you some advice. Get away from that shrill, pinch-faced witch while you still have time. Find a husband and learn to cook. That’s all women are good for, girl. Cooking and raising the babies!”

Halt stepped forward before Alyss could reply. “The correct form of address,” he repeated quietly, “is not ‘girl’ or ‘sweetheart.’ It is ‘Lady Alyss.’ You will show respect for the laurel branch that this Courier wears. And you will show respect for Lady Pauline as well.”

For a moment, Montague was too startled to reply. First a girl, now a common forester had told him how to behave!

“Oh, is that so?” he raged. “I’ll show you respect!” He picked up the letter and tore it in half. Then he did the same to the scroll bearing Alyss’s credentials. “There’s my respect! Now get out!”

Very carefully, Halt set his longbow to one side, leaning it against a chair. Alyss raised a warning hand.

“Halt, don’t get into trouble on my behalf,” she said. But Halt looked at her and shook his head.

“Lady Alyss, this…fop…has insulted you, your Baron, your mentor and the Diplomatic Corps as a whole. He has shown absolute disregard for the laurel branch you wear. And by destroying your credentials, he has committed a crime that warrants a jail term.”

Alyss considered his words for a second or two. Then she nodded. Montague had been more than rude to her. His behavior was totally beyond acceptance.

“You’re right,” she said. “Carry on.”

But Montague had heard nothing after the word “Halt.” The entire kingdom knew the legendary Ranger’s reputation and the Keeper of Cobram paled now and stepped back as the grim-faced figure came toward him.

“But…you said…you said your name was…” He struggled to remember it. Halt smiled at him. It was the smile of a wolf.

“Arratay? Yes, well, more correctly,
Arretez.
It’s Gallican for ‘Halt.’ My pronunciation has never been good.”

His hand shot forward and locked in the scarlet-and-gold collar of the other man’s doublet. The satin tore momentarily, then Halt gained a firmer grip and dragged the struggling knight across the table toward him.

Montague was taller and heavier than Halt. But Halt’s hands, arms, shoulders and back were conditioned by years of drawing the massive longbow, with its pull weight of sixty kilos. The thousands of arrows he had shot, over and over again, had turned his muscles into steel cord. Montague was dragged off his feet, hoisted across his own desk.

“The question is,” said Halt, glancing at Alyss, “what should we do with him?” She hesitated, then that wonderful smile spread over her face.

“I wonder,” she said. “Does this castle have a moat?”

A group of servants were busy emptying the privy buckets into the moat when they were startled by a sudden drawn-out cry. They looked up in time to see a scarlet-and-gold-clad figure sail out of a first-story window, turn over once and then land with an enormous splash in the dark, rancid waters. They shrugged and went back to work.

“I suppose I’ll be in trouble again now,” Halt said as they were riding home. Alyss glanced at him. He didn’t look very repentant.

“I doubt it,” she said. “Once people hear my report, I should think they’ll say Montague got off lightly. After all, phrases like ‘Fat Baron Arald’ and ‘sour-faced shrew’ won’ t exactly endear him to Baron Arald or Lady Pauline. And he did sign an acceptance of the letter in the end. As the official courier on this mission, I thank you for your service.”

He bowed slightly from the saddle. “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” he said, and they rode in companionable silence for awhile.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving with the army soon?” she said after a few minutes, and when Halt nodded, she continued: “I’ll miss you. How will I ever carry out diplomatic missions without someone to throw unpleasant nobles out the window?”

“I’ll miss you too.” Halt smiled. And he realized that he meant it. He enjoyed being around young people—enjoyed their energy, their freshness, their idealism. “You’re a good influence on a jaded, old, bad-tempered Ranger.”

“You’ll soon have Will back to keep you busy,” she said. “You
really
miss him, don’t you?”

The Ranger nodded. “More than I realized,” he said. Alyss urged her horse close beside his and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

“That’s for Will when you see him.” A ghost of a smile touched Halt’s face.

“You’ll understand if I don’t pass it on in person?” he said. Alyss smiled and leaned over to kiss him again.

“And that’s for you, you jaded, bad-tempered old Ranger.”

A little surprised by her own impulsiveness, she urged her horse ahead of him. Halt touched one hand to his cheek and looked after the slim blond figure.

If I were twenty years younger…
he began.

Then he sighed and had to be honest with himself.
Make that thirty years,
he thought.

I
F SHE HADN’T SPOKEN
,
THEY WOULD HAVE TAKEN HER FOR A
boy. It was the soft voice that gave her away. She stood at the edge of the campsite, a slender figure with blond hair cut short—to a boy’s length—dressed in a ragged tunic, breeches and soft leather boots, bound up to the knee. A stained and torn sheepskin vest seemed to be her only protection against the cold mountain nights, for she wore no cloak and carried no blankets. Just a small bandanna tied into a bundle, which, presumably, contained all her belongings.

“Where the devil did you spring from?” Gilan asked, turning to face her. He sheathed his saxe knife as he did so and allowed Carney to fall gratefully to his knees, exhausted.

The girl, who Will could now see was around his own age and, underneath a liberal coating of dirt, remarkably pretty, gestured vaguely.

“Oh…” She paused uncertainly, trying to gather her thoughts, and Will realized she was close to the point of exhaustion. “I’ve been hiding out in the hills for several weeks now,” she said finally. Will had to admit she looked as if she had been.

“Do you have a name?” asked Gilan, not unkindly. He too could see the girl was worn-out.

She hesitated. She appeared uncertain as to whether to give them her name or not.

“Evanlyn Wheeler, from Greenfield Fief,” she said. Greenfield was a small coastal fief in Araluen. “We were here visiting friends…” She stopped and looked away from Gilan. She seemed to be thinking for a second, before she amended the statement. “Rather, my mistress was visiting friends, when the Wargals attacked.”

“Wargals!” Will said, the word jerked from him, and she turned a level pair of brilliant green eyes upon him. As he looked into them, he realized she was more than pretty. Much, much more. She was beautiful. The strawberry blond hair and green eyes were complemented by a small, straight nose and a full mouth that Will thought would look quite delightful if she were smiling. But right now, a smile was a long way from the girl’s thoughts. She gave a sad little lift of her shoulders as she answered him.

“Where did you think all the people have gone?” she asked him. “Wargals have been attacking towns and villages throughout this part of Celtica for weeks now. The Celts couldn’t stand against them. They were driven out of their homes. Most of them escaped to the Southwest Peninsula. But some were captured. I don’t know what’s happened to them.”

Gilan and the two boys exchanged looks. Deep down, they’d all been expecting to hear something of the kind. Now it was out in the open.

“I thought I saw Morgarath’s hand behind all this,” Gilan said softly, and the girl nodded, tears forming in her eyes. One of them slid down her cheek, tracking its way through the grime there. She put a hand to her eyes, and her shoulders began to shake. Quickly, Gilan stepped forward and caught her just before she fell. He lowered her gently to the ground, leaning her against one of the rocks that the boys had positioned around the fireplace. His voice was gentle and compassionate now.

“It’s all right,” he said to her. “You’re safe now. Just rest here and we’ll get you something hot to eat and drink.” He glanced quickly at Horace. “Get a fire going, please, Horace. Just a small one. We’re fairly sheltered here and I think we can risk it. And Will,” he added, raising his voice so that it carried clearly, “if that bandit makes another move to get away, would you mind shooting him through the leg?”

Carney, who had taken the opportunity created by Evanlyn’s surprising appearance to begin crawling quietly away toward the surrounding rocks, now froze where he was. Gilan threw an angry glare at him, then revised his orders.

“On second thoughts, you do the fire, Will. Horace, tie those two up.”

The two boys moved quickly to the tasks he had set them. Satisfied that everything was in hand, Gilan now removed his own cloak and wrapped it around the girl. She had covered her face with both hands and her shoulders were still shaking, although she made no noise. He put his arms around her and murmured gently, reassuring her once more that she was safe.

Gradually, her silent, racking sobs diminished and her breathing became more regular. Will, engaged in heating a pot of water for a hot drink, looked at her in some surprise as he realized that she’d fallen asleep. Gilan motioned for silence and said quietly:

“She’s obviously been under a great strain. It’s best to let her sleep. You might prepare one of those excellent stews that Halt taught you to make.”

In his pack, Will carried a selection of dried ingredients that, when blended together in boiling water and simmered, resulted in delicious stews. They could be augmented by any fresh meat and vegetables that the travelers picked up along the way, but even without them, they made a far tastier meal than the cold rations the three had been eating that day.

He set a large bowl of water over the fire and soon had a delicious beef stew simmering and filling the cold evening air with its scent. At the same time, he produced their dwindling supply of coffee and set the enamel pot full of water in the hot embers to the side of the main fire. As the water bubbled and hissed to boiling, he lifted the lid of the pot with a forked stick and tossed in a handful of grounds. Soon the aromatic scent of fresh coffee mingled with the stew and their mouths began to water. Around the same time, the savory smells must have penetrated Evanlyn’s consciousness. Her nose twitched delicately, then those startling green eyes flicked open. For a second or two, there was alarm in them as she tried to remember where she was. Then she caught sight of Gilan’s reassuring face and she relaxed a little.

“Something smells awfully good,” she said and he grinned at her.

“Perhaps you could try a bowlful and then tell us what’s been going on in these parts.” He made a sign to Will to heap an enamel bowl full of the stew. It was Will’s own bowl, as they didn’t have any spare eating utensils. His stomach growled as he realized he’d have to wait until Evanlyn had finished eating before he could. Horace and Gilan, of course, simply helped themselves.

Evanlyn began wolfing down the savory stew with an enthusiasm that showed she hadn’t eaten in days. Gilan and Horace also set to quite happily. A whining voice came from the far rock wall where Horace had tied the two bandits, sitting them back to back.

“Can we have something to eat, sir?” asked Carney. Gilan barely paused between mouthfuls and threw a disdainful glance at them.

“Of course not,” he said, and went back to enjoying his dinner.

Evanlyn seemed to realize that, aside from the bandits, only Will wasn’t eating. She glanced down at the plate and spoon she was holding, looked at the identical implements being used by Gilan and Horace, and seemed to realize what had happened.

“Oh,” she said, looking apologetically at Will, “would you like to…?” She offered the enamel plate to him. Will was tempted to share it with her, but realized that she must be nearly starving. In spite of her offer, he could see that she was hoping he’d refuse. He decided that there was a difference between being hungry, which he was, and starving, which she was, and shook his head, smiling at her.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll eat when you’ve finished.”

He was a little disappointed when she didn’t insist, but went back to wolfing down great spoonfuls of the stew, pausing occasionally for a deep draft of hot, freshly brewed coffee. As she ate, it seemed that a little color returned to her cheeks. She cleaned the plate and looked wistfully at the stewpot still hanging over the fire. Will took the hint and ladled out another healthy dollop of stew and she set to once again, hardly pausing to breathe. This time, when the plate was empty, she smiled shyly and handed it back to him.

“Thanks,” she said simply, and he ducked his head awkwardly.

“’Sall right,” he mumbled, filling the plate again for himself. “I suppose you were pretty hungry.”

“I was,” she agreed. “I don’t think I’ve eaten properly in a week.”

Gilan hitched himself into a more comfortable position by the small fire they kept burning. “Why not?” he asked. “I would have thought there was plenty of food left in the houses. You could have taken some of that.”

She shook her head, her eyes showing the fear that had gripped her for the previous few weeks. “I didn’t want to risk it,” she said. “I didn’t know if there’d be more of Morgarath’s patrols around, so I didn’t dare go into any of the towns. I found a few vegetables and the odd piece of cheese in some of the farmhouses, but precious little else.”

“I think it’s time you told us what you know about events here,” Gilan told her, and she nodded agreement.

“Not that I know too much. As I said, I was here with my mistress, visiting…friends.” Again, there was just the slightest hesitation in her words. Gilan frowned slightly, noticing it.

“Your mistress is a noble lady, I take it? A knight’s wife, or perhaps a lord’s wife?”

Evanlyn nodded. “She is daughter to…Lord and Lady Caramorn of Greenfield Fief,” she said quickly. But again there was that fleeting hesitation. Gilan pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I’ve heard the name,” he said. “Can’t say I know them.”

“Anyway, she was here visiting a lady of King Swyddned’s court—an old friend—when Morgarath’s force attacked.”

Gilan frowned once more. “How did they accomplish that?” he wanted to know. “The cliffs and the Fissure are impassable. You couldn’t get an army down the cliffs, let alone across the Fissure.”

The cliffs rose from the far side of the Fissure to form the boundary between Celtica and the Mountains of Rain and Night. They were sheer granite, several hundred meters in height. There were no passes, no way up or down—certainly not for large numbers of troops.

“Halt says no place is ever really impassable,” Will put in. “Particularly if you don’t mind losing lives in the attempt.”

“We ran into a small party of Celts escaping to the south,” the girl said. “They told us how the Wargals managed it. They used ropes and scaling ladders and came down the cliffs by night, in small numbers. They found a few narrow ledges, then used the scaling ladders to cross the Fissure.

“They picked the most remote spot they could find, so they went undetected. During the day, those already across the Fissure hid among the rocks and valleys until they had the entire force assembled. They wouldn’t have needed many. King Swyddned didn’t keep a large standing army.”

Gilan made a disapproving sound and caught Will’s eye.

“He should have. The treaty obliged him to. But remember what we said about people growing complacent? Celts would rather dig in their ground than defend it.” He gestured for the girl to continue.

“The Wargals overran the townships and mines—the mines in particular. For some reason, they wanted the miners alive. Anyone else, they killed—if they didn’t get away in time.”

Gilan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Pordellath and Gwyntaleth are both totally deserted,” he said. “Any idea where the people have gone?”

“If they’re alive, they’ve gone south,” she told him. “The Wargals seem to be driving them that way.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Gilan commented. “Keeping them bottled up in the south would prevent word getting out to Araluen.”

“That’s what the captain of our escort said,” Evanlyn agreed. “King Swyddned and most of his surviving army retreated to the southwest coast to form a defensive line. Any Celts who managed to get away from the Wargals have joined him there.”

“And what about you?” Gilan wanted to know.

“We were trying to escape back to the border when we were cut off by a war party,” she told them. “Our men held them off while my lady and I escaped. We were almost clear, but her horse stumbled and they caught her. I wanted to go back for her, but she screamed at me to get away. I couldn’t…I wanted to help her but…I just…”

Tears began to cascade down her cheeks once more. She didn’t seem to notice, making no attempt to wipe them away, just staring silently into the fire as the horror of it all came back to her. When she spoke once more, her voice was almost inaudible.

“I got clear and I turned back to watch. They were…they were…I could see them…” Her voice died away. Gilan reached forward and took her hand.

“Don’t think about it,” he said gently and she looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes. “I take it that after…that…you got away into the hills?”

She nodded several times, her thoughts still vivid with the terrible scenes she had witnessed. Will and Horace sat in silence. Will glanced at his friend and a look of understanding passed between them. Evanlyn had been lucky to escape.

“I’ve been hiding ever since,” she said quietly. “My horse went lame about ten days back and I turned him loose. Since then, I’ve kept moving back toward the north by night and hiding by day.” She indicated Bart and Carney, sitting trussed like two captive chickens on the far side of the clearing. “I saw those two a few times, and others like them. I didn’t make myself known to them. I didn’t think I could trust them.”

Carney assumed a hurt look. Bart was still too dizzy from the crack Horace had given him with the flat of his sword to be taking any interest in the proceedings.

“Then I saw you three earlier today from across a valley and I recognized you as King’s Rangers—well, two of you, anyway,” she amended. “All I could think was ‘Thank God.’”

Gilan looked up at her at that, a small frown of concentration creasing his forehead. She didn’t notice the reaction as she went on.

“It took me most of the day to reach you. It wasn’t far as the crow flies, but there was no way across the valley that separated us. I had to go the long way around. Then down and up again. I was terrified that you’d be gone by the time I got here. But luckily, you weren’t,” she added, unnecessarily.

Will was leaning forward, elbow on his knee and hand propped under his chin, trying to piece together all she’d told them.

“Why would Morgarath want miners?” he asked of nobody in particular. “He doesn’t have mines, so it doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe he’s found some?” Horace suggested. “Maybe he’s found gold up there in the Mountains of Rain and Night and he needs slaves to dig it out.”