Kings of Clonmel (26 page)

“That’s the . . . ?” He stopped, not quite daring to pronounce the fabled name.

“Who else would it be?” Halt asked him. “You see the rising sun emblem on his shield. And you saw him cut down nine of the enemy to reach their leader—who now lies dead out there.” There had been seven men in the group Horace attacked, but Halt knew it was never too early to start exaggerating numbers.

Terrence shaded his eyes with his hand and peered at the tall figure on the bay battlehorse. He certainly looked imposing, he thought.

Horace, for his part, was puzzled. He’d been willing to take part in the cleanup after the battle. But Halt had told him to mount Kicker, ride to the knoll and sit there.

“Look enigmatic,” he had instructed.

Horace had nodded, then frowned.

“How do I do that?” he asked. Halt’s eyebrow went up and Horace hastily added, “Well, if I get enigmatic wrong, you’ll be angry with me. So it’s better I ask.”

“All right. Look as if you have plenty to say but you’re not going to say it,” Halt told him. He saw the doubt in Horace’s eyes and quickly altered his instructions. “Forget that. Look as if someone has shoved a week-old fish under your nose.”

“I can do that,” Horace said, and cantered away. He practiced curling his lip in distaste as he went.

Now, as he sat there, he saw Halt gesture toward him and saw the unmistakable stare of interest from the older man, Terrence. He wondered briefly what the conversation was about and then he sighed. Halt was a devious character when he chose to be, he thought. He was confident it would be something that he, Horace, would probably disapprove of. He was also confident that, whatever Halt was saying, it had little to do with the truth.

At the barricade, Halt continued to elaborate on the theme of Horace’s identity.

“You know the old legend,” he said to Terrence. He was sure the head man did, but he thought he’d spell it out anyway. “The Sunrise Warrior will come from the East when the six kingdoms are in dire peril.”

Terrence nodded as he spoke. Halt glanced quickly at Conal and saw the cynicism in the younger man’s eyes. He shrugged mentally. No matter. He hadn’t expected a practical man like Conal to subscribe to old myths and legends. But at least Conal had seen Horace’s undoubted weapons skill. He’d been impressed by those, all right.

“So, what thanks does your . . . Sunrise Warrior ask?” Conal said now. “Is there some tangible reward that he’s looking for?” The slight pause before he spoke the title was clear evidence that he set no store by the legend. He obviously expected Halt to demand some kind of cash tribute in the Warrior’s name.

Halt faced him, his gaze level and unblinking.

“No thanks are necessary. Just spread the word that the Sunrise Warrior has returned to bring order to Clonmel,” Halt told him.

He saw a slightly puzzled frown crease Conal’s forehead and smiled quietly to himself, although his face showed no trace of it. It didn’t matter that Conal didn’t believe. Halt had noticed that several of the villagers working nearby had heard his words and were looking with interest at the tall warrior mounted on his battlehorse. He heard the phrase “Sunrise Warrior” repeated several times in lowered tones. Gossip and hearsay would spread the word of the Warrior’s appearance here within a few days. Halt always wondered how such things could spread so quickly through a fief or shire. But he knew they could and that was what he needed. He also knew that the farther the word spread, the more exaggerated the facts would become. By the end of the week, he was willing to bet, the story would be that the Sunrise Warrior had faced Padraig’s band all alone, in an open field, and cut down all of them with three mighty sweeps of a flaming sword.

“We’ll do that,” Terrence said fervently.

Conal studied Halt’s face. Instinctively, he had trusted this gray-bearded stranger when they had met the previous night, and his trust had been borne out. Now he sensed that Halt wanted this rumor spread, and Conal saw no harm in that. He was no fool. He’d heard rumors about a religious band that was moving through Clonmel, with a prophet claiming to offer safety and protection under the wing of his god. He suspected that Halt was working to undermine this group. And if Conal had little time for myth or legend, he had even less for hysterical religious cults.

“Aye, we will,” he agreed. His eyes met Halt’s, and a message of understanding passed between them. The Ranger nodded his thanks, and Conal continued. “Will you stay the night? You’ll be welcome inside the barrier this time,” he added, with a smile.

Halt shook his head.“I appreciate the offer. But we have business in Mountshannon.”

Of course, no word had reached Craikennis of events in the neighboring village. But now that the outlaw band was broken and scattered, it would only be a few days before traffic on the roads was more or less back to normal. Halt was curious to know what Tennyson had been up to in the time they’d been gone—and whether word had reached him of today’s events.

He shook hands with the two men and turned away to where Abelard and Tug were quietly grazing, side by side. Will was a few meters away. He caught Halt’s eye. The older Ranger gave an imperceptible nod, and Will hurried to join him. They mounted together, then rode toward the knoll, where Horace sat waiting for them.

“What’s Horace looking so enigmatic about?” Will asked. A faint trace of a smile touched Halt’s lips.

“Someone gave him a stale fish,” he said, and was gratified by Will’s puzzled reaction. Sometimes, he thought, you had to keep these youngsters guessing.

��

Mountshannon was deserted. No more than half a dozen older residents remained in the village—people too old or infirm to travel— and they seemed anxious to stay out of sight. The three Araluens rode down the silent high street of the village, where shuttered windows and locked doors greeted them on either side. Occasionally, they caught a glimpse of a face at a window, hurriedly withdrawn as its owner stepped back to avoid being seen. But such sightings were few and far between. It was late afternoon, and the long shadows thrown by the lowering sun seemed to accentuate the air of desertion that hung over the village. Halt nudged Abelard into a trot, and the others matched his pace. They made their way to the market ground, only to find it empty.

The market stalls were gone. The large white pavilion that Tennyson used as a headquarters was gone as well. The only sign of recent habitation was the two small green tents pitched in the far corner of the big empty field. There was a huge charred patch in the center of the field, evidence of a massive bonfire. The grass all around it was flattened, trampled that way by several hundred feet.

“What do you think happened here?” Will asked, indicating the blackened circle. Halt regarded it for a few seconds.

“I’d say the villagers were giving thanks to Alseiass for saving them.”

“You mean I could have had a bonfire and a party at Craikennis if I’d wanted?” Horace asked, and they both looked at him. He shrugged apologetically. “Well, you said you told them that I’d saved their village.”

“Yes,” Halt replied. “And?”

“And . . . you know, I could have done with a little adulation for my trouble. Maybe a bonfire, a feast perhaps. I would have made sure that a reasonable share went to my faithful servants,” he finished, indicating the two of them with a lordly sweep of his hand. Then he spoiled the effect by allowing a grin to break through.

Halt muttered something inaudible and set Abelard to a canter, heading for the tents.

“I was just being enigmatic!” Horace called after him.

That evening, they packed up their camp and rode back into the village, where they hammered at the door of the darkened inn. There was no reply to their repeated attempts to raise someone inside. Horace stepped back into the street and bellowed at the top of his voice.

“Hullo, the inn! Is there anyone there? Hullo!”

Both Will and Halt winced at the sudden noise.

“Warn us if you’re going to do that, will you?” Will said sourly.

Horace gave him an injured look. “I was only trying to help.”

But there was no reply from the inn. As they stood uncertainly, contemplating breaking in so they could spend a night in comfort, they heard shuffling footsteps behind them. An old woman, wrapped in a shawl and hunched with age, had emerged from the cottage next to the inn, wondering who could be causing the disturbance. She gazed at them now through watery, faded eyes, sensing instinctively that these three strangers presented no danger to her.

“They’ve gone. All gone,” she told them.

“Gone where?” Halt asked her. She made a vague gesture toward the north.

“Gone to follow the prophet to Dun Kilty, so they said.”

“Dun Kilty?” Halt asked. “ The castle of King Ferris?”

The old woman regarded him with tired, knowing eyes and nodded.

“That it is. The prophet—”

“You mean Tennyson?” Will interrupted.

She frowned at him, not appreciating the interruption. “Aye. The prophet Tennyson. He says that’s where this god of his will bring peace to the kingdom once more. He called on the people of Mountshannon to follow him and bring that peace, and they all went, like the simpletons that they are.”

“But you didn’t,” Halt said.

There was a long silence as she regarded them.

“No,” she said finally. “Some of us here worship the old gods. We know the gods send us good times and bad to try us. I don’t trust a god that promises only good times.”

“Why not?” Horace urged her gently, when she seemed unwilling to say more. Now, as she looked at him, there was a definite knowing look in her eyes.

“A god who brings you good and bad in equal amounts doesn’t ask for much,” she said. “Maybe a prayer or two. Maybe the odd sacrifice of a beast. But a god who promises only good times?” She shook her head and made the warding sign against evil.“A god like that will always want something of you.”

Halt smiled at her, nodding his head in acknowledgment of the wisdom that comes with years, and the cynicism that comes with wisdom.

“I fear you’re right, mother,” he told her.

She shrugged. She had little use for his words of praise.

“I know I’m right,” she said. Then she added, “There’s a small door at the side that’s never locked. You can get in there. It might stop you knocking and bellowing to raise the dead.” She gestured down the narrow alley beside the inn. Then she turned slowly away and hobbled back to her cottage and the warmth of her fireplace.

They found the side door and let themselves in. While Halt lit a fire and a few candles, Horace searched the pantry for food and Will took care of stabling their horses in the barn behind the main building.

A short while later, the three sat comfortably around the fire, eating slightly stale bread and cheese, with some slices off a good country ham and tart local apples, washed down with the inevitable coffee. Halt looked around the deserted room. Normally, he knew, it would be packed with customers.

“So it’s started,” he said. When his two young companions looked questioningly at him, he elaborated. “It’s the final phase of Tennyson’s plan—the classic Outsiders’ pattern. He’s got a solid group of converts now, ready to attest to his ability to make bandits fall down in fear and run away. He’s probably arranged for some of his acolytes to bring in other groups from villages that he’s already
saved
in the south. They’ll move from village to village, and his band will grow larger with each passing day. The hysteria will grow as more people join him.”

“And eventually,” Will said, “they’ll arrive at Dun Kilty and challenge the King’s power.”

Halt nodded. “Not directly, of course. They’re too clever for that. Tennyson will pretend at first to be working on the King’s behalf. But gradually, as people come to depend more on him, the King will become increasingly irrelevant and Tennyson will assume power.”

“Judging by the way people talk about the King, that shouldn’t take long,” Horace said.“Seems like he’s well on the way to being irrelevant.” He hesitated, realizing that he was talking about Halt’s brother, and added awkwardly,“Sorry, Halt. I didn’t mean . . .”

His voice trailed off, but Halt made a small gesture dismissing the need for apology.

“It’s all right, Horace. I don’t have much regard for my brother. And it’s obvious that his subjects share my feelings.”

Will stared thoughtfully into the fire.

“Won’t the fact that we beat off the attack at Craikennis stop Tennyson?” he asked.

Halt shook his head.“It’ll be a setback. But in itself, it’s not enough to cause him major trouble. It’s only one instance in a chain of attacks and massacres. He can still use the hysteria and adulation of the Mountshannon villagers. Of course, it would have been better for him if Craikennis had been overrun, but it’s not an insurmountable obstacle.”

“Unless we make it one,” Horace said thoughtfully. Halt smiled at him. The young warrior had a way of seeing through to the core of a situation.

“Exactly. Chances are he doesn’t even know what’s happened at Craikennis. If I were one of the men who ran away when Horace finished off Padraig, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to go telling him. People like Tennyson have a nasty habit of punishing those who bring them bad news. So as he moves on, gathering more followers, he’ll be expecting rumors of a massacre to follow him. If they don’t, he won’t be too concerned. But if we spread the word about the Sunrise Warrior’s victory, it’ll be a different matter. If we arrive at Dun Kilty with the story of how the Sunrise Warrior defeated two hundred blood-thirsty bandits, single-handedly, he’ll have to see it as a challenge to his position. He won’t be able to ignore us.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Will said, frowning. Halt looked at him for a few moments in silence.

“It’s a very good thing,” he said. “I’m rather looking forward to a confrontation with Tennyson.”