Kings of Clonmel (3 page)

The three apprentices exchanged glances as they took in what Will had said. He saw their shoulders straighten a little, their chins come up fractionally.

“Yes . . . Will,” said Liam. He nodded to himself, as if trying the word out and liking what he heard. The others echoed the sentiment, nodding in their turn. Will gave them a few moments to savor the sense of confidence, then glanced meaningfully at the sun.

“Well, sunset’s getting closer all the time,” he said to himself. He hid a smile as three arrows slid out of their quivers. A few seconds later, three bows twanged and he heard the familiar scrape-slither as the shots were on their way to the target.

“ Ten shots,” he said. “ Then we’ll see how you’re doing.”

He strolled to a nearby tree and sat beneath it, his back leaning comfortably against the trunk. With his cowl pulled up and his face in shadow, he seemed to be dozing.

But his eyes were moving ceaselessly, missing nothing as he studied every aspect of the three boys’ shooting technique.

For the next two days, Will assessed their skills with the bow, correcting small faults in technique as he did so. Liam had developed a habit of measuring his full draw by touching his right thumb to the corner of his mouth.

“Touch your mouth with your forefinger, not the thumb,” Will told him. “If you use the thumb, your hand tends to twist to the right, and that will throw the arrow off line when you release.”

Liam nodded and made the slight adjustment. Immediately, his accuracy improved—particularly on the longer shots, where the slight change in angle had a greater effect.

Nick, the quietest of the three, was gripping his bow too tightly. He was an intense young man and eager to succeed. Will sensed that was where the viselike grip came from. Nick was allowing his determination to affect the relaxed grip that the bow needed. A tight grip meant the bow often skewed to the left at the moment of release, resulting in a wild, inaccurate shot. Again, Will corrected the fault and set the young man to practice.

Stuart’s technique was sound, without any major faults at this stage. But like the others, his skill would only reach the required Ranger level with hours of practice.

“Practice and more practice,” Will told them. “Remember the old saying: ‘An ordinary archer practices until he gets it right. A Ranger practices . . .’?” He let the phrase hang in the air, waiting for them to finish it off.

“Until he never gets it wrong,” they chorused. He nodded, smiling approval.

“Remember it,” he said.

On the third day, however, there was a respite from the hours of practice with the bow. The previous evening, the boys had received the written outline of the tactical exercise that had been set for them. They had spent the hours between dinner and lights-out going over the problem and forming their first ideas for a solution.

Will had received the details of their assignment at the same time. He shook his head when he read the outline.

“Crowley and his sense of humor,” he said, closing the folder in mild exasperation. Gilan looked up from where he was sewing up a tear in his cloak. He’d chosen to demonstrate unseen movement through a thorntree clump that afternoon, and his cloak had paid the price.

“What’s he done?” he asked.

Will smacked the folder with the back of his hand. “This tactical assignment. The one he said would amuse me? The boys have to devise a way to besiege and capture a castle garrisoned by invaders and set in a northern fief. They have to recruit a suitable attacking force and take the castle. Sound familiar?”

Gilan grinned. “I’ve heard of someone having a similar problem,” he admitted.

It was almost identical to the situation that had faced Will the previous winter, at Castle Macindaw.

“Seems like my life’s become a walking tactical exercise,” Will grumbled.

He was closer to the truth than he realized. Crowley had circulated a detailed account of the siege to the entire Corps. Will’s fellow Rangers had studied his tactics and were highly impressed by them. Those with apprentices had begun using the siege as an example of initiative and imagination in dealing with the problem of having a much smaller force than common tactical wisdom would deem suitable.

Gilan knew all this, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell Will. He sensed that his friend might be embarrassed at the thought of such notoriety. Naturally, Will had been the only Ranger in the Corps who had not received Crowley’s summary.

“What resources do they have available?” Gilan asked.

Will frowned as he opened the folder again, turning to the Assets and Resources list. Having been set the problem, the boys were given certain resources they could draw on to help them devise a solution.

“A traveling jongleur,” he read. That had been his own disguise at Macindaw. “Very funny. He won’t be much help. One mounted knight—hello, Horace. The former garrison of the castle—forty of them, scattered all over the countryside, of course. A troop of acrobats, tumblers and players . . . hmmm, they could be handy. And the people of the local village.”

“No shipwrecked Skandians or reformed sorcerers?” Gilan teased him gently.

Will snorted in derision. “No. At least he’s spared me that.”

He trailed off, chewing on a fingernail as he mulled over the problem. Acrobats. They could be handy in getting to the top of the wall. He riffled through a few pages to find the diagram of the castle. Wall height was between three and four meters. A formidable barrier for a normal man. But a trained acrobat might . . .

He snapped himself out of it, slamming the pages shut once more. It wasn’t his problem. The three boys had to find a way to solve it. All he had to do was assess the practicality of their solution.

“Sounds like fun,” Gilan murmured.

Will shook his head. “I can’t wait to see what they come up with.”

HALT LAY UNMOVING IN THE GORSE ABOVE THE VILLAGE OF Selsey, his cloak concealing him from sight, his eyes moving constantly as he surveyed the scene below him. He had been observing the village for several days, unseen by any of its inhabitants or by the new arrivals who had taken up residence on the shore.

Selsey was a small and humble fishing village. A dozen or so cottages were clustered at the northern end of the beach, at the foot of the steep hill. The beach itself was narrow—barely a hundred meters wide. It lay at the end of a shallow cove, where a roughly triangular bite was taken out of the rocky coastline.

The hills on three sides slanted steeply down to the water and the narrow beach. They were high enough to protect the village and the bay from the wind and storms that could sweep along this coastline. The fourth side was open to the sea, but even on that side, Halt’s keen eyes could make out the swirl of water that marked a bar just inside the mouth of the cove—a jumble of rocks below the water’s surface that would break up the big waves as they tried to come pounding in, driven by a westerly wind.

On the southern side of the cove, he could see a narrow section of calm, undisturbed water—deeper water that marked a passage through the bar. That would be the point where the handful of fishing boats pulled up on the beach would gain access to the open sea.

He took in the condition of the cottages. They were small, but they were far from hovels. They were well built, freshly painted and comfortable looking.

The boats were in similar condition. The masts and booms were recently varnished to protect them from the damage caused by the salt air and water. The sails were neatly furled along their booms. The rigging was taut and well maintained, and the hulls were all in good condition and had obviously been painted not too long ago.

So while the village might appear small and unimportant at first glance, a closer scrutiny told a different story. This was a well-ordered little community. And in a section of coast where there were few other sheltered spots like this, the fishermen would find ready markets for their catch in the neighboring villages. That meant it was a prosperous community—and probably had been for years on end.

And that, of course, explained the presence of the Outsiders here. His eyes narrowed as the thought struck him. He’d been right to forgo the Gathering this year and track down the source of the vague rumors that had been coming in from the West Coast of Araluen.

They were vague because this wild stretch of coastline was one of the few areas in the country that was under the jurisdiction of none of the fifty fiefs. It was a patch of land that had slipped through the cracks when the fief boundaries had been drawn up, many years ago. Possession of the area had been disputed, with a group of displaced Hibernians claiming it for their own. The Araluen King at the time took a quick look at the rugged, inhospitable coastal area and decided they were welcome to it. He had bigger problems on his mind as he tried to weld fifty recalcitrant, bickering barons into a cohesive governing structure for the country as a whole.

So this twenty-kilometer section of coastline was left to its own devices. Of course, had the King realized that he was ceding control of one of the best natural harbors within a hundred kilometers, he might have acted differently. But the existence of this little cove was a well-kept secret. So the little fishing settlement had prospered quietly over the years, beholden to no one and answerable to no king.

Yet it lay close to the extreme western border of Redmont Fief, so in recent years Halt had taken to keeping an occasional eye on the area—unnoticed by the local inhabitants.

In the past few months he had heard rumors about a religious cult whose behavior sounded disturbingly familiar. People spoke of newcomers who would arrive in a village or hamlet with a simple message of friendship. They would bring toys for the children and small gifts for the leaders of the community.

In return, they asked for nothing but a place to worship their benevolent and all-loving deity, the Golden God Alseiass. They made no attempt to convert the locals to their religion. Alseiass was a tolerant god who respected the rights of other gods to attract and hold their own adherents.

So the Outsiders, the name adopted by the followers of Alseiass, would live in harmony with the locals for several weeks.

Then things would start to go wrong. Cattle would die mysteriously. Sheep and household animals would be found crippled. Crops and homes would be burned; wells and streams, contaminated. Armed brigands and bandits would appear in the area, attacking and robbing travelers and farmers in remote farms. As days passed, their attacks would become bolder and more vicious. A reign of terror would begin, and the villagers would go in fear of their lives. The village would find itself under siege, with nobody knowing where the next attack might fall.

Then the Outsiders would come forward with a solution. The outlaws surrounding the village were followers of the evil Balsennis—a dark god who hated Alseiass and all he stood for. The Outsiders had seen this before, they would claim. Balsennis in his jealousy would try to bring ruin to any community where Alseiass and his followers found happiness. But Alseiass was the stronger of the two, they said, and he could cast out the followers of his dark brother and make the village safe once more.

Of course, there was a price. To expel Balsennis, special prayers and invocations would be required. Alseiass could do it, but they would need to construct a special shrine and altar for the casting-out ceremonies. It would need to be of the purest materials: white marble, perfectly formed cedar without knots or kinks . . . and gold.

Alseiass was the Golden God. He would draw strength from the precious metal; gold would give him the power he needed to win this contest against Balsennis.

Sooner or later, the villagers would agree. Faced with increasingly fierce attacks and disasters, they would delve into their savings and hidden assets to provide the gold that was needed. The longer they hesitated, the worse the attacks would become. At first, animals had been slaughtered; now people would become the targets. Leaders of the community would be found murdered in their beds. Once that happened, the villagers would hand over their treasures. The shrine would be built. The Outsiders would pray and chant and fast.

And the attacks would begin to lessen. The “accidents” would cease to happen. The outlaws would be seen less and less, and life would begin to return to normal.

Until the day came when they had stripped the village bare and there was nothing more to plunder, and the Outsiders would disappear. The villagers would awaken to find them gone—taking with them the gold.

The Outsiders would move on to another village, another community. And the same cycle would begin again.

Halt had arrived in the latter part of the cycle, during which the Outsiders were praying desperately to protect the village from the onslaught of Balsennis. He had watched the chanting and mock fasting that was going on. He had also seen the secret supplies of food that the Outsiders kept hidden. The “fasting” was as false as their religion, he thought grimly.