“Just make sure you come back,” he said. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you.”
20
THE TUNNEL, LEVEL AT FIRST, BEGAN TO ANGLE STEEPLY UPWARD as Will went on, leaving Horace behind him. The walls and floor showed evidence of the Celts’ picks and drills as they had torn and gouged at the rock to widen the path.
Will guessed that the original narrow tunnel had been nothing more than a natural fault in the rock—a mere crevice. But as he went on, he saw how much it had been widened, until there was room for four or five men to walk abreast. And still it climbed up into the heart of the mountains.
A circle of light showed the end of the tunnel. He estimated that he’d traveled maybe three hundred meters in total and the end was another forty away. The light that he could see seemed to be stronger than simple moonlight and, as he carefully emerged from the tunnel, he saw why.
Here, the hills separated, forming a large valley about two hundred meters across and half a kilometer long. To one side, the moonlight showed him massive wooden structures leading up to the higher reaches of the plateau. Staircases, he realized after a few moments’ study. The floor of the valley was lit with campfires and there were hundreds of figures moving in the flickering orange light. Will guessed that this would be the assembly area for Morgarath’s army. At the moment, it was where the Wargals kept their Celt prisoners at night.
He paused, trying to form a picture of the overall situation. The plateau that formed the greater part of Morgarath’s domain was still at least fifty meters above this point. But the staircases and the less formidable slope of the surrounding hills would provide relatively easy access down to this valley. The valley itself must be some thirty meters above the level where the bridge stood. The sloping tunnel would take troops down to the bridge from here. Once again, Halt’s words echoed in his ear: nowhere is really impassable.
He moved to the left of the tunnel mouth and found cover in a jumble of rocks and boulders while he took stock of the situation. There was a rough stockade in the center of the valley. Inside the wooden fencing, he could see a large number of small fires, each with a group of figures seated or sprawled around it. This was the prisoners’ compound, he guessed.
Large fires outside the compound marked the places where the Wargals were camped. He could see the hulking, shambling forms clearly against the firelight as they moved around. Yet there was one fire close to him that seemed different. The figures seemed more upright, more humanoid in the way they stood and carried themselves.
Curiously, he worked his way closer to it, sliding through the night with barely a sound, moving quickly from one patch of cover to the next, until he was just at the outer ring of light thrown by the fire—a spot where he knew the darkness, by contrast, would seem more intense to those sitting around the fire.
There was a haunch of some kind of meat roasting slowly over the fire and the smell of it set his mouth watering. He’d been traveling for days on cold rations and the meat filled the air with a delicious fragrance. He felt his stomach begin to rumble and fear stabbed through him. It would be unthinkably bad luck to be betrayed by a rumbling stomach, he thought.
The fear did the trick, killing his appetite. His digestion more or less under control, he edged his face around a boulder, low to the ground, to get a better look at the figures eating by the fire.
As he did so, one of them leaned forward to slice off a chunk of the meat, juggling the hot, greasy food in his hand as he took it. The movement let the firelight shine clearly on him and Will could see that these were not Wargals. From their rough sheepskin vests, woolen leggings bound with tapes and heavy seal-fur boots, he recognized them as Skandians.
Further study showed him their horned helmets, round wooden shields and battleaxes piled to one side of the campsite. He wondered what they were doing here, so far from the ocean.
The man who had moved finished his meat and wiped his hands on his sheepskin vest. He belched, then settled himself in a more comfortable spot by the fire.
“Be damned glad when Olvak’s men get here,” he said in the thick, almost indecipherable accent of Skandia. Will knew that Skandians spoke the same tongue as the kingdom. Hearing it now for the first time, though, he barely recognized it.
The other sea wolves growled their agreement. There were four of them around the fire. Will edged forward a little to hear them more clearly, then froze, horrified, as he saw the unmistakable shambling form of a Wargal moving directly toward him from the other side of the fire.
The Skandians heard him coming and looked up warily. With an immense feeling of relief, Will realized that the creature was not coming toward him but was approaching the Skandians’ fire.
“’Ullo,” said one of the Skandians in a low voice. “’Ere comes one of Morgarath’s beauties.”
The Wargal had stopped on the far side of the fire. He grunted something unintelligible at the group of sea raiders. The one who had just spoken shrugged.
“Sorry, handsome. Didn’t catch that,” he said. There was an obvious note of hostility in his voice. The Wargal seemed to sense it. He repeated his statement, growing angry now. Again, the circle of Skandian warriors shrugged at him.
The Wargal grunted again, growing angrier by the minute. He gestured at the meat hanging over the fire, then at himself. He shouted at the Skandians now, making eating gestures.
“Ugly brute wants our venison,” said one of the Skandians. There was a low growl of dissent from the group.
“Let him catch his own,” said the first man. The Wargal stepped inside the circle now. He had stopped shouting. He simply pointed to the meat, then turned his red, glaring eyes on the speaker. Somehow, the silence was more menacing than his shouting had been.
“Careful, Erak,” warned one of the Skandians, “we’re outnumbered here at the moment.”
Erak scowled at the Wargal for a second, then seemed to realize the wisdom of his friend’s advice. He gestured angrily at the meat.
“Go on then. Take it,” he said curtly. The Wargal stepped forward and snatched the wooden spit from the fire, taking a huge bite at the meat and tearing a large chunk loose. Even from where he was lying, scarcely daring to breathe, Will could see the ugly light of triumph in the red, animal eyes. Then the Wargal turned abruptly and bounded out of the circle, forcing several of the Skandians to move hurriedly aside to avoid being trampled on. They heard his guttural laugh as he faded into the darkness.
“Damn things give me the heebies,” muttered Erak. “Don’t know why we have to have anything to do with them.”
“’Cause Horth don’t trust Morgarath,” one of the others told him. “If we’re not along, these damn bear-men will keep all the plunder for themselves and all we’ll get is the hard fighting at the Plains of Uthal.”
“And hard marching too,” put in another. “Wouldn’t be any fun with Horth’s men either, working their way around Thorntree Forest to take the enemy in the rear. That’s rough going, all right.”
Will frowned as he heard that. Obviously, Morgarath and Horth, who, Will assumed, was a Skandian war leader, were planning another treacherous surprise for the kingdom’s forces. He tried to picture a map of the countryside around the Plains of Uthal, but his memory was sketchy. He wished he’d paid more attention to the geography lessons Halt had taught him.
“Why is geography so important?” he remembered asking his teacher.
“Because maps are important if you want to know where your enemy is and where he’s going,” had been the reply. Glumly, Will realized now how right he had been. Halt had shaken his head at him then, in that mock serious way he had. Suddenly, thinking of his wise and capable teacher, Will felt very lonely and more than a little out of his depth.
“Anyway,” Erak was saying, “things’ll be different when Olvak’s men get here. Although they seem to be taking their damned time about it.”
“Relax,” said the other speaker. “It’ll take a few days to get five hundr
ed men up them South Cliffs. Think how long it took us.”
“Yeah,” said another. “But we were blazing a trail. All they ’ave to do is follow it.”
“Well, they can’t get ’ere too soon for me,” said Erak, rising and stretching. “I’m for sleep, lads, just as soon as I’ve done the necessaries.”
“Well, don’t do ’em ’ere by the fire,” said one of the others irritably. “Go up behind them rocks there.”
Horrified, Will realized that the Skandian had gestured toward the rocks where he was hiding. And now Erak, laughing at the other man, was turning and heading his way. It was definitely time to go. He scuttled backward a few meters, then, crawling rapidly on his stomach, used all his training and natural skill to blend with the available cover.
He’d gone perhaps twenty meters when he heard a splashing sound from the spot where he’d been eavesdropping. Then he heard a contented sigh and, looking back, saw the shaggy-haired form of Erak silhouetted against the glow of the hundred or so campfires in the valley.
Realizing that the Skandian was intent on what he was doing, Will slipped through the darkness and back into the tunnel. He went carefully for the first few meters, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the torches. Then he began to run, his soft hide boots making barely a noise on the sandy floor.
21
HE HAD FOUND HORACE WAITING FOR HIM, HIS HAND READY on his sword hilt, where he had left him in the tunnel. “Did you find out anything?” the apprentice warrior whispered hoarsely. Will let go a pent-up breath, realizing that he’d been holding it for some time now.
“Plenty,” he said. “All of it bad.” He held up a hand to forestall Horace’s further questions.
“Let’s get back across the bridge,” he said. “I’ll tell you then.” He glanced into the side tunnel where they had left the Celt miner.
“Have you heard anything more from Glendyss?” he asked. Horace shrugged sadly.
“He started moaning about an hour ago. Then he went quiet. I think he’s dead. At least he died the way he wanted to,” he said, then he followed Will back through the dimly lit tunnel to the bridge.
They made their way across the planking again, to where Evanlyn waited with the horses, well back from the bridge and out of sight. When they were close, Will called her name softly, so as to avoid startling her. Horace had left his dagger with Evanlyn and Will thought an armed Evanlyn would not be a person to approach unexpectedly.
As he described the scene at the other end of the tunnel, he hastily scratched a map in the sand for them.
“Somehow, we’re going to have to find a way to delay Morgarath’s forces,” he said.
The other two looked at him curiously. Delay them? How could two apprentices and a girl delay five hundred Skandians and several thousand relentless Wargals?
“I thought you said we should get word to the King,” Evanlyn said.
“We don’t have time anymore,” Will said simply. “Look.”
They leaned forward as he smoothed over the diagram he had drawn in the sand and hastily sketched out a new one. He wasn’t sure that it was totally accurate, but at least it included the most important features of the kingdom, as well as the Southern Plateau, where Morgarath ruled.
“They said they have more Skandians coming up the cliffs on the south coast—to join with the Wargals we’ve already seen. They’ll cross the Fissure here, where we are, and move north to attack the barons in the rear, while they wait for Morgarath to try to break out of Three Step Pass.”
“Yes,” said Horace. “We know that. We guessed it as soon as we saw the bridge.”
Will looked up at him and Horace fell silent. He realized the Ranger apprentice had something else to say.
“But,” said Will, emphasizing the word and pausing for a moment, “I also heard them saying something about Horth and his men marching around Thorntree Forest. That’s up here to the north of the Plains of Uthal.”
Evanlyn grasped the point immediately. “Which would bring the Skandians northwest of the King’s army. They’d be trapped between the Wargals and Skandians who have crossed the bridge and the other force from the north.”
“Exactly,” said Will, meeting her gaze. They could both appreciate how dangerous that situation would be for the assembled barons. Expecting a Skandian attack through the fenlands, to the east, they’d be taken by surprise from not one, but two different directions, caught between the arms of a pincer and crushed.
“Then we’d better warn the King, surely!” insisted Horace.
“Horace,” said Will patiently. “It would take us four days to reach the Plains.”
“Even more reason to get going. We haven’t a moment to waste!” said the young warrior.
“And then,” put in Evanlyn, seeing Will’s point, “it would take at least another four days for any sort of force to get back here and hold the bridge. Maybe more.”
“That’s eight days all told,” said Will. “Remember what that poor miner said? The bridge will be ready in four days’ time. The Wargals and Skandians will have had plenty of time to cross the Fissure, assemble in battle formation and attack the King’s army.”
“But…” Horace began, and Will interrupted him.
“Horace, even if we get warning to the King and the barons, they’ll be badly outnumbered and they’ll be caught between two forces—with no way to retreat. The swamps of the fenlands will be behind them. Now, I know we have to get a warning to them. But we can also do something here to even the numbers.”
“Plus,” Evanlyn put in, and Horace turned to face her, “if we can do something to stop the Wargals and Skandians from crossing here, the King will have the advantage over this northern force of Skandians.”
Horace nodded. “They won’t be outnumbered, I guess,” he said.
Evanlyn nodded, but then added, “That’s part of it. But those Skandians will be expecting reinforcements to attack the King from the rear—reinforcements that will never arrive.”
Understanding dawned in Horace’s eyes. He nodded slowly, several times. Then the frown returned. “But what can we do to stop the Wargals here?” he asked.
Will and Evanlyn exchanged a glance. He could see they’d come to the same conclusion. They both spoke at the same time.
“Burn the bridge,” they said.
22
BLAZE’S HEAD HUNG LOW AS HE TROTTED SLOWLY INTO THE outskirts of the King’s camp on the Plains of Uthal. Gilan swayed wearily in the saddle. They had barely slept in the past three days, snatching only brief rests once every four hours.
Two guards stepped forward to query his progress and the young Ranger fumbled inside his shirt for the silver amulet in the form of an oak leaf—the Rangers’ badge of office. At the sight of it, the guards stepped back hurriedly to clear the way. In times like these, nobody delayed a Ranger—not if he knew what was good for him.
Gilan rubbed his gritty eyes. “Where is the War Council tent?”
One of the guards pointed with his spear to a larger-than-normal tent, set up on a knoll overlooking the rest of the camp. There were more guards there, and a large number of people coming and going, as one would expect at the nerve center of an army.
“There, sir. On that small rise.”
Gilan nodded. He’d come so far, so fast, finishing the four-day journey in just over three. Now these few hundred meters seemed like miles to him. He leaned forward and whispered in Blaze’s ear.
“Not much farther, my friend. One more effort, please.”
The exhausted horse’s ears twitched and his head came up a few inches. At Gilan’s gentle urging, he managed to raise a slow trot and they passed through the camp.
Dust drifting on the breeze, the smell of woodsmoke, noise and confusion: the camp was like any army camp anywhere in the world. Orders being shouted. The clang and rattle of arms being repaired or sharpened. Laughter from tents, where men lay back relaxing with no duties to be performed—until their sergeants fou
nd them and discovered jobs for them to be doing. Gilan smiled tiredly at the thought. Sergeants seemed to be totally averse to seeing their men having an easy time of it.
Blaze came to a halt once more and he realized, with a jerk, that he’d actually nodded off in the saddle. Before him, two more guards barred the way to the War Council compound. He looked at them blearily.
“King’s Ranger,” he croaked, through a dry throat. “Message for the Council.”
The guards hesitated. This dust-covered, half-asleep man, seated on a lathered, exhausted bay horse, might well be a Ranger. He was certainly dressed like a Ranger, as far as they could tell. Yet the guards knew most of the senior Rangers by sight, and they had never seen this young man before. And he showed no sign of identification.
What’s more, they noticed, he carried a sword, which was definitely not a Ranger’s weapon, so they were reluctant to admit him to the carefully guarded War Council compound. Irritably, Gilan realized that he had neglected to leave the silver oakleaf device hanging outside his shirt. The effort of finding it again suddenly became intense. He fumbled blindly at his collar. Then a familiar, and very welcome, voice cut through his consciousness.
“Gilan! What’s happened? Are you all right?”
That was the voice that had meant comfort and security to him throughout his years as an apprentice. The voice of courage and capability and wisdom. The voice that knew exactly what action should be taken at any point in time.
“Halt,” he murmured, and realized that he was swaying, then falling from the saddle. Halt caught him before he hit the ground. He glared at the two sentries, who were standing by, not sure whether to help or not.
“Give me a hand!” he ordered and they leapt forward, dropping their spears with a clatter, to support the semiconscious young Ranger.
“Let’s get you somewhere to rest,” Halt said. “You’re all in.”
But Gilan summoned some last reserves of energy and, pushing clear of the soldiers, steadied himself on his own feet. “Important news,” he said to Halt. “Must see the Council. There’s something bad going on in Celtica.”