But then, he wasn't aware that Will needed to take him alive. Perhaps he wasn't ready to face the Ranger's phenomenal accuracy and speed once more. He must be aware that only luck had saved him in their previous encounter.
Will saw the pale oval of the Genovesan's face as he glanced over his shoulder. Tug was closing the range rapidly now and the man was kicking desperately with his heels to spur his own horse on. But the lumbering farm horse never had a chance to outrun the fleet-footed Ranger horse and Tug was gaining with each stride.
The Genovesan struggled now to unsling his crossbow. As he saw what the man was doing, Will shoved the joined strikers through his belt and unslung his own longbow. The Genovesan's hand went to his quiver, selecting a bolt and placing it in the groove of the crossbow. Will's throat constricted and his mouth went dry as he realised he was about to face one of the man's deadly poisoned bolts. Under normal circumstances, he would have shot first. All the advantages were on his side. The other man had to twist in the saddle to get off a shot, while Will could shoot straight over Tug's ears. At this distance, he could pick him off easily.
But he needed the man alive.
The Genovesan had finally managed to load the bolt. He turned awkwardly, fighting against the jolting, uneven gait of his horse, to bring the crossbow to bear. He was twisting around to his right, so Will guided Tug with his knees, veering him to the left, forcing the Genovesan to twist further, making it more difficult for him to take aim.
The Genovesan realised what he was doing and swung suddenly the other way, twisting round to his own left for a clearer shot. But as soon as he did, Will zigzagged again, taking Tug back to the right. The manoeuvre was successful. The Genovesan found that his target was again out of sight. And Tug had closed the range by another twenty metres in the process.
The Genovesan twisted right again. This time, Will kept galloping steadily, without zigzagging. But now he had an arrow nocked and rode with the reins dropped on Tug's neck, guiding the horse with knee signals. He couldn't risk killing the Genovesan, but his quarry didn't know that. The assassin would get one chance for a shot. There wouldn't be time for him to reload, even if he could manage the task on horseback.
When he came to shoot, Will planned to spoil his aim. He was confident that he could loose several arrows in rapid succession, putting them close enough to the Genovesans' head to make him flinch. He remembered the duel with the man's compatriot. These men were primarily assassins, used to shooting from cover at a helpless target, someone who was unaware of their presence. They weren't used to open combat, facing an enemy who shot back – and who shot with deadly accuracy.
He was closer now. Tug's gait was smooth and controlled, unlike the farm horse, who was clumsy and tired and had the Genovesan bouncing unevenly in the saddle.
Here it came! The crossbow levelled and he saw the Genovesan's hand begin to tighten round the trigger lever. Will's hands moved in a blur, drawing, releasing and flicking a new arrow out of the quiver and onto the string in such rapid succession that he had three arrows in the air in the seconds before the Genovesan released.
As his hand tightened on the crossbow's trigger, the assassin suddenly became aware of the danger. Something hissed viciously past his head, seemingly only a few centimetres away. And he was aware that two more shots were on the way, a fraction of a second behind the first. It would have taken far more steady nerves than he possessed to hold a cool, deliberate aim – even if he weren't being jolted and jounced by the galloping horse. He ducked, shouting an involuntary curse, and his hand spasmed, jerking hard on the trigger lever and sending the bolt arcing high into the air, so that it fell harmlessly into the long grass nearly a hundred metres away.
The danger was past. Will tossed the longbow aside. There was no time to re-sling it and he could recover it later. He drew the strikers from his belt and urged Tug to one last burst of speed. The assassin, seeing him only forty metres away, drummed frantically with his heels in his horse's ribs. The exhausted animal had slowed to a trot while his rider had been preoccupied and now he needed speed again. The horse responded as much as it could but Tug was eating up the distance between them now. Too late, the assassin began to reach for one of the many daggers he carried. But Will's right arm went up and then came forward in a smooth, powerful throw.
The strikers glinted in the sunlight as they spun end over end. For a second, the assassin didn't see them, didn't register the danger. Then he saw the spinning metal and ducked low over his horse's neck.
The man had reflexes like a cat, Will thought. The strikers spun harmlessly over his head and disappeared into the long grass. Will cursed. He'd never find them again. He dragged his saxe from its scabbard.
'Go get him, Tug,' he said and felt the response from his horse as he accelerated once more, now moving as fast as Will had ever felt him move.
He saw a glint of steel in the Genovesan's hand, recognised it as one of the long-bladed daggers the assassins carried. He held the saxe ready, and drove Tug forward. The Genovesan started to turn his horse to meet the charge but he was too late. He struck once, aiming for Tug, but Will leaned forward over his horse's neck and deflected the thin blade with his saxe.
Then Tug's shoulder smashed at full speed into the exhausted, off-balance farm horse and sent him crashing over, so that he hit the ground on his side and slid for several metres along the slick surface of the grass. The violent movement trapped the Genovesan's right leg under the horse's body. The horse's hooves flailed weakly in the air but it made no attempt to rise. It was finished.
Instantly, Will was out of the saddle. He ran towards the trapped assassin. The Genovesan had lost his dagger in the collision and was scrabbling frantically under his purple cloak to draw another. Without a second's hesitation, Will stepped in and slammed the heavy brass-shod hilt of his saxe into the side of the man's head. Then, without waiting to see if the first blow had been successful, he repeated the action, a little harder.
The man's eyes rolled up in his head. He let out a weak groan and fell back, his right leg still trapped under the fallen horse. Will stepped back to regain his breath. The second strike had probably been unnecessary, he realised. But he had enjoyed it.
'So much for you,' he said to the still form. 'And the horse you rode in on.'
Thirty-seven
Malcolm was worried. The venom had been in Halt's system for several days now and at any time, he could go into the final stages. He was peaceful for the moment, and his temperature was normal. But if he became agitated and feverish again, tossing and turning and calling out, that would signal that the end was only a few hours away. Will was racing against time to bring back the Genovesan before Halt reached that stage. Their best guess was that Tennyson's camp would be about four hours away. Four hours there and four hours back.
In one hour, Halt could be dead.
He glanced over to the tall young warrior, sitting hunched over his knees, staring into space. He wished there was something to do to help Horace, some encouragement he could offer. But Horace knew the situation as well as he did. And Malcolm wasn't in the habit of offering false hope and soothing words at a time like this. False hope was worse than the small hope they did have.
Halt gave a low moan and turned on his side. Instantly, Malcolm was alert, watching him like a hawk. Had he simply stirred in his sleep? Or would this be the beginning of the end? For a few seconds, Halt lay still and his anxiety began to abate. Then he muttered again, louder this time, and began to thrash about, trying to throw the blankets off. Malcolm hurried to his side, dropping to his knees and putting his hand on the bearded Ranger's forehead. It was hot to the touch – far too hot to be normal. Halt's eyes were screwed shut now but he continued to cry out. At first, they were just inarticulate sounds. Then he suddenly cried a warning.
'Will! Take your time! Don't rush the shot!'
Malcolm heard Horace's quick footsteps as the young man moved to stand behind him.
'Is he all ri
ght?' Horace asked. In the circumstances, it was a ridiculous question. Halt was anything but all right and Malcolm drew breath to give a cutting reply. Then he stopped. It was a natural reaction on Horace's part.
'No,' he said. 'He's in trouble. Hand me my medicine satchel, please, Horace.'
The satchel was actually within easy reach but he knew it would be better for the young man to think he was helping. Horace passed the leather case to Malcolm, who searched quickly through it, his practised fingers going quickly to the phial he needed. It contained a light brown liquid and he used his teeth to remove the stopper.
'Hold his jaw open,' he said briefly. Horace knelt on Halt's other side and forced the Ranger's mouth open. Halt struggled against him, trying to toss his head from side to side to avoid his touch. But he was weakened by the ordeal of the past few days and Horace was too strong for him. Malcolm leaned forward and allowed a few drops of the brown liquid to fall onto Halt's tongue. Again, the Ranger reacted, arcing his back and trying to break free.
'Hold his mouth shut until he swallows,' Malcolm said tersely. Horace obliged, clamping his big hands over the Ranger's mouth and closing it. Halt tossed and moaned. But after some time, they saw his throat move and Malcolm knew he had swallowed the draught.
'All right,' he said. 'You can let go.'
Horace relinquished his iron grip on Halt's jaw. The Ranger spluttered and coughed and tried to rise. But now Horace had his hands on his shoulders, holding him down. After a minute or so, his movements gradually began to weaken. His voice died away to a mumble and he slept fitfully.
Malcolm signalled for Horace to relax. There was perspiration on the young warrior's forehead and the healer knew it was from more than just exhaustion. It was nervous perspiration, brought on by his fear for Halt and his uncertainty. Powerful emotions, Malcolm knew, and capable of taking a heavy physical toll.
'Malcolm,' Horace said. 'What's happening?'
He had recognised that this was a new phase in Halt's suffering. Malcolm had told them that Halt would go through various phases but he hadn't described this, the final phase, in any detail. But Horace knew that any change in behaviour or condition could only be bad news now. Halt was deteriorating and Horace wanted to know how bad the situation was.
Malcolm looked up and met his worried gaze.
'I'm not going to lie to you, Horace. He's calmer now because of the drug I just gave him. That'll wear off in an hour or so and he'll start to thrash around again. Each time he does, it'll be worse. He'll drive the poison further and further through his system and that'll be the end.'
'How long can you keep giving him the drug?' Horace asked. 'Will could be back here at any time.'
Malcolm shrugged. 'Maybe twice more. Maybe three times. But he's weak, Horace, and it's a powerful drug. If I give it to him too often, it could kill him just as easily as the poison.'
'Isn't there anything you can do?' Horace said, feeling tears stinging his eyes. He felt so . . . helpless, so useless, standing by and watching Halt sink deeper and deeper. If the Ranger were in a battle, surrounded by enemies, Horace wouldn't hesitate to charge to his aid. He understood that sort of situation and could cope with it.
But this! This terrible standing by, waiting and watching, wringing his hands in anguish and able to accomplish nothing. This was worse than any battle he could imagine.
Malcolm said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He saw the anger in Horace's eyes, saw his face flushing with rage.
'You healers! You're all the same! You have your potions and spells and mumbo jumbo and in the end, it all comes down to nothing! All you can do is say wait and see!'
The accusation was unfair. Malcolm wasn't like the general run of healers, many of whom were mountebanks and charlatans. Malcolm dealt in herbs and drugs and knowledge of the human body and its systems. He was undoubtedly the most skilled and learned healer in Araluen. But sometimes, skill and knowledge simply weren't enough. After all, if healers were infallible, nobody would ever die. Deep down, Horace knew this, and Malcolm, knowing that he knew, took no offence. He understood that the warrior's anger was directed at the situation, at his own feeling of utter helplessness, and not at Malcolm himself.
'I'm sorry, Horace,' he said simply. Horace stopped his tirade and released a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He knew his words had been ill considered. And he knew too that Malcolm must feel an even worse sense of helplessness than he did. After all, this was what Malcolm was trained for and he could do nothing. Horace made a small sideways gesture with his hand.
'No. No,' he said. 'You've nothing to apologise for. I know you've done your best for him, Malcolm. Nobody could have done better. It's just . . .'
He couldn't finish the sentence. He wasn't even sure what it was he had been going to say. But he realised that his words spelt his acceptance of the fact that Halt would die. There was nothing more they could do for him. If Malcolm couldn't help him, nobody could.
He turned away, his hand up to his eyes, hiding the tears there, and walked away. Malcolm started after him, then decided it might be better to leave him. He turned back to Halt and dropped to his knees beside him once more. He frowned in concentration, staring at the Ranger. In another half an hour, the brown liquid would begin to lose effect and Halt would go into another paroxysm. He could ease that, but it would be a temporary solution. The attacks would continue and get worse. It was a downward spiral.
Unless . . .
An idea was forming in his mind. It was a desperate idea but this was a desperate situation. He breathed deeply several times, closing his eyes and concentrating. He forced his mind to ignore side issues and to focus on the main problem, turning the idea over in his mind, seeking the faults and the dangers and finding many of both.
Then he considered the alternative. He could keep Halt comfortable for a few more hours – maybe two or three – in the hope that Will would return. But he knew what a remote chance that was. Even if Will caught the Genovesan before that, he would travel more slowly on the return journey with a prisoner. In four hours, Halt would probably be dead. Not probably, he amended, almost certainly.
He came to a decision and rose, walking towards the young warrior who was leaning miserably against a tree some metres away. He saw the drooping shoulders, the bowed head, the body language that told him Horace had given up. Then he felt a sudden stab of doubt. Did he have the right to give him this renewed hope – hope that might well prove to be misplaced? If he buoyed Horace's expectations and Halt still died, how could he forgive himself?
Would it be better to simply accept the situation, do what he could for Halt and let nature take its course?
He shook his head, a new resolve forming in his mind. That was not his way. It never would be. If there was the slightest chance to save a patient, then he would take it. He would fight to the very end.
'Horace?' he said softly. The young man turned to him and Malcolm saw the tears that streaked his face.
'There might be something . . .' he began. He saw the hope in Horace's eyes and held up a hand to forestall him. 'It's a very slim chance. And it might not work. It could even kill him,' he warned. For a moment, he saw Horace recoil mentally from that outcome, then the warrior recovered himself.
'What do you have in mind?'
'It's something I've never done before. But it might work. The drug I gave him is a very dangerous drug. As I said, it could kill him, even without the poison. But if I were to give him enough so that he was almost dead, it might save him.'
Horace frowned, not understanding. 'How can you save him if you almost kill him?' And Malcolm had to admit that, put that way, it seemed a crazy plan. But he stuck to his guns.
'If I take him right to the edge, everything in his body will slow down. His pulse. His breathing. His entire system. And the effects of the poison will slow down as well. We'll buy him time. Maybe eight hours. Maybe more.'
He saw the effect those words had on Horace. In eight hours, Will wou
ld almost certainly be back – if he had managed to capture the Genovesan. Suddenly, Horace felt a terrible doubt. What if the Genovesan had killed Will? He pushed the thought aside. He had to believe in something today.
Will would be back. And if Halt were still alive, Malcolm could cure him. Suddenly, there was hope, where there had only been black despair.
'How do you do it?' he asked slowly. Malcolm chewed his lip for a second or two, then decided there was no easy way to express what he had in mind.
'I'll give him a massive overdose of the drug. But not quite enough to kill him.'
'And how much will that be? Do you know? Have you ever done this before?'
Again, Malcolm hesitated. Then he took the plunge.
'No,' he said. 'I've never done this before. I don't know of anyone who has. As for how much should I give him, frankly, I'll be guessing. He's weak already. I think I know how much to give him but I can't be sure.'
There was a long silence between them. Then Malcolm continued.
'It's not a decision I want to make, Horace. It should be made by a friend.'
Horace met his gaze and nodded slowly, understanding. 'It should be made by Will.'