Halt's Peril

  Malcolm was a different matter. He was a healer, dedicated to saving life, and Horace's action went against all his basic principles. He could never bring himself to intentionally put a life in danger the way Horace had done.

  'Malcolm,' Horace was saying, 'the more the victim moves about and exerts himself, the faster the poison will spread through his system. Is that right?'

  Wordless, Malcolm nodded confirmation.

  'Good,' Horace said. He let go of Bacari's arm and tore the already ripped sleeve free. Then, working quickly, he wrapped it firmly around the bleeding wound in the Genovesan's arm.

  'Can't have you bleeding to death before the poison kills you,' he said. He finished tying the makeshift bandage and released his grip on the Genovesan. Bacari, horrified at what had happened to him, sank slowly to his knees, head bowed. He looked to Malcolm, saw his only possible source of survival, and pleaded with the healer.

  'Please! I beg you! Don't let him do this.'

  Malcolm shrugged unhappily. The matter was out of his hands. Horace stooped swiftly and removed the ankle cuffs that secured Bacari. Then the assassin felt that powerful grip under his arm again as he was hauled to his feet.

  'Up you come, my murdering friend. Can't have you sitting around all day. We're going to walk. We're going to run. We're going to get that poison just racing through you!'

  And so saying, he began to propel Bacari before him, forcing the Genovesan into an awkward, shambling trot. They crossed the little copse, leaving the shelter of the trees. Horace pointed to the southern ridge.

  'What do you say we go admire the view from up there?' he said. 'Sounds like a plan? Then let's go!'

  With Horace holding the prisoner firmly by the elbow, they began to trot up the slope. Then he increased the pace so that they were running. Bacari slipped and fell half a dozen times, but on each occasion, Horace would drag him to his feet and get him running once more. Will and Malcolm could hear Horace's sarcastic exhortations as he drove Bacari to greater and greater efforts.

  'Come on, my old Genovesan runner! Up you come!'

  'On your feet, poison peddler!'

  'Move it along! We have to keep that poison spreading!'

  Gradually, the voice faded away as the two figures ran awkwardly up the slope, one half-dragging the other. Malcolm met Will's eyes. Will could see the disapproval there.

  'Can you stop him?' the healer asked.

  Will looked coldly at him. 'Perhaps I could. But why would I?'

  Malcolm shook his head and turned away. Will moved to him and touched his shoulder, turning the healer back to face him again.

  'Malcolm, I think I understand. I know you find it hard to condone this. But it has to be done.'

  The little man shook his head unhappily. 'It goes against everything I've ever done and believed, Will. The idea of deliberately infecting a healthy body, of putting poison into it . . . it's just wrong for me!'

  'Perhaps it is,' Will conceded. 'But it's Halt's only chance. You know that creature was never going to tell us which poison he used. No matter how much we threatened him, he didn't believe we'd follow through on the threats. And he was probably right. I couldn't put a knife to his throat and simply kill him if he refused to answer.'

  'So this is different?' Malcolm asked and Will nodded.

  'Of course it is. This way, the choice is up to him. If he tells us which poison he used, you can counteract it. You've said yourself the antidote will be effective almost immediately. This way, we're not killing him. We're here to save him. And if he dies, it will be his choice.'

  Malcolm lowered his eyes. There was a long silence between them.

  'You're right,' he said at length. 'I don't like it, but I can see there is a difference. And it's necessary.'

  They heard the sound of thudding footsteps coming back down the hill, then Horace led a white-faced, shuffling Bacari into the clearing among the trees. There was an unmistakable expression of grim satisfaction on Horace's face.

  'Guess what?' he said. 'Our friend has his memory back.'

  The poison was derived from the white aracoina. Bacari babbled the information to Malcolm, his eyes wide with fear. Malcolm nodded and hurried to fetch his medical kit. He rummaged inside it and produced half a dozen small containers of liquids and sacks of powder. Hastily, he began measuring and mixing and within five minutes had a thin, yellow liquid prepared. He took the bowl containing the liquid and moved to Halt's side.

  'No,' Will said, gesturing to the bowl. 'Not Halt. Give it to Bacari first.'

  At first, Malcolm was surprised by the statement. Then he saw the reasoning behind it. There was still the chance that the Genovesan had deceived them about the poison. If he saw that he was about to be given the wrong antidote, the antidote that could kill him, he would have to tell them. But the killer looked quickly at Will as he heard the words and stepped forward, trying to twist so that his wounded arm, still tied behind his back, was closer to the healer.

  'Yes! Yes!' he said. 'Give it to me now!'

  Horace had been right. The fact that he had penetrated a vein with the poison meant that it was working far more quickly on the Genovesan than it had on Halt. Already, Bacari could feel the heat in his injured arm, the burning pain of the poison. And he could feel it moving up the arm as well. His pulse was starting to race – another side effect of the poison – and he knew that would force the venom around his system even more quickly.

  Malcolm looked at him, glanced at Will and nodded. Halt was safe for the time being and it would take only minutes to administer the antidote to Bacari. He gestured to the man's arm.

  'Untie him, please, Will,' he said. 'I need to get at that arm.'

  Will reached behind the Genovesan and undid the thumb cuffs. As he did so, he dropped his hand warningly to the hilt of his saxe knife.

  'Remember, we don't need you alive any longer. Be very careful in all your movements.'

  Bacari nodded and dropped eagerly beside where Malcom was kneeling. He stretched out his arm for treatment, gasping in alarm as Malcolm removed the bandage and he could see the banded, discoloured flesh of his inside forearm. With the pressure of the constricting bandage removed, the arm was swollen badly. Malcolm took the injured arm, studied it for a moment, then turned it so that the inner part faced upwards. He had a small, very sharp blade in his free hand.

  'I'm going to have to cut, you understand?' he said. 'I'm cutting into a vein to administer the antidote.'

  'Yes! Yes!' the Genovesan said, his words stumbling over each other. 'Cut the vein. I know this! Just hurry!'

  Malcolm glanced up at him, then back down to the arm. Deftly he found a vein and cut into it with the small blade. Blood welled up immediately and he nodded to a small square of linen that he had placed ready on the ground beside him.

  'Wipe the blood away, please, Will.'

  Will dropped to his knees to do so. As he cleared the wound, and in the seconds he had before blood welled up again, Malcolm quickly inserted a thin hollow tube into the cut vein. There was a bell-shaped end to the tube and he poured some of the yellow liquid into it, watching it as it ran down the inside, tapping the tube until the liquid coalesced into a single mass, without air bubbles in it.

  He continued to hold the tube upright until the liquid ran down to the end that was inserted in Bacari's arm. Then, leaning forward, he put his lips to the bell-shaped opening and blew gently, forcing the antidote into the man's vein, where the bloodflow would distribute it around his system. Deftly, Malcolm placed a linen pad over the small incision he had made in the man's arm, then bound it firmly in place with a bandage.

  Bacari's shoulders sagged in relief and he looked up at the healer, bowing his head several times in gratitude.

  'Thank you. Thank you,' he said.

  Malcolm shook his head contemptuously. 'I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I can't stand by and watch another human being die.' He looked at Will. 'You can tie this animal up again if you like.'


  'I'll do that,' Horace said, stepping forward and picking up the thumb cuffs from where Will had dropped them. 'You give Malcolm a hand with Halt.'

  Malcolm started to demur. He didn't really need any help. Then he saw the anxious look on Will's face and knew he would feel better if he were doing something to speed his mentor's recovery. He nodded briefly.

  'Good idea. Bring my kit, would you?'

  Kneeling beside Halt, he cleaned the end of the thin tube with a colourless, strong-smelling liquid he took from his satchel. Then he took Halt's arm from under the blankets and removed the bandage, exposing the sight of the shallow wound. He used more of the pungent liquid to clean his small blade, then went to work administering the antidote to Halt. Throughout the process, there was no sound or reaction from the Ranger, even when the blade cut into his arm. Will noticed that Malcolm used considerably more of the antidote liquid than he had used on Bacari.

  'Poison's been in him longer than Bacari,' Malcolm said, sensing his curiosity. 'He'll need more of the antidote.' When he was done, Malcolm bandaged Halt's arm again. He looked up at Will, saw the anxiety in the young man's eyes and smiled reassuringly.

  'He'll be fine in a few hours,' he said. 'All I have to do now is give him something to bring him awake again. The faster his system is working, the sooner the antidote will take effect.'

  He prepared another compound and poured a little between Halt's lips. As the liquid trickled back into his throat, Halt swallowed reflexively and Malcolm nodded approval. He cleaned his instrument and rose to his feet, groaning slightly with the effort.

  'I'm getting too old for this outdoor lark,' he said. 'I need a camp with a few armchairs around the fire.'

  Will hadn't moved. He was still on his knees beside Halt, leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the bearded Ranger's face, looking for any sign of recovery. Malcolm touched his shoulder gently.

  'Come on, Will,' he said. 'It'll be a few hours before there's any improvement. For now, you need food and rest. I don't want Halt to recover only to find you've collapsed.'

  Reluctantly, Will stood and followed Malcolm. Now that the healer mentioned it, he was ravenous, he realised. And bone tired. His Ranger training told him that it was always wise to rest and recuperate when the chance arose. But there was one task left to be done, he realised.

  'Malcolm,' he called and the little healer turned, his eyebrows raised in a question. Before he could say anything, Will continued. 'Thank you. Thank you so much.'

  Malcolm grinned and made a dismissing gesture with his hand.

  'It's what I do,' he said simply.

  Forty

  Bacari made his move shortly before dawn.

  He knew it was the time when people's spirits were at their lowest ebb – when a sentry would become drowsy and careless. The first hint of grey in the eastern sky, the first sign of the pre-dawn light signalling the impending end of the dark hours, would give a false sense of relaxation and security. When the light came, the hours of danger were over.

  That was the way people's minds worked – even trained warriors like the tall, broad-shouldered one who was now on watch.

  The assassin had listened carefully as Malcolm and Horace had discussed their security arrangements for the night.

  'We'll take alternate watches,' Horace had said. 'Will's exhausted and he needs a proper night's rest to get his strength back.'

  The healer had agreed immediately. Will had been under immense strain – both physically and emotionally – and he could use a full night's sleep without interruption. Worn out as he was, he had refused to go to sleep before he saw signs that Halt was recovering. Halt's breathing had become deep and even, and there was colour back in his face, instead of the grey pallor that they had seen in the past few days. And his arm, when Malcolm inspected it, was almost back to normal. There was no swelling, and none of the ominous-looking discolouration that had surrounded the graze. The graze itself was almost healed over now as well.

  Bacari lay, apparently sleeping, watching through slitted eyes as the night wore on. He could feel his own strength returning as the antidote counteracted the poison in his body. In the small hours of the morning, Malcolm woke Horace to take the last watch. Bacari waited an hour as the young warrior sat hunched, a little way from the camp fire. From time to time, he heard him stifle a yawn. Horace was weary as well. The past few days hadn't exactly been a rest cure for him and he'd gone without a lot of sleep. Now, in his second spell of guard duty for the night, it was beginning to catch up with him. He shifted position and breathed deeply. Then he blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes, forcing them wide open.

  Within a few minutes, his shoulders had sagged and his eyelids began to droop again. He stood up and patrolled around the camp for some minutes, then returned to sit again.

  Eventually, inevitably, he began to doze. He wasn't fully asleep and any small noise would rouse him instantly. But Bacari made no noise at all.

  Will had refastened his thumb and ankle cuffs after Malcolm had administered the antidote. Slowly, carefully, Bacari stretched his bound hands down behind his back until he was touching the heel of his drawn-up right boot. He twisted the heel and there was a faint click as a small sharp blade shot out of a recess there. Gently, he began to saw the rawhide thong between the two cuffs up and down along the razor edge. The blade was short and several times the rawhide slipped away from it. Once, he gritted his teeth as he accidentally cut himself. But after half a minute's silent, steady work, the thong parted and his hands were free.

  He waited several minutes before his next move, making sure that he had made no sound or movement to alert Horace. But the broad-shouldered figure remained still, head hunched forward and shoulders rising rhythmically with his breathing.

  Bacari brought his hands round to the front and drew his knees up under his chin so that he could reach the ankle cuffs that bound him. He felt around in the dark until he found the release knot and twisted it. Instantly, the pressure on his ankles faded as the two loops widened. He slipped the twin loops over his feet, then carefully stripped the severed cuffs from his wrists as well. Now he was free.

  But still he waited, allowing circulation to return to his limbs, mentally rehearsing his next sequence of actions.

  He would kill Horace first. He had the means at his disposal. Then he would take the warrior's dagger – Bacari was no hand with a sword – and hamstring the two smaller horses. He would mount the larger horse and make his escape.

  Later, at a time of his choosing, he would return to finish off the other two. Or not. Bacari was a pragmatist. He would enjoy having revenge on Will and Malcolm but if, by doing so, he would disadvantage or endanger himself, he would forego the pleasure. He was, after all, a professional and there was no profit in simply killing them for the sake of a little revenge. On the other hand, if Tennyson were willing to offer a bonus of some kind . . .

  While he had been turning this over in his mind, he had been preparing for his attack on Horace. His cloak was fastened at the neck by a draw string. Carefully, he undid the knot at one end and slipped it out of the sewn fold that it was threaded through. The drawstring was in reality a thin cord and it measured some fifty centimetres in length. He wound the cord round each of his hands several times, leaving a long loop between them. Then, cat-like, he rose into a crouch and stole across the camp site towards the dozing figure of Horace.

  Horace came awake in panic as he felt something whip over his head and then tighten inexorably around his throat, dragging him back away from the fire, cutting off his air and strangling any attempt he made to call out. He felt a knee in his back as Bacari used it to gain extra purchase, straining backwards on the garrotte and pulling Horace's head back so that he was off balance and unable to struggle effectively.

  Too late, Horace realised what was happening and tried to force his fingers under the cord, between it and his neck. But it was already biting too deep and set too securely and there was no way he could relieve the
dreadful pressure.

  He looked desperately at the three sleeping figures around the camp fire. Will was exhausted, he knew. There was little chance that he would hear any sound. Malcolm wasn't attuned to this sort of life. He couldn't expect help from that quarter either. And Halt, of course, was still sleeping off the effects of the poison.

  Even the horses were too far away to notice anything amiss. They had wandered further in the copse of trees, looking for grass. Besides, Ranger horses were trained to warn of danger and movement coming from without, not within.

  He tried to call out but could manage only a small awkward croak. The minute he did so, the noose around his neck tightened even further and he started to black out as his body and brain were starved of oxygen.

  His struggles, already ineffectual, weakened further and as Bacari felt it happen, he increased his pressure. Horace felt he was looking down a long tunnel now. He could see the camp site as if he were looking through a circular hole, where the outer edges were black and impenetrable. His lungs cried out for air and he plucked feebly at the cord around his neck. Too late, he thought to thrash out with his legs to make some sort of noise. But he was too weak to accomplish anything more than a feeble movement.

  Horrified, he realised he was dying. The horror was mixed with a senseless fury as he realised it was Bacari who would kill him. It was galling to think that the assassin would triumph over him after all.