Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Character Profiles
Have You Got What It Takes to be a Ranger?
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Sneak Preview
About the Author
Have You Read Them All?
Also by John Flanagan
A Special Q & A with John Flanagan
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
Rescue!
The Skandian leader has been captured by a dangerous desert tribe. The Rangers and young Will, apprentice to the Ranger Halt, are sent to free him.
But the desert is like nothing these warriors have seen before. Strangers in a strange land, they are brutalized by sandstorms, beaten by the unrelenting heat, tricked by one tribe that plays by its own rules, and surprisingly befriended by another.
Like a desert mirage, nothing is as it seems. Yet one thing is constant: the bravery of the Rangers.
BOOK 7
ERAK’S RANSOM
For Rachel Skinner
(I hope you’re sitting down when you read this.)
WILL is small, wiry and agile, a perfect build for a Ranger’s Apprentice. As a young orphan he had dreamed of being a Knight like the father he never knew, but he has come to respect the skills of a Ranger. Now, in his fifth year of training, he is skilful, able to shoot with deadly accuracy, blend into invisibility, and has proven his courage time after time.
HALT is a renowned member of the Ranger Corps, known for his mysterious ways and his unstoppable nature. He is a superb archer and uses a massive longbow. Like all Rangers his skill with the bow is uncanny, deadly accurate, and devastatingly swift. Although he rarely shows his emotions, he thinks of Will as his son.
GILAN is Halt’s former apprentice and is the only Ranger who carries a sword. He is tall and humorous, in sharp contrast to his former master. For all his jokes and light-hearted manner, Gilan is serious about being a Ranger, and is the best unseen mover in the Ranger Corps.
HORACE is a legendary Knight of the Araluen Court, having defeated the evil Morgarath in single combat. Like Will and Alyss, he is an orphan, and grew up in the ward of Castle Redmont. As a younger boy he used to bully Will, but now they are firm friends, having helped each other out on countless missions. He is dependable, loyal to the knightly code of conduct, and known for his hearty appetite.
EVANLYN (real name is Cassandra) is the Princess Royal of Araluen and King Duncan’s only daughter. She created the alias ‘Evanlyn’ to protect her identity when she was captured by the Skandians. Tall and slim with long blonde hair, she’s known for being strong-willed, brave and capable. She is an expert with the sling and is learning how to use a sword.
ALYSS is a former ward mate of Horace and Will. Her beauty, intelligence and calm nature make her a perfect fit for the Diplomatic Service. Under the guidance of the elegant Lady Pauline at Castle Redmont, Alyss will learn diplomacy and become a Courier, travelling on missions for the Kingdom. She is very fond of Will, having known him for many years.
ERAK is the Skandian Oberjarl. Having fought as a mercenary, Erak once helped the warlord Morgarath in his attempts to defeat the Kingdom of Araluen. Erak is known for his navigational abilities – and his willingness to use his battleaxe to make his point known! Although he’s gruff and battle-hardened, Erak has a soft side too. Having reached a truce with the Araluens, he counts Will as a friend.
THE SENTRY NEVER saw the dark-clad figure ghosting through the night towards Castle Araluen.
Merging with the prevailing patterns of light and shade thrown by the half moon, the interloper seemed to blend into the fabric of the night, matching the rhythm of the trees and cloud shadows as they moved with the moderate wind.
The sentry’s post was in the outer cordon, outside the walls of the massive castle, by the south-eastern tower. The moat rippled gently behind him, its surface stirred by the wind so that the reflections of the stars in the dark water were set shimmering in a thousand tiny points of light. Before him stretched the massive parkland that surrounded the castle, carefully tended, immaculately mown and dotted with fruit and shade trees.
The ground sloped gently away from the castle. There were trees and small shady dells where couples or individuals could sit and relax and picnic in relative privacy, sheltered from the sun. But the trees were small and they were well spaced out, with plenty of open ground between them so that concealment would be denied to any large attacking force. It was a well-ordered compromise between the provision of privacy and relaxation and the need for security in an age when an attack could conceivably happen at any time.
Thirty metres to the left of where the sentry stood, a picnic table had been fashioned by attaching an old cartwheel to the sawn-off stump of what had been a larger tree. Several rustic benches were placed around the table and a smaller tree had been planted to one side to shade it at noon. It was a favourite picnic spot for the knights and their ladies. It afforded a good overview of the green, pleasant parklands that sloped away to the distant dark line of a forest. And it was placed so that it would enjoy sunshine all year round – so long as the sun was shining.
The intruder was heading towards this table.
The dark figure slipped into the shadows of a small grove forty metres from the bench, then dropped belly down to the ground. Taking one last look to get a bearing, the intruder snaked out of the shadows, face down, heading for the shelter of the table.
Progress was painstakingly slow. This was obviously a trained stalker who knew that any rapid movement would register with the sentry’s peripheral vision. As shadows of clouds passed over the park, the crawling figure would move with them, rippling unobtrusively across the short grass, seeming to be just one more moving shadow. The dark green clothing aided concealment. Black would have been too dark and would have created too deep a shadow. Dark green merged perfectly with the tone of the grass itself.
It took ten minutes to cover the distance to the table. A few metres short of the objective, the figure froze as the guard suddenly stiffened, as if alerted by some sound or slight movement – or perhaps just an intuitive sense that all was not quite right. He turned and peered in the general direction of the table, not even registering the dark, unmoving shape a few metres from it.
Eventually satisfied that there was no danger, the sentry shook his head, stamped his feet, marched a few paces to the right then back to the left, then shifted his spear to his left hand and rubbed his tired eyes with his right. He was bored and tired and, he told himself, it was when you got that way that you started imagining things.
He yawned, then settled into a slump, his weight resting more on one foot than the other. He sniffed wryly. He’d never get away with that relaxed posture on daylight sentry duty. But it was after midnight now and the sergeant of the guard was unlikely to come and check on him in the next hour.
As the sentry relaxed again, the dark figure slid the last few metres to the shelter of the table. Rising slowly to a crouching position, the intruder studied the situation. The sentry, after his shuffling and stamping, had moved a few metres further away from the table, but not enough to cause a problem.
There was a long leather thong knotted around the intruder’s waist. Now, untied, it could be seen to be a sling, with a soft leather pouch at its centre. A smooth, heavy stone went into the pouch and the figure rose a little, beginning to swing the simple weapon in a wide slow circle, using a minimal wrist movement and gradually building up speed.
The sentry became aware of a foreign sound in the night. It began as a deep-throated, almost inaudible hum, and slowly grew higher in pitch. The change was so gradual that he wasn’t sure at what point he became aware of it. It sounded like an insect of some sort, he thought … a giant bee, perhaps. It was difficult to detect the direction the sound was coming from. Then a memory stirred. One of the other sentries had mentioned a similar sound some days previously. He’d said it was …
CLANG!
An unseen missile smashed into the head of his spear. The force of the impact snatched the weapon from his loose grasp, sending it cart-wheeling away from him. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword and he had it half drawn when a slim figure rose from behind the table to his left.
The cry of alarm froze in his throat as the intruder pushed back the dark cowl that had concealed a mass of blonde hair.
‘Relax! It’s only me,’ she said, the amusement obvious in her voice.
Even in the dark, even at thirty metres distance, the laughing voice and the distinctive blonde hair marked her as Cassandra, Crown Princess of Araluen.
‘IT MUST STOP, Cassandra,’ Duncan said.
He was angry. She could see that. If it hadn’t been obvious from the way he paced behind the table in his office, she would have known it from the fact that he called her Cassandra. His usual name for her was Cass or Cassie. It was only when he was thoroughly annoyed with her that he used the long form of her name.
And today, he was thoroughly annoyed with her. He had a full morning’s work ahead of him. His desk was littered with petitions and judgements, there was a trade delegation from Teutlandt clamouring for his attention and he had to take time out to deal with a complaint about his daughter’s behaviour.
She spread her hands palm out before her – a gesture that mixed frustration and explanation in equal parts.
‘Dad, I was just …’
‘You were just skulking around the countryside after midnight, stalking an innocent sentry and then frightening the devil out of him with that damn sling of yours! What if you’d hit him, instead of the spear?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said simply. ‘I hit what I aim at. I aimed at the spearhead.’
He glared at her and held out his hand.
‘Let me have it,’ he said and when she cocked her head, not understanding, he added, ‘The sling. Let me have it.’
He saw the determined set to her jaw before she spoke.
‘No,’ she said.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you defying me? I am the King, after all.’
‘I’m not defying you. I’m just not giving you that sling. I made it. It took me a week to get it just right. I’ve practised with it for months so that I don’t miss what I aim at. I’m not handing it over so you can destroy it. Sorry.’ She added the last word after a pause.
‘I’m also your father,’ he pointed out.
She nodded acceptance of the fact. ‘I respect that. But you’re angry. And if I hand over my sling to you now, you’ll cut it up without thinking, won’t you?’
He shook his head in frustration and turned away to the window. They were in his study, a large, airy and well-lit room that overlooked the park.
‘I cannot have you stalking around in the dark surprising the sentries,’ he said. He could see they had reached an impasse over the matter of the sling and he thought it best to change his point of attack. He knew how stubborn his daughter could be.
‘It’s not fair to the men,’ he continued. ‘This is the third time it’s happened and they’re getting tired of your silly games. The sergeant of the guard has asked to see me later today and I know what that’s going to be about.’ He turned back to face her. ‘You’ve put me in a very difficult situation. I’m going to have to apologise to a sergeant. Do you understand how embarrassing that will be?’
He saw the anger in her face fade a little. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said. She was matching his formality. Normally, she called him Dad. Today it was Cassandra and Father. ‘But it’s not a silly game, believe me. It’s something I need to do.’
‘Why?’ he demanded, with some heat. ‘You’re the Crown Princess, not some silly peasant girl, for pity’s sake! You live in a castle with hundreds of troops to protect you! Why do you need to learn how to sneak around in the dark and use a poacher’s weapon?’
‘Dad,’ she said, forgetting the formality, ‘think about my life so far. I’ve been pursued by Wargals in Celtica. My escorts were killed and I barely escaped with my life. Then I was captured by Morgarath’s army. I was dragged off to Skandia, where I had to survive in the mountains. I could have starved there. After that, I was involved in a full-scale battle. Those hundreds of guards didn’t exactly keep me safe then, did they?’
Duncan made an irritated gesture. ‘Well, perhaps not. But –’
‘Let’s face it,’ Cassandra went on, ‘it’s a dangerous world and, as Crown Princess, I’m a target for our enemies. I want to be able to defend myself. I don’t want to have to rely on other people. Besides …’ She hesitated and he studied her more closely.
‘Besides?’ he queried. Cassandra seemed to consider whether she should say more. Then she took a deep breath, and plunged in.
‘As your daughter, there’s going to come a time when I should be able to help you – to share some of your load.’
‘But you do that! The banquet last week was a triumph …’
She made a dismissive gesture with her hands. ‘I don’t mean banquets and state occasions and picnics in the park. I mean the important things – going on diplomatic missions in your name, acting as your representative when there are disputes to be settled. The sort of thing you’d expect a son to do for you.’
‘But you’re not my son,’ Duncan said.
Cassandra smiled a little sadly. She knew her father loved her. But she also knew that a king, any king, hoped for a son to carry on his work.
‘Dad, one day I’ll be Queen. Not too soon, I hope,’ she added hastily and Duncan smiled his agreement with the sentiment. ‘But when I am, I’ll have to do these things and it’ll be a little late to start learning at that point.’
Duncan studied her for a long moment. Cassandra was strong willed, he knew. She was brave and capable and intelligent. There was no way she would be content to be a figurehead ruler, letting others make the decisions and do the hard work.
‘You’re right, I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘You should learn to look after yourself. But Sir Richard has been teaching you the sabre. Why bother with the sling – and why learn to sneak around unseen?’
It wasn’t uncommon for highborn young ladies to study swordsmanship. Cassandra had been taking lessons from the Assistant Battlemaster for some months, using a lightweight sabre specially made for her. She turned a pained expression on her father.
‘I’m all right with the sabre,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ll never really be an expert and that’s what I’d need to be to hold my own against a man with a heavy weapon. It’s the same with a bow. It takes years of practice to learn to use that properly and I just don’t have the time.
‘The sling is a weapon I already know. I learned to use it as a child. It kept me alive in Skandia. I decided that would be my weapon of choice and I’d develop my basic skills until I was really expert.’
‘You could do that on a target range. You don’t need to terrorise my sentries,’ Duncan said.
She smiled apologetically. ‘I admit I haven’t been fair to them. But Geldon said the best way to practise was to make the situation as real as possible.’
‘Geldon?’ Duncan’s eyebrows slid together in a frown. Geldon was a retired Ranger who had an apartment of rooms in Castle Araluen. Occasionally, he acted as an adviser to Crowley, the Ranger Corps Commandant. Cassandra flushed as she realised she’d given away more than she intended.
‘I asked him for a few pointers on unseen movement,’ she confessed, then added hurriedly, ‘But he didn’t know about the sling, I promise.’
‘I’ll speak to him later,’ Duncan said, although he had no doubt she was telling the truth. Geldon wouldn’t be fool enough to encourage her in the irresponsible practice sessions she’d devised.
He sat down, breathing deeply for a few seconds to let his anger subside. Then he said in a more reasonable tone, ‘Cass, think about it. Your practice sessions could conceivably put you, or the castle itself, in danger.’
She cocked her head to one side, not understanding.
‘Now that the sentries know what you’re up to, they might just ignore the occasional noise or sign of movement outside the walls. If they were to see some dark figure creeping through the night, they’d assume it was you. And they might be wrong. What if an enemy agent was trying to infiltrate the castle? That could result in a dead sentry. Would you want that on your conscience?’
Cassandra hung her head as she considered what he had said. She realised he was right.
‘No,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘Or the opposite might happen. One of these nights, a sentry might see someone stalking him and not realise it was only the Crown Princess. You could get killed yourself.’
She opened her mouth to protest but he stopped her with a raised hand.
‘I know you think you’re too skilled for that. But think about it. What would happen to the man who killed you? Would you want him to live with that on his conscience?’
‘I suppose not,’ she said glumly and he nodded, seeing that the lesson had been learned.
‘Then I want you to stop these dangerous games of yours.’ Again she went to protest but he rode on over her. ‘If you must practise, let Geldon work out a proper plan for you. I’m sure he’d be willing to help and it might be harder to slip by him than a few sleepy sentries.’
Cassandra’s face widened in a smile as she realised that, far from confiscating her sling, her father had just given his permission for her to continue her weapons practice.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, the eagerness obvious in her voice. ‘I’ll get started with him later today.’
But Duncan was already shaking his head.
‘There’s time for that later. Today I need your help planning a trip – an official trip. I want you to decide who should accompany us. And you’ll probably need to have new clothes made as well – proper travelling outfits and formal gowns, not that tunic and tights you’re wearing. You say you want to help, so here’s your chance. You organise everything.’
She nodded, frowning slightly as she thought over the preparations she’d have to make, the details she’d have to arrange. An official royal trip took a lot of planning and involved a lot of people. She was in for a busy couple of weeks, she realised. But she was glad that his attention had been diverted from his order for her to hand over the sling.
‘When are we going?’ she asked. ‘And where to?’ She’d need to know how far they were travelling so she could organise their overnight stops along the way.
‘In three weeks time,’ the King told her. ‘We’ve been invited to a wedding at Castle Redmont on the fourteenth of next month.’
‘Redmont?’ she repeated, her interest obviously piqued by the name. ‘Who’s getting married at Redmont?’
HALT RAN HIS fingers through his shaggy hair as he studied the list of names.
‘Gorlog’s beard!’ he said, using a Skandian oath he had become quite fond of. ‘How many people are here?’
Lady Pauline watched him serenely. ‘Two hundred and three,’ she said calmly.
He looked up from the list, appalled. ‘Two hundred and three?’ he repeated and she nodded. He shook his head and dropped the sheet of parchment on her desk.
‘Well, we’re going to have to pare it down,’ he said.
Pauline frowned slightly in concentration as she considered his statement. ‘We could possibly get rid of the three,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that I really need the Iberian ambassador and his two idiot daughters at my wedding.’
She took a quill and scored out the last three names on the list, then looked up at him and smiled brightly.
‘There. All done. Wasn’t that easy?’
Halt shook his head distractedly, taking the list again and scanning through it. ‘But … two hundred people? Do we really need two hundred people to get married?’
‘They’re not getting married, dear. We are,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. He scowled at her. Normally, Halt’s scowl was a fearsome thing. But it held no terrors for Lady Pauline. She raised one eyebrow at him and he realised he might as well drop the scowl. He went back to the list, jabbing his forefinger at one section.
‘I mean … I suppose the King has to come,’ he began.
‘Of course he does. You are one of his oldest advisers,’ she pointed out.
‘And Evanlyn – well, Cassandra. She’s a friend. But who are all these others? There must be fifteen in the royal party!’
‘Seventeen,’ Lady Pauline said. ‘After all, the King can’t travel without his retinue. He and Cassandra can’t just hop on their horses and turn up one day saying, “We’re here for the wedding. Where do we sit?” There’s a certain amount of protocol involved.’
‘Protocol!’ Halt snorted derisively. ‘What a load of rubbish!’
‘Halt,’ said the elegant diplomat, ‘when you asked me to marry you, did you think we could just sneak off to a glade in the woods with a few close friends and get it done?’
Halt hesitated. ‘Well, no … of course not.’
As a matter of fact, that was exactly what he had thought. A simple ceremony, a few friends, some good food and drink and then he and Pauline would be a couple. But he felt that it might not be wise to admit that right now.
The engagement of the grizzled Ranger and the beautiful Lady Pauline had been the talk of Redmont Fief for some weeks now.
People were amazed and delighted that this seemingly ill-matched, but well-respected, pair were to become man and wife. It was something to wonder about, to gossip about. Little else had been discussed in the Redmont dining hall for weeks.
There were those who pretended not to be surprised. Baron Arald of Redmont was one of them.
‘Always knew it!’ he told anyone who would listen. ‘Always knew there was something going on with those two! Saw it coming years ago! Knew it before they did, probably.’
And indeed, there had been occasional vague rumours over the years that Halt and Pauline had been something more than friends in the past. But the majority of people had dismissed such talk. And neither Halt nor Pauline ever said anything about the matter. When it came to keeping secrets, few people could be more tight-lipped than Rangers and members of the Diplomatic Service.
But there came a day when Halt realised that time was slipping past with increasing speed. Will, his apprentice, was in his final year of training. In a few months he would be due for graduation and promotion to the Silver Oakleaf – the insignia of a fully fledged Ranger. And that meant Will would be moving away from Redmont. He would be assigned a fief of his own and Halt sensed that his day-to-day life, so full of energy and diversion with Will around, would become alarmingly empty. As the realisation had grown, he had unconsciously sought the company of Lady Pauline with increasing frequency.
She, in her turn, had seen his growing need for company and affection. A Ranger’s life tended to be a lonely one – and one that he could discuss with few people. As a Courier, privy to many of the secrets of the fief and the Kingdom they both served, Pauline was one of those few. Halt could relax in her company. They could discuss each other’s work and give counsel to each other. And there was, in fact, a certain history between them – an understanding, some might call it – which went back to a time when they were both younger.
To put it plainly, Lady Pauline had loved Halt for many years. Quietly and patiently, she had waited, knowing that one day he would propose.
Knowing also that, when he did, this incredibly shy and retiring man would view the prospect of a very public wedding with absolute horror.
‘Who’s this?’ he said, coming across a name he didn’t recognise. ‘Lady Georgina of Sandalhurst? Why are we inviting her? I don’t know her. Why are we asking people we don’t know?’
‘I know her,’ Pauline replied. There was a certain steeliness in her voice that Halt would have done well to recognise. ‘She’s my aunt. Bit of an old stick, really, but I have to invite her.’
‘You’ve never mentioned her before,’ Halt challenged.
‘True. I don’t like her very much. As I said, she’s a bit of an old stick.’
‘Then why are we inviting her?’
‘We’re inviting her,’ Lady Pauline explained, ‘because Aunt Georgina has spent the last twenty years bemoaning the fact that I was unmarried. “Poor Pauline!” she’d cry to anyone who’d listen. “She’ll be a lonely old maid! Married to her job! She’ll never find a husband to look after her!” It’s just too good an opportunity to miss.’
Halt’s eyebrows came together in a frown. There might be a few things that would annoy him more than someone criticising the woman he loved, but for the moment, he couldn’t think of one.
‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘And let’s sit her with the most boring people possible at the wedding feast.’
‘Good thinking,’ Lady Pauline said. She made a note on another sheet of paper. ‘I’ll make her the first person on the Bores’ Table.’
‘The Bores’ Table?’ Halt said. ‘I’m not sure I’ve heard the term.’
‘Every wedding has to have a Bores’ Table,’ his fiancée explained patiently. ‘You take all the boring, annoying, bombastic people and sit them together. That way, they all bore each other and they don’t bother the normal people you’ve asked.’
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to just ask people you like?’ Halt asked. ‘Except Aunt Georgina, of course, there’s a good reason to ask her. But why ask other bores?’
‘It’s a family thing,’ Lady Pauline said, adding a second and third name to the Bores’ Table as she thought of them. ‘You have to ask family and every family has its share of annoying bores. It’s just part of organising a wedding.’
Halt dropped into a carved armchair, sitting slightly sideways with one leg hooked up over the arm. ‘I thought weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions,’ he muttered.
‘They are. So long as you have a Bores’ Table.’ She smiled. She was about to add that he was lucky he didn’t have family to invite, but she checked the statement in time. Halt hadn’t seen any members of his family in over twenty years and she sensed that, deep down, the fact saddened him.
‘The thing is,’ she went on, veering away from the subject of families, ‘now that the King is involved, the whole thing takes on a certain formality. There are people who must be invited – nobles, knights and their ladies, local dignitaries, village councillors and the like. They’d never forgive us if we robbed them of the chance to rub shoulders with royalty.’
‘I really don’t give a fig if they don’t forgive me,’ he said. ‘Over the years, most of them have gone out of their way to avoid me.’
Lady Pauline leaned forward and touched his arm gently.
‘Halt, it’ll be the high point in their lives for some of them. After all, nothing much happens in the country. Would you really want to deprive them of a little bit of colour and glamour in their humdrum existence? I know I wouldn’t.’
He sighed, realising she was right. He also realised that he might have been protesting a little too much. He was beginning to sense that the prospect of a big formal wedding might not be as objectionable to Pauline as it was to him. He couldn’t understand the sentiment but if that was what she wanted, that was what he would give her.
‘No. You’re right, of course.’
‘Now,’ she continued, recognising that he had capitulated and grateful to him for the fact, ‘have you chosen a best man?’
‘Will, of course,’ he said promptly.
‘Not Crowley? He’s your oldest friend.’ She was aware, if he was not, that assigning official roles was a perilous matter.
Halt frowned. ‘True. But Will is special. He’s more like a son to me, after all.’
‘Of course. But we’ll have to find a role for Crowley.’
‘He could give the bride away,’ Halt suggested. Pauline considered, chewing on the end of her quill.
‘I think Baron Arald assumes he’ll be doing that. Hmmm. Tricky.’ She thought for a few moments, then came to a decision. ‘Crowley can give me away. Arald can perform the wedding. That’s solved!’ She made two more notes on her growing list.
In Araluen, marriage was a state ceremony, not a religious one. It was normal for the senior official present to perform the ritual. Halt cleared his throat, making a great effort to keep a straight face.
‘Wouldn’t protocol,’ he said with mock concern, ‘demand that the King do that?’
A frown creased Pauline’s elegant features as she realised he was right. He was also altogether too pleased with himself. The innocent look in his eyes confirmed it.
‘Damn!’ she said. It didn’t seem strong enough so she borrowed his oath, ‘Gorlog’s teeth!’ She drummed her fingers on the desk top in annoyance.
‘That’s beard,’ Halt said mildly.
‘He’s got both, so I hear,’ she said. Then inspiration struck her. ‘I know. We’ll invite King Duncan to be Patron-Sponsor of the event. That should do the trick!’
‘What does a Patron-Sponsor do?’ Halt asked and she shrugged the question aside.
‘Not sure. I only just invented the position. But Duncan won’t know. His grasp of protocol is nearly as weak as yours. It’ll be a sort of glorified Master of Ceremonies for the whole thing. It’ll lend a certain … royal cachet to our union. Hmm, that’s rather good,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll write that down.’
She did so, making a mental note that she’d have to square the King’s Chamberlain with the concept of Patron-Sponsor. But Lord Anthony was an old friend.
‘Now, who else? Have we missed anybody?’
‘Horace?’ Halt suggested. She nodded immediately.
‘We’ll make him an usher,’ she said, writing furiously.
‘Is that another one you just made up?’ he asked and she looked up, offended.
‘Of course not. It’s official. You know: “Friend of the bride? Friend of the groom? Sit to the left. Sit to the right.” An usher.’
Halt frowned. ‘I keep thinking we’re missing someone …’
Pauline slapped her hand against her forehead. ‘Gilan!’ she said. ‘He’ll be awfully hurt if we don’t give him an official role.’
Halt clicked his teeth in annoyance. She was right. Gilan was tall, cheerful, loyal – and Halt’s previous apprentice. They would have to find something for him.
‘Can I have two best men?’ he suggested.
‘No. But you can have an extra groomsman. Good thinking! That means I’ll have to find an extra bridesmaid. I was just going to have Alyss.’
‘Well,’ said Halt, pleased that he was becoming better at this, ‘that’ll give Cassandra something to do.’
He was surprised to see a quick frown flash across Pauline’s countenance. She had a shrewd idea that Alyss, her assistant, would be less than thrilled to have Princess Cassandra at the wedding table with her and Will. Better if she were kept at a distance for the evening, on the Royal Patron-Sponsor’s table.
‘No-o-o,’ she said at length. ‘We can’t have that. As a royal princess, she’d take focus away from the bride.’
‘Well, we definitely can’t have that!’ Halt agreed.
‘Perhaps young Jenny, if Chubb can spare her. After all, she and Alyss and Will were all raised together.’
She made yet another note, finding a fresh sheet of paper to do so. The list was growing. So much to get organised. A thought struck her. Without looking up, she said:
‘You will be getting a haircut, won’t you?’
Halt ran his hand through his hair once more. It was getting a little long, he thought.
‘I’ll give it a trim,’ he said, his hand dropping unconsciously to the hilt of his saxe knife. This time, Pauline did look up from her writing.
‘You’ll get a haircut,’ she said and Halt realised that certain freedoms he had taken for granted over the years might be his no more.
‘I’ll get a haircut,’ he agreed.
‘TAKE IN THE sail,’ said Erak, Oberjarl of Skandia and, presently, captain of the raiding ship Wolfwind.
Svengal and a small party of sail handlers were standing ready beside the mast. At his order, they released the halyards that kept the massive yardarm in position and began to lower it to the deck. As the big square sail collapsed, no longer held in position to capture the onshore breeze, three other men gathered it quickly into neat folds so it could be stowed in the for’ard sail locker.
The yard itself was detached from the mast and swung carefully, avoiding any excess clattering or bumping, into its fore and aft stowage position along the raised decking between the twin rows of rowers’ benches. Normally, the Skandians would not have been so careful about keeping noise to a minimum during such an operation. But this wasn’t a normal occasion. This was a raid.
With the last of the way still on the ship, Erak swung the bow to port, running parallel to the low-lying coastline of Arrida, barely thirty metres away.
‘Out oars,’ he said, in the same low voice. Then he added, ‘And be quiet about it, for Torrak’s sake.’
One of the useful aspects about the Skandian religion, he mused, was the multiplicity of gods, demigods and minor demons one could call upon to emphasise an order. With almost exaggerated care, the burly rowing crew unstowed their oars and laid them into the tholes that lined both sides of the ship. There was nothing but a few muted clunks and rattles to mark the movement but, even so, Erak gritted his teeth. Although it was usually a deserted part of the Arridi coast, there was always the chance that a solitary shepherd or rider might be within earshot, ready to pass word that a Skandian wolfship was slipping quietly through the pre-dawn darkness towards the town of Al Shabah.
There was a risk involved in coming in so close to the shoreline, he knew. But it was the lesser of two risks. They’d kept a steady south-east course through the night, driven by the unwavering northerly breeze that blew towards the coast at this time of year. Borne along by the wind, Erak had sailed in close to the land, inside a huge bay that took a bite out of the coastline. On the eastern end of the bay, on a raised promontory, stood the township of Al Shabah. By placing his ship inside the bay, and inland of the spot where the town stood, Erak knew he would be screened by the dark land mass behind him. Also, as the sun slowly rose, which it would be doing in about another forty minutes, his ship would still be in darkness, while the promontory and town, to the east of his position, would be illuminated.
He could have turned towards Al Shabah while they were still further out to sea, avoiding the risk of being spotted from the coast. But that would have increased the risk of being seen from the town itself. Even by night, Wolfwind would have been a darker shadow on the steely grey surface of the sea. And the closer they drew to the town, the greater the risk of being discovered would have become.
No, it was safer this way. To lower the sail and creep along close inshore, concealed by the dark mass of the land behind them.
He shook away the distracting thoughts. He was out of practice to be wool-gathering at a time like this.
‘Ready to give way,’ he whispered. The order was relayed along the rowing benches. The twin rows of oarsmen had their eyes glued on him. He raised one hand then lowered it and the oars dipped into the water, to begin the task of dragging Wolfwind towards her destination. Erak felt the tiller come to life under his hand as the narrow-waisted hull began to slip through the sea. Wavelets slapped and gurgled against her oaken sides and a gentle hiss rose from where her prow cut through the black water, raising a small curl of phosphorescent white.
It was good to be back raiding again, he thought contentedly.
Life as Oberjarl had its attractions, he had to admit. And it was pleasant to receive a twenty per cent share of all booty that the raiding fleet brought in to Hallasholm. But Erak had been born to be a sea raider, not a tax collector and administrator. Several years of sitting around the Great Hall at Hallasholm, going over receipts and estimates with Borsa, his hilfmann, had left him bored and feeling the need for distraction. Whereas his predecessor, Ragnak, could look at tax levied on ships’ captains and inland farmers with an undisguised acquisitive glee, Erak felt vaguely uncomfortable with the amounts that were piling up in his coffers. As a wolfship captain, his sympathies had always lain more with those who might seek to evade paying their full tax rather than the Oberjarl and the eagle-eyed hilfmann who levied it.
Eventually, he had dropped a massive pile of scrolls, estimates, returns, harvest figures and detailed inventories of goods and booty captured by his jarls into Borsa’s lap and announced that he was going raiding again.
‘Just one last raid,’ he said to the indignant hilfmann. ‘I’ll go mad if I sit here behind this desk any longer. I need to be back at sea.’
Reluctantly, Borsa conceded the point. He had never been the warrior type himself. He was an administrator and he was very good at his job. He never understood why the big, ruffian-like sea captains who were invariably elected Oberjarl didn’t share his passion for studying figures and detecting undeclared income. But he knew they didn’t. Even Ragnak, in the early days of his rule, had continued to go on occasional raids. It was only later, when he became lazy and a little avaricious, that he found enjoyment in remaining at Hallasholm and counting his riches, over and over again.
Erak then sent for Svengal, his former second in command who had taken over the helm of Wolfwind, and informed him that he was assuming command again, for one more raid.
Some men might have been displeased by the prospect of being demoted to first mate. But Svengal was delighted to see Erak back in control. The two men were good friends and Svengal knew that Erak was by far the better navigator.
So here they were, off the Arrida coast, approaching the small trading town of Al Shabah.
Al Shabah was one of the towns that provided supplies, equipment, timber, cordage and rope to ships entering the Constant Sea. It was an unremarkable place, built on a promontory above a small beach, with a man-made harbour on the northern side, accessed by stairs. At this time of year, ships of the trading fleets had begun to make their way into the Constant Sea in increasing numbers, bringing trade goods from the islands to the south-west in the Endless Ocean.
As they came, they stopped at Al Shabah, or one of its sister townships, to replenish water, food and firewood and to repair any damage caused by storms.
When they sailed out of the harbour, they left behind a bewildering variety of gold coin and bullion they had used to pay their bills. Every so often, in response to a secret message from the town, an armed caravan from the inland capital of Mararoc would arrive and collect the treasure from the towns, taking it back to the Emrikir’s vaults.
The first caravan of the year was due in another two weeks, Erak knew. The schedule was a closely guarded secret, for obvious reasons. If potential attackers had no idea whether the treasure had been removed or not, it reduced the risk of attack. No right-minded pirate would risk his life in the hope that there might be treasure in the town’s strongroom. Secrecy and uncertainty were Al Shabah’s best defence – particularly when the alternative would mean maintaining a large and expensive garrison for the entire year.
But secrets can be uncovered, and a week earlier, eighty kilometres down the coast, Erak had paid an informant forty reels of silver to gain a copy of the schedule. It told him that while other towns had already been emptied of their riches, Al Shabah’s coffers were still temptingly full – and would remain so for some days to come.
There was a small standing garrison in the town – no more than forty men. Forty sleepy, overweight, comfortable Arridi townsmen, who hadn’t fought a real engagement in twenty years or more, wouldn’t provide much resistance to thirty yelling, fiendish, bloodthirsty, gold-crazed Skandians who would come screaming up from the beach like the hounds of hell.
Peering though the darkness ahead, Erak could see the lighter patch of land that marked a small sand beach at the foot of the promontory. High above, the white buildings of the town itself were also becoming distinguishable. There were no lights, he noticed. No beacons or even torches to illuminate the path of the sentries who must be patrolling. He shrugged. Not a bad idea, he thought. A burning torch might make a sentry feel safe and secure but it ruined his night vision and made it almost impossible to see anything beyond the few metres illuminated by the torch.
Once again he recognised the wisdom of his decision to approach from the inland side, with the sail lowered.
He could hear the gentle breaking of waves on the beach now. There was no surf to speak of, just small wavelets tumbling over themselves. Swinging the tiller smoothly, he set the ship on a forty-five-degree approach to the sand. He raised his free hand, palm up, in a prearranged signal and sixteen oars rose dripping out of the water. There was an occasional grunt of exertion as the rowers lifted their oars to the vertical and then carefully lowered them, to stow them alongside the rowing benches. One or two clattered noisily, the sound seeming to be magnified by the silence around them. Erak glared at the offending oarsmen. He’d speak to them later – when he could speak more forcefully than the present situation allowed.
There was a grating sound from for’ard and he felt a dragging vibration through the soles of his feet as the keel ran onto the sand. Four men were poised on the bow gunwales, about to leap into the shallow water and make the ship secure.
‘Go easy, line handlers!’ Svengal whispered hoarsely.
The men, who would normally have dropped noisily into the knee-deep water, remembered at the last moment and lowered themselves carefully. Taking two bow ropes with them, they ran up the beach, feet squeaking on the sand, and hauled the ship a little further up onto dry land.
They secured the bow ropes into the sand with hinge-bladed sand grapnels, then faced inland, hands on their battleaxes, alert for any sign of attack.
Erak peered up at the town above them. Still there was no sound of any alarm, no sign of guards or patrols. The whitewashed buildings, looking almost ghostly in the pre-dawn light, loomed silently above the wolfship.
More men were lowering themselves over the bow now, and others were carefully unstowing shields and battleaxes from beside the rowing benches and passing them down to others, who took them with exaggerated care and piled them on the beach above the high waterline. The shields, which were kept stowed on the outer gunwales along the length of the ship, had been covered with dark cloth to make them less conspicuous. The men now stripped this off, found their respective weapons and stood ready for their captain.
Erak passed his shield and axe down to one of the men standing in the shallow water, then lowered himself over the gunwale as well. He stretched down to arms’ length and released his grip, falling only a few centimetres before his feet hit the wet sand. He took his shield and axe back from his crewman and moved to where the thirty men of the attack party stood lined up. The four line handlers who had been first to land would remain with the ship.
Erak couldn’t help smiling as he felt a small thrill of adrenaline course through him. It was good to be back, he thought.
‘Remember,’ he told the raiding party, ‘keep the noise to an absolute minimum. Watch where you’re putting your feet. I don’t want you missing your step and sliding down the hill in your own personal avalanche. We want to get as close as we can before they spot us. With any luck, and from the look of things, we’ll be inside the town before anyone raises the alarm.’
He paused, looking round the tough bearded faces before him. There were a few answering nods. Then he continued.
‘On the other hand, if we are spotted, all bets are off. Start yelling to raise the dead and go at ’em. Make ’em think there’s an army out here come to see them off.’
Often, he knew, a sleeping garrison could be paralysed by fear at the sound of a yelling, screaming body of attackers. Sometimes, he’d even known garrisons to desert their post and run terrified into the night.
He looked around. There was a rough path at the foot of the hill, winding up towards the silent, sleeping town above them. He gestured towards it with the head of his axe.
‘There’s our way to the top,’ he said. Then, hitching his shield up on his left shoulder, he uttered the time-honoured Skandian leader’s call to action.
‘Follow me, boys.’
THE PATH WAS narrow and uneven, and the climb was steep. But the Skandians, in spite of their bulk, were all in excellent physical condition and they maintained a brisk pace behind their leader. There were a few grunts of exertion from time to time and occasionally a stone would be dislodged from underfoot to go rattling down the hillside.
But on the whole, the thirty raiders made little noise as they jogged up the path towards Al Shabah.
Everything was a compromise, Erak thought. Just as he’d taken the lesser of two risks by approaching along the bay’s coastline, now he had to balance speed against stealth. The longer they took to reach their objective, the greater the chance became that their presence would be discovered. That would make the fight a lot harder. By the same token, if they rushed up the path full speed, they’d also increase the chance of being heard.
So the best way was to steer a middle course, maintaining a steady jog.
Their sealskin boots thudded softly on the sand and stone underfoot. It was more noise than he would have liked, but he estimated that it would remain unheard even if there were listeners at the top of the cliff.
There was a bad moment when one of the men immediately behind Erak lost his footing and tottered, arms waving desperately, at the edge of the steep slope leading down to the sea. Fortunately, his axe was in the carry loop on his belt, otherwise his arm-waving might have separated some of his friends from their heads.
He let out an involuntary cry and his shuffling feet released a volley of stones and rocks that clattered down the hillside. In the instant that he was about to follow them, an iron grip caught hold of the collar of his sheepskin vest and he felt himself heaved back onto firm ground by the Oberjarl.
‘Gods above! Thanks, chief …’ he began. But a huge hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off further words. Erak thrust his face close to the other man and shook him, none too gently.
‘Shut up, Axel!’ he whispered fiercely. ‘If you want to break your neck, do it quietly or I’ll break it for you.’
Axel was a big man, one of the rowing crew. Rowers weren’t regarded as the most intelligent people in a wolfship’s crew and he was about to tell Erak that there was no point in threatening to break his neck for a second time. It wasn’t logical.
Then he had second thoughts. The Oberjarl, he knew, wasn’t big on logic when he was angry. He was, however, big on using his fists to settle a disagreement and, large as Axel was, he had no wish to tangle with Erak.
‘Sorry, chief. I just …’ he muttered and Erak shook him again.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed. Then, releasing his grip on the other man’s collar, he glanced anxiously towards the cliff-top, waiting to see if there was any sign that the rower’s clattering and yelling had been heard.
The entire raiding party waited in silence for several minutes. Then, as there was no sound of the alarm being raised above them, there was a general release of tension.
Erak pointed upwards and led the way again, jogging steadily up the steep slope. A few metres from the crest, he signalled for the men to halt. Then, gesturing to Svengal to accompany him, he covered the remaining distance to the top in a crouch, cautiously peering over the crest as he reached it. Svengal, a metre or so behind him, mirrored his actions and the two big Skandians knelt side by side, taking stock of the situation.