Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup (29 page)

‘Can you tell who did this?' Horace asked quietly and Halt looked up to meet his gaze. There was an expression of deep concern in the Ranger's eyes, Horace noted. That
fact alone, more than the carnage around them, sent a wave of uneasiness through him. He knew it took a lot to worry Halt.

‘I think so,' said the Ranger. ‘And I don't like it. It looks like the Temujai are on the move again.'

The tracks led to the east. At least, that was the general direction that Will had discerned from them. As the unknown horseman had made his way down the mountain, the track wound and twisted on itself, of necessity, as he followed the narrow, circuitous trails through the thick pine. But always, whenever there was choice, or a fork in the trail, the horseman chose the one that would eventually take him eastwards once more.

Exhausted before the first hour was out, Will kept doggedly on, stumbling in the snow from time to time and, on occasions too numerous to count, falling full length, to lie groaning.

It would be so easy, he thought, to just stay here. To let the aches in his unfit muscles slowly ease, to let the pounding of the pulse in his temples calm down and to just … rest.

But each time the temptation seized him, he thought of Evanlyn: how she had hauled him up the mountain. How
she had helped him escape from the stockade where the yard slaves waited for their eventual death. How she had nursed him and cured him of the mind-numbing addiction to warmweed. And, as he thought of her and what she'd done for him, somehow, each time, he found a tiny, hidden reservoir of strength and purpose. And somehow, he dragged himself to his feet again and staggered on in pursuit of the tracks in the snow.

He kept dragging one foot after another, his eyes cast down to the tracks. He saw nothing else, noticed nothing else. Just the impressions of the hooves in the snow.

The sun dropped behind the mountain and the instant chill that accompanied its disappearance ate through his clothes, damp with the sweat of his exertions, and gnawed deep into his flesh. Dully, he reflected that he was lucky he had thought to bring the blankets with him. When he finally stopped for the night, the damp clothes would become a potential death trap. Without the warmth and dryness of the blankets to cocoon him, he could freeze to death in his damp clothes.

The shadows deepened and he knew nightfall wasn't far away. Still he kept on, keeping going as long as he could distinguish the scuffed hoofmarks in the trail. He was too exhausted to notice the variations in the tracks – the deep troughs dug by the horse's locked-up front legs as it had slid down the steeper sections of the path. Those areas were only remarkable to him for the fact that he fell down them himself, more often than not. He could read none of the subtleties and secret messages that he had been trained to see. It was enough that there was a clear trail to follow.

It was all he was capable of.

It was long after dark and he was beginning to lose sight of the tracks now. But he continued as long as there was no possible deviation, no fork in the trail where he might have to choose one direction over another. When he came to a place where he must choose, he told himself, he would stop and camp for the night. He would wrap himself in the blankets. Perhaps he might even risk a small, well-shielded fire where he could dry his clothes. A fire would bring warmth. And comfort. And light.

And smoke.

Smoke? He could smell it, even as he thought of a fire. Pine smoke – the all-pervading smell of life in Skandia, the scented fragrance of the burning pine gum as it oozed from the wood and crackled in the flames. He stopped, swaying on his feet. He had thought of fire and, instantly, he could smell smoke. His tired mind tried to correlate the two facts, then realised there was no correlation, only coincidence. He could smell smoke because, somewhere near at hand, there was a fire burning.

He tried to think. A fire meant a camp. And that almost certainly meant that he had caught up with Evanlyn and whoever it was who had abducted her. They were somewhere close by, stopped for the night. Now all he had to do was find them and …

‘And what?' he asked himself in a voice thickened by fatigue. He took a long swallow from the water skin that he'd hung from his belt. He shook his head to clear it. For hours now, his entire being had been focused on one task – to catch up with the unseen horseman. Now he had almost accomplished that, he realised he had no plan as to what to do next. One thing was certain, he wouldn't be able to
rescue Evanlyn by brute force. Swaying with fatigue, almost unconscious, he barely had the strength to challenge a sparrow.

‘What would Halt do?' he asked himself. It had become his mantra over the past months, whenever he found himself uncertain over a course of action. He would try to imagine his old mentor beside him, eyeing him quizzically, prompting him to solve the problem at hand by himself. To think it through, then to take action. The well-remembered voice seemed to sound in his ear.

Look first
, Halt had been fond of saying.
Then act
.

Will nodded, content that he had solved the problem for the time being.

‘Look first,' he repeated thickly. ‘Then rest. Then act.'

He gave himself a few minutes' rest, hunkered down and leaning against the rough bole of a pine, then he stood erect once more, his muscles groaning with stiffness. He continued on the track, moving now with extra caution.

The smell of smoke grew stronger. Now it was mixed with something else and he recognised the smell of meat roasting. A few minutes later, moving carefully, he could discern an orange glow up ahead. The firelight reflected from the whiteness of the snow all around him, bouncing and magnifying in intensity. He realised that it was still some way ahead and continued along the trail. When he judged he was within fifty metres of the source of light, he moved silently off into the trees, fighting his way through the thick snow that came knee deep or higher.

The trees began to thin out, revealing a small clearing and the camp set around the fire. He lowered himself to his belly and inched forward, staying concealed in the deep
shadows under the pines. He could make out dome-shaped tents now, three of them, arranged in a semi-circle around the fire. He could see no sign of movement. The smell of roasting meat must have hung in the still, clear air long after the meal had been eaten, he realised. He started to edge forward, when a movement behind the tents stopped him. He froze, absolutely still, as a man stepped forward into the fringe of the firelight. Stocky, dressed in furs, his face was hidden in the shadow cast by the fur hat he wore. But he was armed. Will could see the curved sword hanging at his waist, and the slender lance that he held in his right hand, its butt planted in the snow.

As he looked, he made out more detail. Horses, six of them, tethered among the trees to one side. He supposed that meant six men. He frowned, wondering how he could possibly get Evanlyn away from here, then realised that, so far, he hadn't seen her. He cast his gaze around the camp, wondering if perhaps she was inside one of the tents. Then he saw her.

Huddled under a tree, a blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Peering more closely, he made out the bonds that kept her fastened in place. His eyes ached and he rubbed the back of one hand across them, then pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying to force his eyes to stay focused. It was a losing battle. He was exhausted.

He began to wriggle back into the forest, looking for a place where he could hide and rest. They weren't going anywhere this evening, he realised, and he needed to rest and recover his strength before he could accomplish anything. Tired as he was, he couldn't even begin to formulate a coherent plan.

He would rest, finding a spot far enough away to give him concealment, but not so far that he wouldn't hear the camp stirring in the morning. Ruefully, he realised that his earlier plans for a fire were now thwarted. Still, he had the blankets, that was something.

He found a hollow under the spreading branches of a massive pine and crawled into it. He hoped that the horsemen wouldn't patrol round their camp in the morning and find his tracks, then realised there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He untied the rolled-up blankets and hauled them tight around him, leaning against the bole of the massive tree.

He was never sure that he didn't fall asleep before his eyes actually closed. If not, it was certainly a close-run thing.

Evanlyn had sensed the antagonism between the two warriors the night before. In the morning, it reached crisis point.

She wasn't to know it, but this was just the latest in a series of arguments between the two men. The small scouting party was one of many that had crossed the border into Skandia. Some weeks previously, Evanlyn had actually seen a member of an earlier party, near the hut where she and Will had spent the winter.

The man who had captured her, Ch'ren, was the son of a high-ranking Temujai family. It was the Temujai custom to have their young nobles serve a year as common soldiers, before they were promoted to the officer class. At'lan, the commander of the scouting party, was a
long-term soldier, a sergeant with years of experience. But, as a commoner, he knew he would never rise above his present rank. It galled him that the arrogant, headstrong Ch'ren would soon outrank him, just as it galled Ch'ren to take orders from a man he considered to be his social inferior. The day before, he had ridden off into the mountains on his own to spite the sergeant.

He had taken Evanlyn prisoner on a whim, without any real thought of the consequences. It would have been better had he remained unseen and allowed her to go on her way. The scouting party was under strict orders to avoid discovery and they had no orders to take prisoners. Nor was there any provision for holding or guarding them.

The simplest solution, At'lan had decided, was that the girl must be killed. As long as she was alive, there was the chance that she would escape and spread the word of their presence. If that happened, At'lan knew he would pay with his own life. He felt no sympathy for the girl. Nor did he feel any antagonism. His feelings about her were neutral. She was not of the People and so barely qualified as a human being.

Now, he ordered Ch'ren to kill her. Ch'ren refused – not out of any regard for Evanlyn, but simply to infuriate the sergeant.

Evanlyn watched anxiously as they argued. Like the previous night, it was obvious from the way they kept pointing to her that she was the reason for their disagreement. It was equally obvious, as their argument became more and more heated, that her position was becoming increasingly precarious. Finally, the older of the two drew back his hand and slapped the younger man across the
face, sending him staggering a few paces. Then he turned and strode towards Evanlyn, drawing his curved sabre as he came.

She looked from the sword in his hand to the totally matter-of-fact expression on his face. There was no malice, no anger, no expression of hatred there. Just the determined gaze of someone who, without the slightest qualm or hesitation, was about to end her life.

Evanlyn opened her mouth to scream. But the horror of the moment froze the sound in her throat and she crouched, open-mouthed, as death approached her. It was odd, she thought, that they had dragged her here, left her overnight and then decided to kill her.

It seemed such a pointless way to die.

Halt cast around, examining the confused mass of tracks in the soft snow, frowning to himself as he tried to make sense of the clues there. Horace waited, bursting with curiosity.

Finally, Halt stood up from where he had been kneeling, examining a particularly torn-up patch of ground.

‘Thirty of them at least,' he muttered. ‘Maybe more.'

‘Halt?' Horace asked experimentally. He didn't know if there were more details that Halt was about to reveal, but he couldn't wait any longer. The Ranger was moving away from the small stockade now, though, following another set of tracks that led into the mountains beyond the pass.

‘A small party, maybe five or six, went on into Skandia. The rest of them went back the way they'd come.'

He traced the directions with the tip of his longbow. He was speaking more to himself than to Horace, confirming in his own mind what the signs on the ground had told him.

‘Who are they, Halt?' Horace asked quickly, hoping to break through the Ranger's single-minded concentration. Halt moved a few paces further in the direction taken by the smaller party.

‘Temujai,' he said briefly, over his shoulder.

Horace rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘You already said that,' he pointed out. ‘But who exactly are the Temujai?'

Halt stopped and turned to look back at him. For a moment, Horace was sure he was about to hear another comment on the sad state of his education. Then a thoughtful look crossed the Ranger's face and he said, in a milder tone than usual, ‘Yes, I suppose there's no reason why you should have ever heard of them, is there?'

Horace, loath to interrupt, merely shook his head.

‘They're the Riders from the Eastern Steppes,' the Ranger said. Horace frowned, not understanding.

‘Steps?' he repeated, and Halt allowed a slight smile to show through.

‘Not steps that you walk up and down,' he told him. ‘Steppes – the plains and grasslands to the East. Nobody knows exactly where the Temujai originated. At one stage, they were simply a disorganised rabble of smaller tribes until Tem'gal welded them into one band and became the first Sha'shan.'

‘Sha'shan?' Horace interrupted hesitantly, totally unaware of what the word might mean. Halt nodded and went on to explain.

‘The leader of each band was known as the Shan. When Tem'gal became the overlord, he created the title Sha'shan – the Shan of Shans, or the leader of leaders.'

Horace nodded slowly. ‘But who was Tem'gal?' he asked, adding hastily, ‘I mean, where did he spring from?'

This time Halt shrugged. ‘Nobody really knows. Legend is that he was a simple herd boy. But somehow he became leader of one tribe, then united them with another, and another. The upshot was, he turned the Temujai into a nation of warriors – probably the best light cavalry in the world. They're fearless, highly organised and absolutely pitiless when it comes to battle. They've never been defeated, to my knowledge.'

‘So what are they doing here?' Horace asked and Halt regarded him gravely, gnawing at his lower lip as he considered a possible answer.

‘That's the question, isn't it?' he asked. ‘Perhaps we should follow this smaller group and see what we can find out. At least as long as they're heading in the direction we want to go.'

And slinging his bow over his left shoulder, he walked to where Abelard stood patiently, reins trailing loosely on the ground. Horace hurried after him, swinging up astride the black battlehorse he had been riding to impress the border guards. All at once, the finery that he had donned to play the role of a Gallican courier seemed a little incongruous. He nudged the black with his heel and set out after Halt.

The other two horses followed, the battlehorse on its lead rein, and Tug trotting quietly along without any need for urging or direction.

Halt leaned down from the saddle, studying the snow.

‘Look who's back,' he said, indicating a trail in the snow. Horace nudged his horse closer and peered at the ground. To him there was nothing evident, other than a confusion of hoof prints, rapidly losing definition in the soft, wet snow.

‘What is it?' he asked finally.

Halt replied without looking up from the track. ‘The single rider who went off on his own has come back.'

Some way back, the trail had split, with one rider leaving the group and heading deeper into Skandia, while the main party had circled to the north, maintaining the same distance from the border. Now, apparently, that single rider had rejoined the group.

‘Well, that makes it easier. Now we don't have to worry about his coming up behind us while we're trailing the others,' Halt said. He started Abelard forward, then stopped, his eyes slitted in concentration.

‘That's odd,' he said and slid down from the saddle to crouch on one knee in the snow. He studied the ground closely, then peered back in the direction from which the single rider had rejoined the group. He grunted, the straightened up, dusting wet snow from his knees.

‘What is it?' Horace asked. Halt screwed his face into a grimace. He wasn't totally sure of what he was seeing, and that bothered him. He didn't like uncertainties in situations like this.

‘The single rider didn't rejoin the group here. They went this way at least a day before he did,' he eventually said. Horace shrugged. There was a logical reason for that, he thought.

‘So he was heading after them to a rendezvous,' he suggested and Halt nodded agreement.

‘More than likely. They're obviously a reconnaissance group and he may have gone scouting by himself. The question is, who followed him when he came back?'

That raised Horace's eyebrows. ‘Someone followed him?' he asked. Halt let go a deep breath in frustration.

‘Can't be sure,' he said briefly. ‘But it looks that way. The snow's melting quickly and the tracks aren't totally clear. It's easy enough to read the horse's tracks, but this new player is on foot … If he's really there,' he added uncertainly.

‘So …' Horace began. ‘What should we do?'

Halt came to a decision. ‘We'll follow them,' he said, mounting once more. ‘I won't sleep comfortably until I find out what's going on here. I don't like puzzles.'

The puzzle deepened an hour later when Tug, following quietly behind the two riders, suddenly threw back his head and let go a loud whinny. It was so unexpected that both Halt and Horace spun in their saddles and stared at the little horse in amazement. Tug whinnied again, a long, rising tone that had a note of anxiety in it. Horace's spare battlehorse jerked at its lead rope and whinnied in alarm as well. Horace was able to quell an incipient response from the black that he was riding, while Abelard, naturally, remained still.

Angrily, Halt made the Ranger hand signal for silence and Tug's whinny cut off in mid-note. The others gradually quietened as well.

But Tug continued to stand in the trail, forelegs braced wide apart, head up and nostrils flaring as he sniffed the frigid air around them. His body trembled. He was on the
brink of giving vent to another of those anguished cries and only the discipline and superb training of all Ranger horses was preventing him from doing so.

‘What the devil …' Halt began, then, sliding down from the saddle, he moved quietly back to the distressed horse, patting Tug's neck gently.

‘Hush now, boy,' he murmured. ‘Settle now. What's the trouble with you then?'

The quiet voice and the gentle hands seemed to soothe the little horse. He put his head down and rubbed his forehead against Halt's chest. The Ranger gently fondled the little horse's ears, still speaking to him in a soft croon.

‘There you are … If only you could talk, eh? You know something. You sense something, isn't that right?'

Horace watched curiously as the trembling gradually eased. But he noticed the little horse's ears were still pricked and alert. He might have been quietened, but he wasn't at ease, the apprentice realised.

‘I've never seen a Ranger horse behave like that before,' he said softly, and Halt looked up at him, his eyes troubled.

‘Neither have I,' he admitted. ‘That's what has me worried.'

Horace studied Tug carefully. ‘He seems to have calmed down a little now,' he ventured and Halt laid a hand across the horse's flank.

‘He's still taut as a bowstring, but I think we can keep going. There's only an hour or so till dark and I want to see where our friends are camped for the night.'

And giving Tug's neck one final, soothing pat, he moved to remount Abelard and to take up the trail once more.