John Flanagan: Halts peril

Halt leaned close to Malcolm and indicated a large boulder a few metres away on their left.

'I'm going to move over to that boulder,' he said. 'When I call out to Tennyson, lob one of your mudballs in front of me.' Malcolm nodded his understanding. He crouched, gingerly set the wooden case down and opened the lid. Halt slid through the shadows to the boulder he had indicated. Malcolm took one of the balls out of the case, closed the lid and stood upright again. He made eye contact with Halt and the Ranger nodded to him. Malcolm saw Halt discard his cloak and don the leather circlet that Horace had made up – a replica of the simple crown of Clonmel. Using his fingers, he roughly combed his hair to either side, parting it in the middle and holding it in place with the leather loop.

Malcolm readied the ball for an underarm toss. At that moment, Tennyson chose to implore Alseiass once more.

'Alseiass! Show us a sign, we beg you!'

Halt took a deep breath, then shouted in a voice that rang through the cavern, waking the echoes.

'Tennyson! Tennyson! You are a fake and a liar!'

Heads turned, seeking the source of the words. As they did, Malcolm tossed the ball underarm, lobbing it high in the air to land on the spot just in front of Halt. The sand covering the cavern floor was relatively soft. But the ball came down from a considerable height and, as Malcolm had pointed out, it was extremely volatile.

There was a loud BANG! followed by a giant cloud of yellow-brown smoke. A trickle of sand and pebbles, loosened by the vibrations set up by the explosion, slithered down from the ceiling of the cave.

Then Halt stepped forward, passing through the cloud, and people gasped as he appeared to materialise out of the smoke.

'Tennyson! Your god is false. And you are a liar!'

Tennyson was completely startled by this turn of events. He peered through the smoky interior of the cavern to see the slight figure standing at the rear of the cave. He took in the hair, parted in the middle, held back from the face by the simple leather circlet, and the neatly trimmed beard. Suddenly, with a rush of fear, he knew who this was.

'You!' he cried, before he could stop himself. 'But you're dead! I k-' He stopped, just a little too late.

'You killed me?' said the figure. 'Yes, you did. But I've come back. And I want my revenge.'

'No!' Tennyson cried, holding up one hand as if to ward off the apparition before him. Taken by surprise, he was completely unnerved by the sight of the man he had believed dead. He knew to be dead.

'Say my name, Tennyson. Say my name and I may spare you,' Halt demanded.

'It can't be you!' Tennyson shouted. But the doubt was obvious in his voice. Aside from one brief meeting, he had never seen Halt at close quarters and then the Ranger's hair and beard had been long and unkempt. But he knew Ferris when he saw him, and the voice, with its distinctive Hibernian accent, was instantly recognisable. And he knew Ferris was dead. The Genovesan assassin had assured him of the fact. He had shot Ferris from behind, with a poisoned crossbow bolt. There was no possibility that the King could have survived. Yet here he was, calling for revenge. And there was only one way that could have happened. Ferris had returned from beyond the grave.

Halt moved forward, forcing his way through the assembled worshippers. They moved back from him, clearing a path, as they sensed Tennyson's uncertainty and fear.

'Say my name!' Halt demanded. As he advanced, Tennyson drew back a few paces. He glanced desperately to one of his white robes, a heavily built thug armed with a spiked mace.

'Stop him!' he cried, his voice breaking in fear.

His henchman started forward, the mace rising in his right hand. Then his face contorted with pain as his right leg collapsed underneath him. The weapon dropped from his hand as he fell awkwardly to the sand, clutching at the arrow that had suddenly appeared in his thigh.

'Good boy, Will,' Halt muttered to himself. The people around him whispered fearfully and drew back further. In the dim light of the cavern, none of them had seen the arrow in flight. And only a few of them could see it now. All they knew was that the white robe had suddenly been struck down in agony. Tennyson saw the arrow and now he knew a new fear. The next could well be aimed at him, he knew. And he knew that those mysterious cloaked archers who had dogged his steps from Dun Kilty and through Celtica very rarely missed what they aimed at.

'Ferris?' he said, uncertainly, 'Please… I didn't…'

Whatever he was about to say, he didn't get the chance to finish. Halt stopped and threw his arms wide.

'You want to stop me, Tennyson? Then ask Alseiass to do it. I'm a ghost. He's a god. Surely he outranks me?' His voice was heavy with sarcasm. 'So come on! Let's ask Alseiass to stop me in my tracks. Ask him to smite me with lightning! Go ahead!'

Tennyson could do no such thing, of course. He hesitated, looking to his white robes. But they weren't eager to come forward, having seen their companion struck down by an arrow out of the darkness. In addition, those who had followed Tennyson from Hibernia had seen Ferris before, and surely this was him, standing before them in the cavern, challenging Tennyson.

'You won't ask him?' Halt said. 'Well, I'll do it for you! Come on, Alseiass! You're a fake and a fraud and you don't exist! Prove me wrong and strike me down!'

A frightened ripple ran through the crowd and those nearest Halt shrank back further, half fearful that Alseiass might in fact strike him with a bolt of lightning. But, as nothing happened, as there was no answer to his blasphemous challenge, they began to look suspiciously towards the prophet who had come among them preaching the word of Alseiass.

They began to mutter among themselves. The atmosphere in the cavern was suddenly thick with suspicion. Sensing that the moment was right, Halt addressed them directly now, turning his back on the heavy-set figure on the altar.

'If Alseiass is real, let him strike me now! Let him show his power. Tennyson has told you that Alseiass can protect you from the bandits who are attacking your homes and villages. How can he do that if he can't even answer a simple challenge like this?' He looked up at the roof of the cavern. 'Come on, Alseiass! Let's hear from you! Strike me down! Flash your light at me! Do something! Anything!'

An expectant hush fell over the people in the cavern. They waited, but nothing happened. Finally, Halt shook his head and looked around the people watching him. He dropped the thick Hibernian brogue he had been using and spoke in his normal voice.

'People of Araluen, you've seen for yourself that this so-called god has no real power. That's because he isn't a real god. He's a fake. And that man,' he said, jerking a thumb in Tennyson's direction, 'is a fraud and a thief and a murderer. He murdered the King of Hibernia, King Ferris, who, coincidentally, looks a lot like me. You heard him call me Ferris. You saw how terrified he was when he thought that I was Ferris, back from the grave. Why would he feel that way if he hadn't been the one who killed Ferris?'

Tennyson, who had been cowering before what he believed to be a ghost, slowly drew himself up, leaning forward to look more closely, realising finally that he had been tricked. He could see that Halt's words were reaching the people gathered in the cavern, slowly turning them against him.

'He's told you that he's here to protect you from the bandits who are raiding in this area. He hasn't told you that those bandits are actually working hand in glove with him. And he's asked you for gold and jewellery to build his altar, hasn't he?'

He looked at the faces around him. Heads nodded in confirmation. Then the confusion and doubt on their faces slowly began to give way to suspicion and anger.