John Flanagan: The Kings of Clonmel

There was another reason. He wanted to find a sound that wasn't there so that he could use it as a signal for Abelard. He listened carefully for some minutes, then decided.

'A kingfisher,' he said softly. Strictly speaking, they weren't nocturnal birds. But occasionally they would take advantage of the fact that mice and small animals felt free to scurry around in the darkness. If his enemies heard the sound, they might be suspicious. But they couldn't be sure that it wasn't a real kingfisher stirring.

He moved towards Abelard and gestured with his palm upwards. The bent-kneed reclining position wasn't the most comfortable for the horse and it responded gratefully, coming to its feet. In the dark, there was little chance of its being seen above the rocks.

Abelard stood still as Halt moved towards him. The Ranger reached out and smoothed the soft texture of the horse's nose, stroking him three times. Then he placed both hands on either side of the muzzle and looked into the horse's eyes. He squeezed his hands together twice and saw Abelard's ears prick. It was a long-established training routine, one of many shared by Rangers and their horses. Abelard knew that Halt was about to teach him a sound. And the next time Abelard heard that sound repeated, he would be expected to respond to it.

Softly, Halt emitted the low, gurgling chuckle of a kingfisher. It was a good approximation of the real thing, but not perfect. If there happened to be a real kingfisher in the area, Halt didn't want Abelard becoming confused. The horse's acute hearing would pick the difference between the real thing and Halt's impersonation. A man might not.

Abelard's ears flicked forward and back twice in quick succession – his signal to Halt that he had registered the sound. Halt patted his muzzle again.

'Good boy,' he said quietly. 'Now relax.'

He moved back to his vantage point among the rocks. There was a cleft between two of the larger boulders where he could sit, his head and face concealed by the cowl of his cloak, and survey the darkened expanse of the hillside below him. The moon wasn't due to rise for at least four hours. He assumed that the enemy, if they were going to try anything, would do so before the slope was bathed in moonlight.

From time to time he heard the muted yelping and snarling of the dogs as they fought among themselves, then the cries of their trainers as they silenced them. They'd be the trackers, he knew. The massive, iron-jawed war dogs wouldn't make noise. They were trained not to.

He considered the possibility that the enemy might unleash another war dog under cover of darkness but decided that it was unlikely. They had already lost three of the monsters to his arrows and dogs like that were not to be squandered lightly. They took years to breed and train. No, he thought, if an attack came, it would be men who launched it. And before they did that, they'd have to scout his position.

At least, that was what Halt was hoping for. He was beginning to see the first glimmer of a way out of this predicament. Carefully, he set his bow and quiver down beside the rocks. He wouldn't be needing them. Any confrontation during the night would be at close quarters. He reached now into his saddle bag and found his two strikers.

These were unique Ranger weapons. They were brass cylinders, as long as the breadth of his hand with a lead-weighted knob at either end. When held in a closed fist, the strikers turned the fist into a solid, unyielding weapon, with the weight lending extra force and authority to a punch. They could also be clipped together, forming a throwing club that had the same balance as a Ranger's saxe knife.

He slipped the two heavy cylinders into the side pocket of his jerkin.

'Stay here,' he told Abelard, although there was no need to do so. Then, belly to the ground, using his knees and elbows to propel himself, he slipped out of the cover of the rocks and moved downhill. Thirty metres below the spot where he'd taken cover, he stopped, slumping prone in the undergrowth, his cloak rendering him virtually invisible as soon as he stopped moving.

Now all he had to do was wait. He thought wryly that he'd spent a great part of his life waiting in situations like this.

So you should be used to it by now, he told himself.

Will and Crowley slipped quietly away from the other Rangers, the sandy-haired Commandant eading the way through the trees to a small, quiet glade. When he was sure there was nobody else within earshot, Crowley stopped and sat on a tree stump, looking up quizzically at Will.

'Disappointed that I left you in Seacliff?' he asked.

'No! Not at all!' Will answered hurriedly. Then, as Crowley continued to look at him, he smiled ruefully. 'Well, perhaps a little, Crowley. It's awfully quiet there, you know.'

'Some people might not think that's a bad thing. We are supposed to keep peace in the Kingdom, after all,' Crowley said.

Will shifted his feet awkwardly. 'I know. It's just that… '

He hesitated and Crowley nodded his understanding.

Will had crammed a lot of excitement into his relatively short life. The fight with the Kalkara, the destruction of Morgarath's secret bridge and his subsequent kidnapping by Skandian pirates. Then he'd escaped from captivity, played a pivotal role in the Battle for Skandia and returned home in triumph. Since then, he'd helped rescue the Skandian Oberjarl from desert bandits and staved off a Scotti invasion at Norgate.

With a history like that, it was small wonder that he'd developed a taste for adventure – and that he found the uneventful life at Seacliff more than a little restricting.

'I understand,' Crowley told him. 'You don't need to explain. But I have to admit that I haven't been totally forthcoming with you.'

He paused and Will looked at him curiously. 'Forthcoming?'

Crowley made an awkward gesture with one hand. 'There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you,' he said. 'I think it's important and I think it's a big opportunity for you. But you may not agree. As a matter of fact,' he added as an afterthought, 'it's partly the reason why Halt didn't come to this Gathering.'

Will frowned, puzzled by the news. 'But I thought he – '

'Oh, he's off chasing down rumours about the Outsiders, all right. But that could possibly have waited. He used that as an excuse because he didn't want to influence your decision one way or the other.'

'My decision? Crowley, you're talking in riddles. What decision? What is it that Halt didn't want to influence me about?'

Crowley indicated for Will to take a seat beside him and waited till the younger man was comfortable.

'It's an idea I've been tossing around for some time,' he said. 'Since you all went racing off to Arrida to fetch Erak back, as a matter of fact. Our world, or rather our sphere of influence in the world, is growing larger every day, Will. It extends past fief boundaries, past our own national boundaries at times.

'The Skandian operation was one example. So was your assignment in Norgate. We were lucky that we had someone as accomplished and capable as you to take that on, and that your own post at Seacliff was relatively quiet.'

Will felt his cheeks flushing at Crowley's praise but he said nothing. Crowley continued.

'Ordinarily, I couldn't drag a Ranger out of his fief and send him somewhere else for weeks on end. But more and more, we're facing that sort of necessity. Some day soon, for example, someone's going to have to go to Skandia to see how the treaty arrangement is working – how our archers are faring over there. Who do I send? You? Halt? You're the two logical choices because the Skandians know you and trust you. But what happens to your two fiefs in the meantime?'

Will frowned. He could see the problem. But he had no idea where Crowley was going.