John Flanagan - The Kings of Clonmel

He jumped. He howled with fear all the way down, then smashed into the surface of the river in an enormous explosion of spray. He sank deep under the surface but there was no sign of the bottom. In fact, the river at this point was at least fifteen metres deep. Then, with an enormous sense of relief that he had survived the drop, he began to claw his way back up. His left knee had been twisted and wrenched by the impact with the water and a lance of pain shot through him as he kicked for the surface. He cried out, swallowed water and remembered too late to keep his mouth shut. Coughing and spluttering, his head broke the surface and he gasped for air, swimming sideways to ease the pain in his knee as he stroked weakly for the bank.

On the hillside, the pursuers had stopped as the cloaked figure hurled himself off the bluff. They were familiar with the territory and knew the river lay below him. Now they paused, but a voice from above directed them.

`He's in the river! Cut round the bottom of the hill and head him off!'

Several of the quicker-witted among them saw the gesticulating figure, whom they took to be the scout sent out during the night. He was waving them back and to one side and they realised the sense of what he was saying. There was no point continuing to the top unless they wanted to jump after their quarry. Back down the hill and round to the river bank was the quickest way.

`Come on!' shouted a burly dog handler. 'Get to the river bank!'

He gestured for his dogs to lead and he ran, following them. All it took was one man to start the movement and the others fell in with him. Halt watched with grim satisfaction as the knot of men plunged back downhill, angling off to the left to reach the river bank below the bluff.

As the last of them disappeared from view, he clicked his fingers twice. Abelard stepped clear of the rocks where they had sheltered through the night. Halt swung easily up onto his horse's back. Abelard twisted his head to lookaccusingly at his master, taking in the greasy woollen jacket that had belonged to Colly.

`I know,' Halt said resignedly. 'But his socks were even worse.'

He set Abelard to a lope and they moved quickly down the hill. As they reached the cover of the trees, Halt did a strange thing. Instead of turning east, back towards Redmont, he swung Abelard's head north-west, back to the fishing village. Again, Abelard turned his head to look inquiringly at his master. Halt patted the shaggy mane reassuringly.

`I know. But there's something I need to attend to,' he said and Abelard tossed his head. So long as his master knew what he was doing, he was content.

Farrell, the leader of the Outsiders group, was having an uncomfortable time trying to calm the villagers. They were openly suspicious that he and his people had played a hand in the unsuccessful raid on the boats. As Farrell tried to reassure them that he knew nothing about the raiders, he could sense their disbelief growing.

Might be time to move on, he thought. He could allay their suspicions for a short time, but in the long run, it would be safer to take what they had gained so far and try their luck elsewhere.

`Wilfred,' he was saying now to the village head man, `I assure you that my people are innocent of any wrongdoing. You know us. We're just simple religious folk.'

`Funny how all these troubles have started since you "simple religious folk" have turned up, though, isn't it?' Wilfred said accusingly.

Farrell spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. `Coincidence, my friend. My people and I will pray for you and your village to be protected from further misfortune. I assure you…'

There was the sound of a scuffle outside the entrance to the marquee that Farrell was using as a headquarters and main centre of worship. Then a bearded stranger burst through the entrance. At least, Farrell thought he was a stranger. Then he realised there was something familiar about him.

The newcomer was shorter than average height, dressed in simple brown leggings and boots and a dull green jacket. A massive longbow was in his hand and a quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder. Then something in Farrell's memory clicked.

`You!' he said in surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

Halt ignored him. He addressed his remarks to Wilfred.

`You've been robbed,' he said briefly. 'This man and his band are about to run out on you. And they'll be taking the gold and jewellery you've given them.'

Wilfred's gaze, which had been drawn to Halt at his sudden entrance, now switched back to Farrell. His eyes were narrow with suspicion. Farrell forced a nervous laugh, indicating the massive golden altar that dominated the far end of the marquee.

`I told you, we used the gold to build our altar – so we could pray for your people! D'you think we're going to just walk away with that? It's solid gold! It must weigh tons!'

`Not quite,' Halt said. He strode quickly towards the altar, the villagers following him uncertainly, Wilfred making sure that Farrell came along with them.

Halt drew his saxe knife with a soft hiss and sliced its razor edge along one gleaming side of the golden altar. The thin veneer of gold leaf that had covered it peeled away, revealing the plain wood beneath it.

`Not as solid as it looks,' Halt said and he heard an angry growl from the villagers as they moved to encircle Farrell. The Outsider's eyes flicked from Halt to the circle of hostile faces around him. His mouth opened as he instinctively tried to think of some plausible explanation for the deception, then closed as he realised there was none.

`They used a small amount of gold to coat the wooden altar. The rest of it is probably in sacks underneath, ready to be taken away tonight.'

Wilfred gestured and one of the younger men moved forward, roughly tearing the altar covering away. Under the altar was a neat pile of sacks. The villager toed one and it emitted a metallic jingle. The head man glared at Farrell, who was standing white-faced with fear. He tried to move behind Halt, as if hoping that the Ranger might protect him.

`You're a dead man, Farrell,' Wilfred said in an ominously quiet voice.

But Halt shook his head. 'You've got your gold back. Be grateful for that. But you're not taking him. I need him to answer some questions.'

`And who do you think you are, telling us what to do?' said the young man who had removed the altar cloth. Halt turned his unwavering gaze on him.

`I'm the man who just saved you a fortune,' he said. `And the other night, I saved your boats from burning.

Be grateful you still have your money and your livelihood. You can keep the others. Do what you like with them. But I'm taking this one with me.'

The young man started to reply but a curt gesture from Wilfred stopped him. The head man stepped forward to face Halt.

`I assume you have some kind of authority to make these demands,' he said.

Halt nodded. 'I'm an Araluan Ranger,' he replied.

There was a murmur of recognition around the pavilion. The villagers might not be part of any fief, but they knew the reputation of the Ranger Corps. Taking advantage of the villagers' moment of uncertainty, Halt gripped Farrell by the elbow and started towards the entrance to the marquee. After a moment's hesitation, the group parted to allow them through.

As he emerged with his prisoner into the warm morning sunlight, past the unconscious form of the Outsider guard who had tried to stop him, Halt was frowning slightly. He was remembering Farrell's words when he had pushed his way into the marquee.

You? What are you doing here? The words, and Farrell's manner, implied that the Outsider priest had recognised Halt. And that was why the Ranger frowned now.

Because he knew they had never met before.