John Flanagan: The Kings of Clonmel

`How long till I face Gerard?' he asked Halt.

`You've got over an hour,' the Ranger told him. 'Why don't you get out of that armour and lie back and relax for a while?'

Horace went to rise, groaning softly as he did so. 'Good idea. But I should check my sword's edge first,' he said. Halt gently stopped him. 'Will can do that.'

Horace smiled gratefully as Will moved to take the sword and check it. Normally, Horace would have insisted on doing the task himself. Will or Halt were the only people he would have trusted to do it for him.

`Thanks, Will.'

`Let's get that mail shirt off you,' Halt said and helped pull the long, heavy garment over his head. The mail shirt had a light chamois leather liner, now stained and damp with sweat. Halt turned it inside out and draped it across the arms rack, moving the latter so that it was just inside the doorway, catching the cross breeze.

`Now rest. We'll take care of things. I'll wake you in plenty of time for a massage to get the kinks out,' Halt said. Horace nodded, and lay back with a contented sigh. It was nice, he thought, to have attendants to fuss over him.

`I think I could get used to this Sunrise Warrior thing,' he said, smiling.

He could hear the gentle rasping sound as Will put an extra-sharp edge on his sword. There had been one slightnick in the blade, where it had caught against Killeen's shield, and the young Ranger set himself to remove it. The sound was oddly relaxing, Horace thought. Then he drifted off to sleep.

Halt woke him after half an hour. Horace's muscles were stiff and aching, so at Halt's bidding, he rolled over onto his stomach and let Halt work on them. The Ranger's strong fingers dug and probed expertly into the muscle and tissue, loosening knots and easing the tension, stimulating blood flow back to the bruised, strained parts of his body. It was painful, but strangely enjoyable, he thought.

The short nap had left him feeling drowsy and sluggish. He shrugged to himself. That often happened if you slept during the day. Once he started moving and got some fresh air in his lungs, he'd be fine.

He swung his legs off the lounge and sat, head down for a few seconds. Then he shook himself. Will looked at him curiously.

`Are you all right?' he asked. He'd watched over Horace while he slept, his saxe knife drawn and lying ready across his knees.

Horace looked at the weapon and grinned sleepily. `Planning on chopping vegetables?' he asked, then answering his friend's question, `I'm just a bit foggy, that's all.'

Halt looked at him, a small light of concern in his eyes. `You're sure?' he said and Horace smiled, shaking off the torpor that seemed to have claimed him.

`I'll be fine. Shouldn't sleep during the day, really. Pass me that mail shirt, will you?'

The chamois lining had dried in the breeze and he pulled it on over his head as he sat on the edge of the lounge. Then he stood to let it fall to its full length, just above his knees. As he did so, he swayed and had to grasp the back of the lounge to steady himself.

Both the Rangers watched him with growing concern. He smiled at them.

`I'm fine, I tell you. I'll walk it off.'

He took the clean surcoat that Will offered and pulled it on over the mail shirt.

Halt glanced outside. The area around the food and drink stalls was becoming less crowded as the spectators made their way back to their seats. Horace and Gerard would be called to the arena in the next ten minutes. He decided that Horace was probably right. A bit of fresh air and exercise would see him right.

`Let's head up there now. The stewards will have to examine your sword again anyway,' he said, coming to a decision. In fact, the entire preamble to the combat would be repeated, as Sean made sure that neither party was ready to resile from their position. It was a bore, he thought, but it was part of the formal ceremonial ritual attached to trial by combat.

Halt and Will gathered Horace's helmet, his spare shield and his sword. Will refastened the tent flaps and they walked alongside Horace, flanking him as he made his way back to the combat ground. The dwindling crowd at the stalls made way for them, showing deference to the Sunrise Warrior. He had already become a popular figure among the people of Dun Kilty. The spectacular way he had dispatched Killeen had caught their collective imagination.

Halt watched the young warrior carefully as they approached the weapons table set in front of the King's enclosure. He let go a small sigh of relief as he saw Horace's stride was firm and unfaltering. Then his heart missed a beat as the young man leaned down to him and said, in a conversational tone and without any outward sign of concern:

`Halt, we have a problem. I can't focus my eyes.'

The three of them stopped. Halt's mind raced and he glanced instantly to where Tennyson was sitting, surrounded by his cronies. There were three purple-clad figures with him now but as he watched, Tennyson leaned over and spoke to one of them. The Genovesan nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

In that moment, Halt knew what had happened. He spoke urgently to Will.

`Will! Get that water jug in the pavilion! It's drugged! Don't let anyone interfere with it!'

He saw a moment of confusion in Will's eyes, then dawning comprehension as the younger Ranger came to the same conclusion he had just reached. If the water had been drugged, they'd need to keep it safe to prove the fact.

Will spun on his heel and darted away.

Horace jogged Halt's arm. 'Let's keep moving,' he said.

Halt turned to him. In spite of the urgency in Horace's tone, an observer would have thought they were simply discussing unimportant matters.

`We'll call for a postponement,' he said. 'You can't fight if you can't see.'

But Horace shook his head. 'Tennyson will never accept that. If we withdraw, he'll claim victory. Unless we can prove that they've broken the rules.'

`Well, of course they've broken the rules! They've drugged you!'

`But can we prove it? Even if we prove that the water's drugged, can we prove they did it? I'll have to keep going for now, Halt.'

`Horace, you can't fight if you can't see!' Halt repeated. His voice was strained now, showing the depth of concern he felt for his young friend. I should never have got him into this, he told himself bitterly.

`I can see, Halt. I just can't focus,' Horace told him, with the ghost of a smile. 'Now let's go. The scrutineers are waiting.'

The purple-cloaked figure slid easily through the last-minute customers round the food and drink vending stalls. As he approached the tall white pavilion he slowed his pace a little, glancing left and right to see if there was anybody watching him, or standing guard over the pavilion.

But he saw no sign of surveillance and walked directly to the entrance to the pavilion. As before, the tent flaps were fastened on the outside, which meant there could be nobody in the tent. Quickly, his strong fingers undid the knots. As the last one fell loose, he resisted the temptation to look around. Such an action would only appear furtive, he knew. Far better to simply walk in as if he had every right to be here.

He slipped the dagger from the scabbard under his left arm – it never hurt to take precautions – and stepped quickly into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back into place.

He let out a pent-up breath, relaxing. There was nobody in the tent, but the water jug stood on the table where he had last seen it. Quickly, he crossed to the table, picked up the jug and poured its contents onto the ground, watching in satisfaction as the drugged water soaked into the dirt.

`And that's the end of the evidence,' he said softly, in a satisfied voice, a second before something heavy and hard crashed into his head, behind the ear, and everything went black.