John Flanagan - The siege of Macindaw

"Well… a little more than occasionally," Horace said carefully. In fact, he and the Princess saw a good deal of each other socially, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to go into that with Will. In the past, he had sensed a slight tension between himself and his friend when it came to Evanlyn, and he didn't want to re-create it now. He realized that Will was watching him and felt the need to add more.

"I mean, there are balls and dances and such," he said. He didn't add that he was usually invited by Cassandra as her partner for these occasions. "And picnics, of course," he added, immediately wishing that he hadn't. Will arched an eyebrow.

"Picnics?" he said. "How lovely. Sounds like life is one big picnic at the castle these days."

Horace took a deep breath, then decided it might be better if he didn't respond. He stood up and rubbed the small of his back, where the muscles were still stiff.

"I'm getting too old for this camping-out lark," he said. Will noticed the deliberate change of subject and had the grace to feel embarrassed at the way he had been acting. After all, it wasn't Horace's fault that he was based at Castle Araluen. And as an old friend of Evanlyn – Cassandra, rather – it was only logical that he should spend time with her.

"Sorry, Horace," he said,"I spoke out of turn there. I suppose I'm a little edgy. I hate all this waiting around doing nothing."

As a matter of fact, he was completely accustomed to it, and it didn't bother him. Horace looked at him, recognizing the gambit as a peace gesture. His face lit up with that easy grin of his, and Will knew that the awkward moment had passed.

And of course, it was at that instant that Malcolm's man Ambrose slipped into the clearing, calling to them in a hoarse whisper,"Ranger! Sir Horace! The Scotti are coming!"

There were nine of them all told: General MacHaddish and eight warriors forming his escort.

MacHaddish marched at the head of the small column. He was a muscular man but quite stocky – few Scotti were tall. His head was shaven, apart from one long, tightly plaited pigtail that hung down on the left side of his crown. He was wrapped in a coarse woolen tartan upper garment that was nothing more than an elongated blanket. It wound around his shoulders and torso, leaving his arms bare, even in this freezing cold weather. He wore a long kilt of the same material and sheepskin boots. A two-handed broadsword was slung at his back, its massive hilt protruding above his head. The left side of his face was painted in thick stripes of blue, marking him as a general of the second, or lower, rank. On his right cheek and his bare arms, darker-toned tattoos were etched permanently into his skin.

In his left hand, he carried a small, iron-studded shield, a little bigger than a dinner plate.

His men were similarly dressed, in the same dull red-and-blue-checked tartan. But the paint on their faces extended around the eyes only, forming a blue mask on each of them and marking them as common soldiers. One or two wore swords, although none as large as the general's broadsword. Most of them carried clubs – heavy affairs studded with spikes – and the same small, round shields. In each boot top, Will could make out the hilt of a long dirk, for fighting at close quarters.

The Ranger stood, unmoving and wrapped in his cloak, less than two meters from the edge of the track, as the nine men moved past him at a steady jog. Horace, some five meters farther back in the trees, marveled at the way his friend could merge so successfully into the background as to become virtually invisible. Even Horace, who knew exactly where Will was standing, found it hard to pick him out. The ability to get so close to a potential enemy was a real benefit, Horace thought. One could observe so much more detail at that distance.

The shuffling crunch of the Scottis' boots in the thickening snow died away as the small column rounded a bend in the track. Horace watched the last trace of dull red tartan fade among the trees, then stepped forward to where Will was waiting. "What now?" he asked.

The Ranger glanced up at him. "We'll follow at a distance, make sure they've gone to Macindaw. Then we'll arrange a reception for them when they head home."

Horace voiced a doubt that had been nagging at him for some time. "What if they go home by a different route?"

Will was silent for a few seconds.

" Then we'll have to improvise something," he said, then added, with a flash of annoyance, "For god's sake! Stop trying to make me worry!"

Alyss was standing by the window, staring out over the bleak snowscape that surrounded Macindaw. Through the low-lying cloud cover, she could make out a diffused, watery glow low in the eastern sky that told her the sun had risen. At any other time, she thought wryly, she might well have been entranced by the wild beauty of the scene, the white fields flanked by the dark mass of trees, their own tops crowned with snow.

But in her current situation, she found the view bleak and depressing. She longed for some spot of color in the world outside. The gray walls of the castle were grim and forbidding, and even the standard that Keren had chosen for himself added to the lack of color – a black sword imposed on a shield background of alternating white and black diagonal strips.

The window was a tall one, with the lower sill coming up barely past knee height. This afforded her an excellent view of the courtyard below, although there was usually little of interest to see there, just the regular changing of sentries and the occasional figure passing from the keep tower to the gatehouse or stables. There were few visitors to Macindaw at this time of year, which was probably why Keren had chosen winter as the time to stage his coup.

The key rattled in the door to the outer room and she turned, incuriously. It was probably one of the servants come to clear away the remains of her breakfast. But any break in the monotony was welcome. She was surprised, then a little alarmed, as the door opened to admit Keren.

Her first assumption was that something had happened to arouse his suspicions once more, and she slipped her hands behind her back, feeling for the small, shiny black stone concealed in the cuff of her sleeve. Her surprise grew as she realized that the renegade was carrying a tray, bearing a coffeepot and two mugs. He smiled at her as he closed the door with his foot, then moved to set the tray down on the table.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully.

She said nothing, nodding warily at him, wondering what this was all about. Unbidden, her eyes dropped to the wallet on his belt, where she knew he kept the blue gemstone. He saw the movement and spread his hands out in a reassuring gesture.

"No tricks. No mesmerism. I just thought we could have a mug of coffee together," he said.

Alyss eyed the coffeepot suspiciously. Perhaps Keren had placed some kind of drug in it, a drug that couldn't be countered by the stellatite pebble.

"I've just had breakfast," she said coldly. Keren smiled at her, understanding her doubts.

"You think the coffee might be drugged?" he said. He poured a cup and took a deep sip, sighing with pleasure as he tasted it. "Well, if it is, it's an excellent-tasting drug."

He paused thoughtfully, as if waiting for something to happen. After several seconds, he shook his head, smiling.

"No. I don't feel any ill effects at all – other than the desire for another sip."

He took another and gestured to the chair opposite him.

Alyss was still unconvinced. "Of course," she said, "before you came in, you could have taken an antidote to any drug that might be in the coffee."

He nodded, conceding the point. Then he said, quite pleasantly, "Alyss, if I wanted to drug you, do you think I'd come in here with a jug of coffee to do it?"