John Flanagan - Oakleaf bearers

Her study of the man was interrupted by a chorus of voices from the camp. Now that she had the time to look, she saw another five warriors, similarly dressed and armed. Their horses, small and shaggy-coated, were tethered to a rope slung between two trees, and there were three small tents placed around the clearing, made from a material that appeared to be felt. A fire crackled in a small circle of stones set in the center of the clearing and the other men were grouped around it. They rose to their feet in surprise as she was pushed toward them.

One of them stepped forward, a little apart from the others. That fact, and the commanding tone in his voice, marked him as the leader of the small group. He spoke rapidly to the man who had captured her. She couldn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable. He was angry.

While he was obviously the leader of the small party, it was equally obvious that the man who had brought her here was also relatively senior. He refused to be cowed by the other man's angry words, replying in equally strident tones and gesturing toward her. The two of them stood, nose to nose, becoming louder and louder in their disagreement.

She stole a quick glance at the other four men. They had resumed their seats around the fire now, their initial interest in the captive having subsided. They watched the argument with interest, but with no apparent concern. One of them went back to turning a few green twigs with fresh meat spitted on them over the fire. The fat and juices ran off the meat and sizzled in the coals, sending up a cloud of fragrant smoke.

Evanlyn's stomach growled softly. She hadn't eaten since the meager breakfast she had shared with Will. From the position of the sun, it must be late afternoon by now. She calculated that they had been traveling some three hours at least.

Finally, the argument seemed to be resolved-and in favor of her captor. The leader threw his hands in the air angrily and turned away, walking back to his place by the fire and dropping to a cross-legged position. He looked at her, then waved dismissively to the other man. Her fate, it appeared, was in his hands.

The horseman took a length of rawhide rope from his saddle bow and quickly ran two loops around her neck. Then he dragged her toward a large pine at the edge of the clearing and fastened the rope to it. She had room to move, but not too far in any direction. He turned her around, shoving her roughly, and grabbed her hands, forcing them behind her back and crossing the wrists over each other. She resisted. But the result was another stinging blow across the back of her head. After that, she allowed her hands to be roughly tied behind her, with a shorter piece of rawhide. She winced and muttered a protest as the knots were drawn painfully tight. It was a mistake. Another blow across the back of her head taught her to remain silent.

She stood uncertainly, hands bound and tied by her neck to the tree. She was considering the best way to sit down when the problem was solved for her. The horseman kicked her feet out from under her and sent her sprawling in the snow. That, at least, brought a couple of low chuckles from the men around the fire.

For the next few hours she sat awkwardly, her hands gradually growing numb from the pressure of the bonds. The six men now seemed content to ignore her. They ate and drank, swigging what was obviously a strong spirit from leather bottles. The more they drank, the more boisterous they became. Yet she noticed that, even though they seemed to be drunk, their vigilance didn't relax for a second. One of them was always on guard, standing outside the glare of the small fire and moving constantly to monitor the approaches to the camp from all directions. The guard changed at regular intervals, she noticed, without any dissension or need for persuasion. All of them seemed to take an equal turn too.

As it grew to full night, the men began to retire into the small felt tents. They were dome shaped and barely waist high, so their occupants had to crawl into them through a low entrance. But, she thought enviously, they were probably a lot warmer than she would be, sitting out here.

The fire died down and one of the men-not the one who had captured her-walked in that same bandy-legged stride toward Evanlyn and tossed a heavy blanket over her. It was rough and carried the rank smell of their horses, but she was grateful for the warmth. Even so, it was not really enough for comfort. She huddled against the tree, shrugging the blanket higher around her shoulders, and prepared for a supremely uncomfortable night.

H ALT LEANED BACK AND SURVEYED HIS HANDIWORK WITH A satisfied sigh.

"There," he said. "That should do the trick."

Horace looked at him doubtfully, his eyes moving from Halt's pleased expression to the official-looking document that he had just completed forging.

"Whose seal is that at the bottom?" he asked finally, indicating the impression of a rampant bull that was set in a large splodge of wax in the bottom right-hand corner of the parchment. Halt touched the wax gently, checking to see if it had hardened completely.

"Well, I suppose if it's anyone's it's mine," he admitted. "But I'm hoping that our Skandian friends will think it belongs to King Henri of Gallica."

"Is that what his royal seal looks like?" Horace asked, and Halt studied the symbol impressed in the wax a little more critically.

"Pretty much," he replied. "I think the real one may be a trifle leaner in the body, but the forger I bought it from had a pretty indistinct impression to work from."

"But:" Horace began unhappily, then stopped.

Halt looked at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "But?" he repeated, making the word into a question.

Horace merely shook his head. He knew Halt would probably laugh at his objection if he voiced it. "Oh, never mind," he said at last. Then, realizing that the former Ranger was still waiting for him to speak, he changed the subject.

"I thought you said there was no ruling court in Gallica," he said. Halt shook his head.

"There's no effective ruling court," he told the young man. "King Henri is the hereditary king of the Gallicans, but he has no real power. He maintains a court in the southern part of the country and lets the local warlords do as they please."

"Yes. I noticed some of that," Horace said meaningfully, thinking about the encounter with the warlord Deparnieux that had delayed their progress through Gallica.

"So old King Henri is something of a paper tiger," Halt continued. "But he has been known to send envoys into other countries from time to time. Hence this." He gestured at the sheet of parchment that he was waving gently in the air so that the ink might dry and the wax seal might harden. The sight of the seal brought back all of Horace's misgivings.

"It just doesn't seem right!" he blurted out, before he could stop himself. Halt smiled patiently at him, blowing gently on some damp patches of ink.

"It's as right as I can get it," he said mildly. "And I doubt that the average border guard in Skandia will see the difference-particularly if you're dressed in that fine suit of Gallican armor you took from Deparnieux."

But Horace shook his head doggedly. Now that his concern was out in the open, he was determined to plow on.

"That's not what I meant," he said, then added, "and well you know it."

Halt grinned easily at the young man's troubled expression. "Sometimes your sense of morality amazes me," he said gently. "You do understand that we have to get past the border guards if we're to have any chance of finding Will and the princess?"

"Evanlyn," Horace corrected him automatically. Halt waved the comment aside.

"Whoever." He knew that Horace tended to refer to Princess Cassandra, the daughter of the Araluen King, by the name she had assumed when Will and Horace had first encountered her. He continued: "You do realize that, don't you?"