John Flanagan - The Royal Ranger

The footing was uneven and she went slowly, testing each step. Once she was below the level of the clifftop, she would be all but invisible against the dark cliff face. But if she were to slip and fall, the chances were high that she’d be heard. And someone might come looking to see what had caused the noise.

Her foot slipped as she stepped on a loose layer of pebbles. Several of them clattered over the edge of the path, bouncing off the rocks below. She froze, her heart in her mouth. To her, the skittering pebbles sounded as loud as an avalanche. Her left hand went to the shot pouch, ready to select and load a lead ball into the sling.

She waited a full minute. But there was no sign that anyone had heard her. Taking even greater care, she set off again, a black, uneven shadow sliding slowly downwards, barely visible against the dark background of the cliff.

She reached the first switchback, where the path angled back on itself. The ground was rough and strewn with small boulders here and she picked her way carefully around the turn. She glanced back over her shoulder at the mess tent. The slavers were still intent upon their food and drink. A loud burst of laughter rang out.

“Keep making noise,” she said under her breath. “That way, you won’t hear me.”

The second stretch of the track was more even underfoot. She’d been crouching on the rougher ground higher up to maintain her balance, but now she straightened and moved faster until she reached the second switchback. She picked her way carefully around it. There was only twenty metres to go now and she’d be at the bottom. She forced herself to concentrate. With the end of the track in sight, it was tempting to relax and rush. Yet she continued her slow, careful pace, crouching once more, feeling the ground twist underfoot as she stepped on larger rocks, occasionally sinking into unexpected dips and ruts in the track. One was deeper than it looked and she jarred her back as she stepped into it. She grunted in surprise, then froze. But there was no reaction from the men at the mess tent table and she continued, finally stepping down onto the level ground at the foot of the track.

Now she had to wait once more. As Will had once described it to her, a Ranger’s day seemed to be made up of hours of waiting followed by a few minutes of frantic, frightening action.

She waited now for those frantic minutes to come. Her stomach was a tight knot. The tension was almost unbearable. She had no idea whether Will had reached the rocks at the base of the northern cliff yet. He could have fallen and injured himself. If the path he had found was anything like the one she’d traversed, one incautious step could have left him lying with a broken ankle. Or unconscious.

The longer she waited, the worse the picture in her imagination became. What would she do if Will didn’t fulfil his part of the plan? If he was incapacitated somewhere on that cliff path, how could she get the children away?

It was too late to go for help. Ambleton was the nearest settlement of any size. By the time she got there and brought help back to Hawkshead Bay, the slavers and the children would be long gone, heading for the Socorran slave market and a life of misery.

Could she somehow set fire to the ship, then double back up the beach to release the children? She discarded the idea almost as soon as she thought of it. The chances that she could make it across the open beach unobserved were slim to none. And she needed Will to draw off the pursuit to the south while she got the children safely away.

She thought of another option. She had two dozen arrows in her quiver and there were eighteen men sitting round the table. She could simply start shooting at them. She’d take them by surprise, possibly drive them off in panic.

Then she considered the plan realistically. She might get two of them, even three if she was fast enough. But they weren’t simple villagers to be frightened off by a surprise attack out of the darkness. They were ruthless men with an investment to protect. They were armed and, she assumed, experienced fighting men. They’d go to ground, taking cover behind the tents or the table, or the large rock outcrops that dotted the beach. Then they’d begin to move to outflank her, and sooner or later, she’d be overwhelmed.

Besides, she thought bitterly, she’d left her bow at the top of the cliff.

She sighed. There was nothing she could do if Will didn’t make it to the rocks on the south side of the cove. She’d have to watch helplessly while the children were herded aboard the ship and taken away.

Then she saw it. A flash of light, briefly visible among the dark jumble of distant rocks. Will must have opened the shutter on his dark lantern to light one of the fire arrows. Then it was gone as he closed the shutter.

But now she thought she could see a pinpoint of light among the rocks. She realised it was the glowing tip of one of the fire arrows. She glanced back fearfully at the slavers. But they were sitting in a circle of bright light and hadn’t noticed the brief flash from the rocks.

As she watched, the yellow pinpoint arced up into the night sky, then curved down towards the black ship. It seemed to strike close to the base of the mast. There it remained, still visible, but not growing any larger for the moment. It must have hit in a clear section of deck, where there was nothing flammable to catch alight. The arrow would burn itself out and the ship would remain unharmed.

She cursed silently.

Another pinpoint briefly soared, then descended. This one travelled on a higher arc that seemed to end in the middle of the vessel’s loosely furled sail.

And this time, it was seen by one of the slavers.

“What was that?” The blue-cloaked figure of the Storyman, who was sitting facing the ocean, suddenly sat up straight, pointing towards the ship.

Ruhl looked at him with idle curiosity. “What?” he demanded. He was replete with good food and wine and not in the mood to be disturbed.

The Storyman continued pointing and the others turned, casually, to look at what he was indicating.

“It was a light,” he said. “Looked like a falling star. And it came down on the ship. There’s another!”

He added the last two words in a shout as a third fire arrow soared briefly across the cove. Even as it struck near the base of the mast, yellow flame suddenly flared in the sail, as Will’s previous shot finally ignited the tarred canvas.

“Fire arrows!” the Iberian captain shouted. “Someone’s trying to burn La Bruja !”

Chairs crashed over backwards as the men leapt to their feet. The Iberian crew were the first to react, sprinting across the sand to save their ship. Another source of flame was visible at the base of the mast now, then a fourth point of light soared across the sky and struck the side of the hull.

The fires in the sail and at the base of the mast were burning steadily. But they were yet to attain the fierce, uncontrollable rage that would spell the end of the ship. An unbidden memory of her Iberian classes strayed into Maddie’s mind as she watched.

“La Bruja. The witch,” she murmured. That was the name of the ship.

“Help us!” the Iberian captain stopped and yelled at the slavers, who were standing uncertainly by the table. He beckoned furiously with his arm, waving them to follow. Already his own crew had reached the ship and were dashing sea water on the flames at the base of the mast. The sail, gradually beginning to burn with more intensity, was out of their reach.

“If we lose the ship, we lose everything!” he shouted and that seemed to penetrate the stasis that gripped Ruhl and his men.

“Come on!” the Stealer shouted, and led them running down to the ship. The captain was yelling at his men, ordering them to let the yardarm with its burning sail fall, then smother the flames with buckets of water.