The Tournament at Gorlan (19 page)

T
HEY
RACED
PELL
-
MELL
ALO
NG
THE
ROAD
TO
WHERE
THE
figure sat, calmly waiting and watching them. Reining in in a cloud of dust, Halt and Crowley flung themselves down from their saddles and rushed toward him. Slowly, he came to his feet to greet them. A smile lurked around the corners of his mouth but outwardly he appeared solemn.

“Pritchard? Is it really you?” Crowley shouted joyfully. He threw his arms around the white-haired, white-bearded man and lifted him from his feet as he hugged him. Halt stood ready nearby, waiting for his chance to hug his old mentor.

“Yes. It's me,” he said calmly. “And if you're not careful, it'll be me with half a dozen broken ribs.”

“Sorry!” said Crowley, instantly releasing him so that he dropped awkwardly back to the ground. Then, just as instantly, Crowley seized him in another great bear hug. Pritchard looked over his shoulder at Halt, meeting his eyes with a bemused gaze and pointing at his former pupil with both hands.

Halt stepped forward and tapped Crowley's shoulder. “Crowley, let go of him. Now!” he ordered.

Crowley released his second bear hug of the day and stepped back, beaming delightedly. As soon as he relinquished his hold on Pritchard, Halt stepped in and threw his arms around the old Ranger in his turn. Then, as Pritchard emitted a grunt of surprise and pain, he instantly released him.

“What are you doing here?” Halt asked. He heard the shuffle of horses' hooves behind them as the rest of the group caught up and stared at them with obvious interest. Halt heard the name Pritchard whispered among the others, in varying tones of surprise.

Pritchard made a pretense of examining his ribs and arms
for possible damage from the exuberant greetings of his two former students, then he smiled at them, looking from one to the other with obvious pride in what he saw.

“I kept hearing rumors about two madcap youngsters who were recruiting former Rangers with an eye to confronting Morgarath,” he said. “Apparently, one of them is a grumpy Hibernian and the other is a redheaded prankster. Imagine my surprise when I heard it was you two.”

The Rangers sitting their horses behind the group of three men all laughed.

“So I decided I'd better come and see if you needed a hand,” Pritchard finished.

Crowley shook his head in amazement. “But you were in Hibernia! How did you get word there?”

Pritchard tapped a forefinger against the side of his nose in a knowing gesture. “Oh, I have my sources of information still. Not much goes on in Araluen that I don't hear about.”

Berrigan gave vent to a meaningful cough, which seemed to conceal the word rubbish inside it.

Pritchard looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, and of course, I received a pigeon mail from Berrigan a week or so ago, telling me what you're up to.”

Halt and Crowley both swung round to look at the occasional jongleur.

He shrugged. “Didn't I tell you we keep in touch from time to time?” he asked, indicating Pritchard with a nod of his head.

“No. Egon said he did. But I don't recall your mentioning it,” Crowley replied.

Berrigan thought for a second or two, then said, “Pritchard and I keep in touch from time to time.”

“Highly amusing,” Crowley said, giving Berrigan a withering look. Berrigan managed to survive without being too withered.

Unable to keep his delight in check, Crowley turned back to Pritchard, the huge grin returning to his face. “So now you're here! Will you join us?”

“Of course,” Pritchard replied and the other Rangers indicated their pleasure at the news. Pritchard was a renowned figure in the Ranger Corps. His dismissal from the Corps and departure from the Kingdom some years prior had been a source of great distress among his peers.

“Then you'll assume command?” Crowley said, indicating the line of horsemen facing them. It was typical of his friend, Halt thought, that he had no hesitation in offering the command to Pritchard, no regret at handing over his position of authority. But Pritchard was shaking his head.

“The men elected you,” he pointed out.

Crowley dismissed that with a wave of his arm. “Then they can unelect me and elect you in my place!”

Pritchard, however, continued to shake his head. “No. You're the commander and you'll do a good job as commander. I know that because I trained you.” He glanced at Halt, who had been watching the proceedings with an interested look. “And young Halt here will make an excellent second in command for you.” He smiled again. “I trained him too, after all.”

“But . . .” Crowley was momentarily lost for words. His confusion showed on his face. Before he could proceed, Pritchard spoke again.

“I'm too old for the job, Crowley. This is going to be a hard battle. Morgarath is not going to relinquish his power too easily. Command of this group is a young man's job. It needs a young
man's energy and determination. I'd probably fall asleep halfway through a battle,” he added, jokingly.

“You're not old!” Crowley scoffed. “You're still fit as a fiddle and I wager you still ride and shoot as well as you used to.”

“Well, yes. My accuracy is still pretty good. But I have to admit, at the end of a hard day's riding, I tend to groan and grunt when I climb down from the saddle. I ache in places I never knew existed. I am old, Crowley.” He fingered his short white beard with his forefinger and thumb. “My hair and beard aren't white because I got caught out in the snow.”

“But . . .” Crowley still wouldn't concede the point. He turned to Halt. “You tell him,” he said.

But the Hibernian shook his head thoughtfully. “I think he's right.”

Crowley was scandalized. “How can you say that? He taught you all the skills of being a Ranger!”

Halt nodded. “He did. And he taught me to recognize the truth when I hear it.”

Pritchard smiled at his former pupil. “Well said, Halt. I can see I trained you well.” He could tell that Crowley was still prepared to argue the point, so he cut him off. “Besides, Crowley, I can be of more value to you in another capacity.”

Crowley put one hand on his hip and stood straight, his body language challenging the older man. “Oh, really? And how's that?”

“This white hair and beard, along with the aching, creaking joints, make me appear less threatening to the enemy. It'll be easier for me to infiltrate Castle Gorlan and find where they're keeping the King. People don't take notice of an old, white-haired, bent-over man.”

Halt scratched his beard. “How did you know Morgarath
has the King prisoner?” he asked.

Pritchard regarded him evenly. “I told you, I have my sources,” he replied. “And Berrigan may have mentioned it,” he added, before Berrigan could utter another of those meaningful coughs.

“You're not bent over.” Crowley tried one more sally. But Pritchard merely stooped in front of him, holding one hand to the small of his back and groaning. It was a perfect picture of an old, harmless man. The assembled Rangers couldn't keep themselves from laughing. Even Crowley cracked a smile.

“Well . . . maybe you're right . . .”

“I am right,” Pritchard said, and finally, Crowley conceded. He held out a hand.

“Very well. I'll stay as leader and you can be our geriatric secret agent, and break into Castle Gorlan to see what's what.”

“Of course, I may need someone to push me in a wheelchair when I do break in,” Pritchard said with a smile. Then he became serious. “But we're wasting daylight. We could still put a few kilometers behind us before we stop for lunch and share out that turkey pie.”

Once again, Crowley regarded his former teacher with surprise. “How did you know about the turkey pie?” he asked.

For the second time, Pritchard tapped his forefinger along the side of his nose. “I told you. I have my sources.”

They rode on for another hour and a half before Crowley called a stop for the midday meal. There wasn't a lot of talk as they ate. Even served cold, chef Chubb's turkey pie was still a masterpiece, and it was quickly reduced to a small pile of pastry crumbs, many of them finding their way onto the Rangers'
jerkin fronts.

Leander sighed happily as he wiped his slightly greasy fingers on the hem of his cloak. “Morgarath would have done better kidnapping Arald's cook rather than the King,” he said, and several of the others agreed with him.

Farrel glanced up at him. “Chubb was one of the reasons I nearly didn't join you,” he said.

Reluctantly, they rose to their feet, draining the last of their coffee and brushing crumbs off their shirtfronts. Some, like Leander, used their cloaks as napkins.

The horses responded to their riders' whistles and calls and trotted into the clearing where the group had stopped to eat. They all spent a few minutes tightening saddle girths, then prepared to mount.

“Should we break up into three groups again?” Egon asked.

Crowley considered the question, then shook his head. “We're close to the border of Gorlan Fief now, so I think we're better off staying together. But we'll put out scouts. Halt, you take the point. Stay about half a kilometer ahead of us and keep your eyes peeled for patrols. Farrel, you take the rearguard position. Keep the same distance and make sure nobody comes up behind us without your seeing them.”

The two Rangers nodded and swung into their respective saddles. Pritchard had watched the exchange, noting Crowley's decisive response to Egon's question. He nodded his head quietly. Crowley had the makings of a good leader, he thought. Halt mounted his horse and trotted out to the road, heading northwest. Crowley waited several minutes, then signaled for the others to mount and follow him. Farrel mounted but kept his horse reined in. He'd let the main party get ahead of him for five minutes or so, then take up his position as rearguard.

They held that position for the rest of the afternoon. On two occasions, Halt sighted small parties of soldiers ahead of them
and halted the column until they were out of sight. There was no sign of anyone following them. Farrel had a relatively easy afternoon.

That night, as they sat around the campfire after dinner—a meal in which several of them bemoaned the lack of turkey pie—Crowley called for their attention. They gathered round as he spread a map of the Kingdom out on the ground before him.

“We need to start getting our plan together,” he said. “First order of business is to find out where the false Duncan is operating. We'll set up a base camp here . . .” He indicated a spot some kilometers northwest of Castle Gorlan with the tip of his throwing knife. “Then we'll all fan out north and northwest to the border and locate him.”

“Shouldn't be too hard if he's continued raiding,” Halt said grimly.

Crowley looked at him. “True. He certainly doesn't try to hide his light under a bushel. Once we know where he is, the rest of you will go after him and secure him. Farrel, you'll be in command.”

The heavily built Ranger from Redmont nodded. His eyes
were scouring the map, as if he might see some sign of the counterfeit prince there. Unconsciously, his hand touched the head of the battleax by his side.

“In the meantime, Halt and I will make our way to Castle Wildriver and get Duncan away from his captors.”

“Just two of you?” Egon queried.

Crowley nodded. “We won't be using force. We'll be using stealth. So two will be plenty. On the other hand, the rest of you will be facing an armed company of soldiers. You may have to fight your way out with the phony Duncan, so you'll need the numbers.”

“Makes sense,” Egon agreed.

“The important thing will be timing,” Crowley said, looking round the small group to drive home the point. “If we act too early, word may well get to Morgarath that Duncan is on the loose and his copycat Duncan has been taken. We need to take both men no earlier than two days before the tournament is due to begin.”