He saw that the Genovesan was almost at another ridge. A sixth sense warned Will and he realised that it would be only natural for the man to cast a last look behind him as he reached the crest. He brought Tug to a sliding halt, slipped out of the saddle and pulled sideways on the reins as he dropped to the ground. Tug, trained to respond to a wide variety of signals from his rider, reacted instantly. He came to his knees, then rolled over on one side in the grass, lying motionless as Will placed an arm over his neck. They lay unmoving, concealed partly by the grass and partly by their own lack of movement. From a distance, the grey horse and his cloaked rider would resemble nothing more threatening than a large rock surrounded by low bushes. From beneath his cowl, Will saw the Genovesan rein in at the top of the ridge. He heaved a sigh of relief that he had foreseen this moment.
The rider turned, easing his stiff muscles up out of his saddle, and cast a quick glance over the land behind him. But it was a cursory glance only. He had done the same thing from time to time over the past four hours. He had seen no sign of pursuit then and he expected to see no sign of it now.
So he surveyed the grassland behind him without any great care. In truth, the movement was as much designed to ease his stiff back muscles as to search for pursuers. As Halt had so often told Will during his training, ninety per cent of the time, people see only what they expect to see. The Genovesan expected to see empty grassland behind him, and that was what he saw. The irregular, indeterminate green and grey mound off to the west excited no interest.
After a minute or two, he turned back to the south-east and rode down from the crest. Will waited. The oldest trick in the book was to appear to ride away, then suddenly return to look once more. But the Genovesan seemed satisfied that the land behind him was empty of any threat and he didn't reappear.
Will tapped Tug on the shoulder and, as the horse rolled upright and came to his feet, he stepped astride him so that they came up together. With the sound of Tug's hoof beats now screened by the ridge between him and the Genovesan, he took the opportunity to urge the horse into a gallop. When they came over the crest, he would expect to be only a few hundred metres from the other rider.
This time, he didn't pause at the crest. It was time to commit. They had been travelling for almost four hours and logic told him they must be close to the Genovesan's goal. They crested the rise at a full gallop and Will gave a small cry of surprise.
Tug's ears went up at the sound but Will hurriedly reassured him.
'Keep going!' he said. The little horse's ears went down again and he maintained his gallop, never missing a beat.
Before them, the landscape had changed. The series of undulating ridges now gave way to a long, gradual slope leading down until it opened out into a wide, long valley. Tennyson's camp was visible, some three kilometres away. The numbers had grown from the twelve or fifteen people who had been with him originally. Now, he estimated, there must be a hundred people gathered there.
But Will's more immediate problem was the Genovesan, now less than two hundred metres ahead of him. He couldn't believe his luck. The assassin hadn't heard the thudding of Tug's hooves on the grass. He continued at a slow walk, his horse plodding heavily.
Then Will saw the man's head jerk up and turn towards them as, inevitably, he heard them. Will was close enough to hear his sudden shout of surprise and saw him put his heels into his horse's ribs, rousing it to a lumbering canter, then a weary gallop. It was a tactical mistake, Will thought. The shock of seeing him had startled the man into an error. Armed with a crossbow, he would have been better to dismount and face his onrushing pursuer.
But then, he wasn't aware that Will needed to take him alive. Perhaps he wasn't ready to face the Ranger's phenomenal accuracy and speed once more. He must be aware that only luck had saved him in their previous encounter.
Will saw the pale oval of the Genovesan's face as he glanced over his shoulder. Tug was closing the range rapidly now and the man was kicking desperately with his heels to spur his own horse on. But the lumbering farm horse never had a chance to outrun the fleet-footed Ranger horse and Tug was gaining with each stride.
The Genovesan struggled now to unsling his crossbow. As he saw what the man was doing, Will shoved the joined strikers through his belt and unslung his own longbow. The Genovesan's hand went to his quiver, selecting a bolt and placing it in the groove of the crossbow. Will's throat constricted and his mouth went dry as he realised he was about to face one of the man's deadly poisoned bolts. Under normal circumstances, he would have shot first. All the advantages were on his side. The other man had to twist in the saddle to get off a shot, while Will could shoot straight over Tug's ears. At this distance, he could pick him off easily.
But he needed the man alive.
The Genovesan had finally managed to load the bolt. He turned awkwardly, fighting against the jolting, uneven gait of his horse, to bring the crossbow to bear. He was twisting around to his right, so Will guided Tug with his knees, veering him to the left, forcing the Genovesan to twist further, making it more difficult for him to take aim.
The Genovesan realised what he was doing and swung suddenly the other way, twisting round to his own left for a clearer shot. But as soon as he did, Will zigzagged again, taking Tug back to the right. The manoeuvre was successful. The Genovesan found that his target was again out of sight. And Tug had closed the range by another twenty metres in the process.
The Genovesan twisted right again. This time, Will kept galloping steadily, without zigzagging. But now he had an arrow nocked and rode with the reins dropped on Tug's neck, guiding the horse with knee signals. He couldn't risk killing the Genovesan, but his quarry didn't know that. The assassin would get one chance for a shot. There wouldn't be time for him to reload, even if he could manage the task on horseback.
When he came to shoot, Will planned to spoil his aim. He was confident that he could loose several arrows in rapid succession, putting them close enough to the Genovesans' head to make him flinch. He remembered the duel with the man's compatriot. These men were primarily assassins, used to shooting from cover at a helpless target, someone who was unaware of their presence. They weren't used to open combat, facing an enemy who shot back – and who shot with deadly accuracy.
He was closer now. Tug's gait was smooth and controlled, unlike the farm horse, who was clumsy and tired and had the Genovesan bouncing unevenly in the saddle.
Here it came! The crossbow levelled and he saw the Genovesan's hand begin to tighten round the trigger lever. Will's hands moved in a blur, drawing, releasing and flicking a new arrow out of the quiver and onto the string in such rapid succession that he had three arrows in the air in the seconds before the Genovesan released.
As his hand tightened on the crossbow's trigger, the assassin suddenly became aware of the danger. Something hissed viciously past his head, seemingly only a few centimetres away. And he was aware that two more shots were on the way, a fraction of a second behind the first. It would have taken far more steady nerves than he possessed to hold a cool, deliberate aim – even if he weren't being jolted and jounced by the galloping horse. He ducked, shouting an involuntary curse, and his hand spasmed, jerking hard on the trigger lever and sending the bolt arcing high into the air, so that it fell harmlessly into the long grass nearly a hundred metres away.