'What's wrong with Abelard?' Malcolm asked.
Horace shrugged. 'He must have heard or scented something.' He had been sitting by the fire, staring into the coals as they alternately glowed and dulled in the inconstant wind that gusted through the trees. He rose now, his sword ready in his hand, and walked towards the edge of the copse where they were camped.
As he did so, he heard an answering whinny from some distance away. Then an indistinct shape appeared over the horizon to the south.
'It's Will,' he said. 'And he's got a prisoner.'
The outline of horse and rider had been blurred by the fact that Will was riding with the Genovesan, tied hand and foot, stomach down across the saddle bow in front of him.
He trotted Tug down the slope towards the copse, raising his hand in greeting as he saw Horace step clear of the trees. In front of him, the Genovesan grunted uncomfortably with each of Tug's jolting strides.
Malcolm had left the camp fire to join Horace in the open and he rubbed his hands in anticipation as he saw that the young warrior was right. Will had a prisoner, and the purple cloak was clear evidence that it was the Genovesan.
Will reined in beside them. He looked worn out, Horace realised, although that was no surprise, considering what the young Ranger had been through in the past few days.
'How's Halt?' Will asked.
Horace made a reassuring gesture. 'He's okay. It was touch and go for a while there. But Malcolm has put him into a deep, deep sleep to slow the poison down.' He thought it was better to put it that way than to say Malcolm had to nearly kill him to slow the poison down. 'He'll be fine now that you're back.'
Will's face was drawn with weariness and his eyes were bloodshot. But now that his worry about Halt had been answered, there was an unmistakable air of satisfaction about him.
'Yes, I'm back,' he said. 'And look who I ran into.'
Horace grinned at him. 'I hope you ran into him hard.'
'As hard as I could.'
Horace stepped forward to lift the Genovesan to the ground, but Will waved him back.
'Stand clear,' he said. He gripped the collar of the prisoner's cloak and heaved him up and away, nudging Tug to step to the opposite direction as he did so. The assassin slid down from the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. He hit the ground awkwardly, tried to keep his feet and failed, thumping into a heap on the ground.
'Careful!' said Malcolm. 'We need him, remember!'
Will snorted derisively at the Genovesan, squirming weakly, trying to regain his feet.
'He's fine,' he said. 'It'd take more than that to kill him. And we only need him talking, not standing.'
At Malcolm's signal, Horace stepped forward and heaved the Genovesan to his feet. The prisoner snarled at him in his own tongue and Horace regarded him from a very close range. Something in the warrior's eyes seemed to register with the assassin and he stopped his stream of abuse.
'What's your name?' Malcolm asked him, using the common language. The Genovesan switched his glare to the healer and shrugged contemptuously, saying nothing. It was an insulting action and it was also a mistake. Horace's open hand slapped hard across the side of his head, jerking it to one side and setting his ears ringing.
'Make no mistake, you vulture,' Horace said. 'We don't like you. We have no interest in making sure you're comfortable. In fact, the more uncomfortable you are, the better I'm going to like it.'
'Your name?' Malcolm repeated.
Horace sensed the man's shoulders beginning to rise again in that same dismissive shrug. His right hand went up and back, this time bunched into a fist.
'Horace!' Malcolm called out. He needed the man conscious to answer his questions. Horace kept his fist raised. The Genovesan's eyes were riveted on it. He'd felt the casual power behind the young man's slap. A punch would be a lot worse, he knew.
'He can still talk with a broken nose,' Horace said. But now the Genovesan seemed to decide there was no point to taking more punishment for the sake of concealing his name.
'Sono Bacari.'
Again, he shrugged. It seemed to be a favourite action with the man and he could imbue it with enormous contempt, Horace noted. It was as if he were saying, 'So my name is Bacari, so what? I only tell you because I choose to.' The arrogant attitude, and the dismissive action that accompanied it, antagonised Horace even further. He lowered his fist, and when he saw Bacari smile to himself, suddenly kicked the man's legs from underneath him, sending him sprawling heavily on the ground again, the fall driving the wind out of him. Horace placed the flat of his foot on the man's chest and pinned him down.
'Speak the common tongue,' he ordered.
Horace glanced at Will, who had dismounted and was leaning wearily against Tug's side, watching with a suspicion of a smile on his face. Like Horace, he felt not one ounce of compassion towards the Genovesan. And he knew it would be important for the man to understand that they would not spare him any pain in finding out the information they were seeking.
'If he doesn't behave, kick him in the ribs,' Will said.
Horace nodded. 'With pleasure.' He leaned down again to the man, who had regained his breath. 'Now let's try it again. In the common tongue. Your name?'
There was a moment's hesitation as the man, glaring in fury, met Horace's eyes. Then he muttered, 'My name is Bacari.'
Horace straightened up and glanced at Malcolm. 'All right. He's all yours.'
The healer nodded and gestured towards the camp fire, and the unconscious form beside it.
'Bring him over here, will you, Horace,' he asked. He walked to the camp fire and sat down cross-legged. Horace simply reached down, grabbed Bacari by the scruff of his neck and dragged him across the ground to a spot facing Malcolm. He jerked him upright into a sitting position and stood over him, his arms folded. Bacari was very aware of his threatening presence.
'Just give us a little room, please,' Malcolm asked in a mild tone. Horace stepped back a few paces, although he remained alert, watching the Genovesan keenly.
'Now, Bacari.' Malcolm's tone was calm and conversational. 'You shot our friend here with one of your bolts.' He indicated Halt, lying a few metres away, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Bacari seemed to register the Ranger's presence for the first time and his eyes widened. After all, he had seen them bury their companion. Or he had thought as much.
'Still alive?' he said, surprised. 'He should have been dead two days ago!'
'Sorry to disappoint you,' Horace said sardonically.
Malcolm gave him a warning glance, then continued. 'You used a poison on the tip of your bolt.'
Bacari shrugged again. 'Maybe I did,' he said carelessly.
Malcolm shook his head. 'Certainly you did. You poisoned the tip of your crossbow with aracoina.'
That definitely took Bacari by surprise. His eyes widened and before he could stop himself he replied, 'How can you know that?' He realised it was too late to recover, that he had given away a vital piece of information.
Malcolm smiled at him. But the smile went no further than his lips.
'I know many things,' he said.
Bacari recovered from his initial surprise and pushed out his bottom lip in an insolent, careless expression.
'Then you know the antidote,' he said, his former dismissive manner having returned. 'Why not give it to him?'
Malcolm leaned forward to make full eye contact.
'I know there are two antidotes,' he said. Again Bacari gave an involuntary start of surprise as he spoke, and although he recovered quickly, Malcolm had noticed the reaction. 'And I know the wrong one will kill him.'
'Che sara, sara,' Bacari replied.