Halts peril

A glimmer of light.

He moved forward more quickly, his soft boots making no sound on the sand underfoot. Ten more metres and the light was stronger with each pace.

Then he reached the opening. And before him, in the light of fifty or more torches, he saw the man they had been pursuing for the past month. White robed, burly and with long, grey hair, he stood on a natural rock platform in the massive cavern that had opened out from the narrow tunnel. Around him were grouped about twenty followers, also dressed in white. And beyond them were close to a hundred people – men, women and children, mostly dressed in rough homespun country clothing, all listening with rapt attention to the words that came from the prophet's mouth. And as Will watched, he heard, and this time understood, the question that the fake prophet was posing to his new followers.

'Who will lead us out of the darkness? Who will take us to a new golden age of friendship and prosperity? Tell me his name?'

And the reply came from over a hundred voices, young and old.

'Alseiass!'

Will shook his head sadly. The same old rigmarole. The same old mumbo jumbo. But people were just as willing to buy it here as they had been in Hibernia. People were gullible, he thought, particularly when they were told they could buy their way to happiness.

'You know, my friends, that times were bad before Alseiass came among you.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

'Your stock were dying or disappearing. Your homesteads were burnt and levelled. Isn't that true?'

The crowd called out their confirmation of his words. So, thought Will, the Outsiders have had their armed brigands operating in this area as well – no doubt long before Tennyson arrived.

'But since you have taken Alseiass as your god, have these attacks stopped?'

'Yes!' cried the crowd. Some embellished the shout with cries of 'Bless Alseiass!' and 'Praise the golden god!'.

'And is it time we gave thanks to Alseiass? Is it time we built him the golden, jewelled altar that he desires – an altar that you can worship at for generations to come?'

'Yes!' cried the crowd. This time, at the prospect of donating gold and other valuables, there was a little less enthusiasm. But the white robes around Tennyson added their voices to the cry.

Except, Will thought to himself, that altar will be covered with a thin veneer of gold and when you move on, the rest of it will go with you.

But Tennyson's congregation didn't seem aware of that fact. Spurred on by the white robes, and by Tennyson himself, they continued to raise their voices until the massive cavern rang with their cries of praise for Alseiass and his priest, Tennyson.

Time to leave, Will thought. He'd seen all this before. Forty-six 'The entrance is hard to find,' Will said. 'That's why they don't need guards outside.'

He sketched with a pointed stick in the dirt beside the fireplace. Halt, Horace and Malcolm were gathered around him, watching carefully as he explained the layout of Tennyson's new headquarters.

'That first entry tunnel leads to this. A cavern about the size of a small room. High ceilinged, well lit and ventilated. But completely bare.'

'So, even if someone finds that entrance, they can still get this far and think this is all there is to it?' Malcolm put in.

Will nodded. 'That's why there are no guards. The entrance to the second tunnel is well hidden – and it's barely more than waist high.'

'More fun for me,' Horace said heavily.

Will flashed him a smile. 'It's not so bad. It stays low for a few metres then it widens out and the ceiling gets higher. Plenty of room in this tunnel, once you're past the first few metres.'

'It's those first few metres that are the problem,' Horace said. He looked at Malcolm hopefully. 'Don't you have a potion that will cure my hatred of confined spaces?'

Malcolm shook his head. 'Sadly no. But it's a very understandable affliction. I think the cure to it is to face the fear and overcome it.'

Horace nodded gloomily. 'How did I know you were going to say that? What's the good of a healer if he can't give you a potion for the really important things?'

Halt gestured to the map drawn in the dirt, signalling for Will to get back to his briefing.

Will nodded and continued. 'The tunnel veers to the right here – that's where I saw their lights – and opens out into the cathedral.'

'The cathedral?' Halt said sardonically. 'Are you getting carried away with Tennyson's religious fervour, Will?'

Will grinned. 'It seemed like a good name for it, Halt. It's easily the size of a small cathedral. I can call it the Great Hall if you'd rather,' he added. Halt didn't answer. Will hadn't expected him to.

'And how many people in all?' Halt asked.

'Counting twenty of Tennyson's white robes…'

'His white robes? Who are they?' Malcolm interrupted.

'They're his bully boys and collectors,' Will explained. 'His henchmen, if you like, the ones who are in on the secret.' Malcolm signalled his understanding and indicated for Will to proceed. 'Counting them, there's close to one hundred and twenty, I'd say. Plus there's obviously one of the bandit gangs operating in the area.'

Halt chewed on a twig for a few seconds. 'The outlaws can wait,' he said. 'Our first priority is to discredit Tennyson in front of these new converts, then take care of him and his henchmen.'

'How do you propose doing that?' Malcolm asked. He looked at the three determined faces before him. Only three of them. And Will had said there were at least twenty of Tennyson's henchmen still with him.

'There will probably be violence involved,' Halt said, with deceptive mildness in his voice.

'Three against twenty?' Malcolm queried, pushing the matter.

Halt shrugged. 'Few, if any, of those twenty will be trained warriors. They'll mostly be thugs, used to killing from behind and terrorising unarmed farmers. It's amazing how those people melt away when they face people who know one end of a weapon from the other.'

Malcolm wasn't completely convinced. But then, he thought, he'd seen Will and Horace in action at the storming of Castle Macindaw, where the two of them had forced their way to the top of the walls and held out against the garrison until their own men could scale the ladders and join them. Maybe they could handle twenty roughnecks.

Horace, watching him, saw the doubt in his eyes. 'There's an old saying, Malcolm,' he said. 'One riot, one Ranger. Do you understand?'

'I assume it means that in the event of a riot or disturbance, all it takes is one Ranger to restore order?' Malcolm said.

Horace nodded. 'Exactly. Well, looking around, I see we have twice as many Rangers as we need here. So I imagine I'll be able to have a little holiday while they take care of matters.'

Halt and Will both snorted disdainfully and he smiled at them. 'I'll be happy to sit back and watch you both do all the work,' he added.

'In other words, it'll be business as usual?' Will asked.

Horace looked a little hurt. He'd left himself open for that, he realised. Then he became more serious.

'Halt, I've been thinking…' He paused, looking expectantly at the two Rangers. 'Aren't you going to say always a dangerous thing?' he asked.

Halt and Will exchanged a glance, then shook their heads. 'No. You're expecting it. There's no fun in it when you're expecting it,' Will told him.

Horace shrugged, disappointed. He'd had a snappy comeback ready for them. Now he'd have to save it for another time.

'Oh, well, anyway, it occurred to me that you want to discredit Tennyson, not just take him prisoner and march him off to Castle Araluen?'

Halt nodded. 'That's important. We have to destroy his myth. What do you have in mind?'

'Well, I thought it might help if he was confronted by the shade of King Ferris.'