He said the last to reassure himself more than anything else. Gundar's expression left no doubt that he wasn't convinced.
"That's as may be," he said skeptically, "but if they even look like fighting, my boys will start hitting."
Will nodded. He couldn't ask for more than that. In a situation like this, he wouldn't expect the Skandians to take unnecessary risks just because he'd prefer to avoid bloodshed.
"Fair enough," he told the skirl. "Now get back into cover before they're here."
Gundar sank back into the undergrowth and, once more, Will was reminded of a whale surfacing then submerging. But he didn't have time to ponder the matter. Horace plucked at his sleeve.
"Let's go," he said briefly, and led the way to the far end of the track.
Horace stepped off into the trees a few paces to get out of sight. Will simply remained by the side of the track, his cowl pulled up over his head and the cloak pulled around him. He held his bow in his left hand, with a pair of arrows ready, between the fingers of his right hand. He glanced into the undergrowth and noticed that Horace had covered his white enameled shield with dull green cloth. He nodded approvingly. In the rapidly failing light, there'd be no gleam of white to warn the Scotti.
He tensed suddenly as he heard them coming. There was the dull shuffle of jogging feet on the thick, dry snow cover. Horace saw his involuntary movement.
"Are they here?" he said softly.
"Any moment. Keep quiet," Will warned him. He slipped the cowl back slightly so he could hear more clearly. Now he could just make out the soft squeaking sound of boots against the dry snow. He stood stock still beside a large tree trunk, eyes intent on the dark aperture among the trees that marked the bend in the track, twenty meters away.
A figure appeared. Indistinct and blurred at first in the falling snow and dull light, it soon could be recognized as the Scotti general, MacHaddish. His men followed close behind him, in four pairs. Will waited until they were all clear of the corner, then stepped out into the center of the track, nocking an arrow and bringing the bow up at half draw.
"King's Ranger!" he shouted, in case there were any doubt in their minds. "Stand where you are."
There was a moment of shocked surprise among the Scotti as the strange figure suddenly became visible in front of them. MacHaddish heard the shouted command but made no sense of it. The words"King's Ranger" meant nothing to him. Will might as well have shouted "King's Rabbits."
The truth was, Will's excellent plan would have worked perfectly, if only the Scotti had understood their part in it all. In Araluen, the mere presence of a Ranger would often be enough to settle a matter like this without fighting. Unfortunately, the Scotti, in their remote northern country, had been involved in very few dealings with Rangers and so were in no awe of them. They were taken off guard by Will's sudden appearance and, for a moment, they froze.
Will saw that initial hesitation among the Scotti and relaxed a little, smiling to himself as he thanked the generations of past Rangers who had built such a remarkable reputation.
Then, everything went very wrong.
MacHaddish recovered from his moment of surprise. His right hand reached back over his shoulder and closed on the massive hilt of his broadsword, sliding it free of its scabbard in a movement so smooth and rapid that it had to have been rehearsed hundreds of times in the past.
Ncha Hth Mnbarl' he screamed, brandishing the huge blade aloft, circling it in the air. His men, galvanized into action, echoed the words, the war cry of the MacHaddish clan. The scream rose from eight throats, and MacHaddish hurled himself forward at the indistinct figure on the track ahead of him. Two of his men followed close behind as he charged. The others turned to face Gundar and his Skandians as they crashed from the undergrowth, axes whirling.
Will, faced with an armed and seemingly enraged Scotti general, brought the bow to full draw instinctively. At the last moment, he remembered his own instructions to the Skandians and, just before he released, moved the aim point from the center of the general's chest to his right wrist.
The arrow seared through the tendons and nerves in the wrist, the immediate shock of the wound depriving the hand of all feeling, numbing the entire arm and robbing MacHaddish of the strength to brandish the huge sword. With a startled cry of pain, he doubled over, letting the broadsword fall to the track as he clutched his right wrist with his left hand.
But Will had no further time for MacHaddish. The other two Scotti were almost upon him. He nocked and fired his second arrow in one movement, dropping one of them to the snow, dead in his tracks. Then the other was all over him, screaming hate and revenge, sword going back for a killing stroke. Will hurled himself to the side, hitting the deep snow on his shoulder and rolling, discarding the bow as he went, his right hand drawing the saxe knife as he rolled to his feet again.
But the Scotti's blow had been intercepted by Horace's shield. The blade snagged and tore a huge gash in the cloth cover. The Scotti took Horace's sword on his own small shield as Horace struck at him in reply. But he was in no way prepared for the Araluen knight's blinding follow-up speed. Even as the Scotti prepared to strike back, he realized that he was already behind the rhythm of the fight and the taller man's sword was slashing around at him again. He blocked desperately with the shield, grunting as the force of the blow jarred his arm. Then, unbelievably, another stroke was on its way from yet another angle and he had to parry quickly with his sword. He felt as if he were fighting two men, felt the gut-freezing terror of impending death as the sword was jarred from his grip and went spinning into the trees.
Blindly, he stooped to reach for the dirk in the top of his boot, but as he did so, Horace planted his own sword point first in the ground and stepped forward to throw a solid right uppercut to his jaw.
The Scotti's eyes rolled up in his head and his knees collapsed under him. He went facedown in the soft snow, unconscious.
At the far end of the track, Will and Horace became aware of shouts and the clash of weapons.
The Scotti were severely outflanked and outnumbered, with six men facing ten. But they continued to fight, wounding two of the Skandians. That was probably a mistake, as it goaded Gundar into a fighting rage. His ax whirled around his head, and he carved a path through the clansmen, smashing aside the inadequate hand shields that they carried.
There were only two left standing by the time they opted to lower their weapons and call for mercy. Gundar, blind and deaf with fighting rage, didn't hear them. But one of the Skandians threw his arms around his skirl and dragged him away to calm down. The other Skandians surged around the surviving clansmen, knocking the weapons out of their hands and forcing them to their knees.
Horace and Will exchanged a look, shaking their heads.
"Well," said Horace, "that wasn't quite the way we planned it."
Will was grateful that he had said "we" and not "you." He resheathed his saxe knife.
"Not quite," he said. "But at least we've got MacHaddish."
He looked around to the spot where the general had sunk to his knees, cradling his wounded right arm. There was a large red stain on the snow.
But no sign of MacHaddish.
17
"Where the blazes did he go?" Horace said. "I hardly took my eyes off him."
But Will was already crouching over the spot where the general had fallen, his eyes following the clear trail that the escaping Scotti had left in the new snow. In addition to the footprints, now becoming difficult to see in the failing light, there was a bright red trail of blood drops. He started forward in pursuit, then hesitated, looking down the track to where the Skandians surrounded the surviving Scotti warriors.