"Gilan!" he began, but the Ranger made a sign for silence.
"Just let him go," he said softly. "He'll be fine as long as we don't distract him."
"But," Will began desperately, looking to where his friend was facing a full-grown, very angry man. Sensing his concern, Gilan hurried to reassure him.
"Horace will handle him," he said. "He really is very good, you know. A natural, if ever I saw one. That bit with the practice stick and the hilt strike was sheer poetry. Lovely improvisation!"
Shaking his head in wonder, Will turned back to the fight. Now Carney attacked, hacking and lunging and cutting with a blind fury and terrifying power. Horace gradually gave way before him, his own sword moving in small, semicircular actions that blocked every cut and hack and thrust and jarred Carney's wrist and elbow with the strength and impenetrability of his defense. All the while, Gilan was whispering an approving commentary beside Will.
"Good boy!" he said. "See how he's letting the other fellow start proceedings? Gives him an idea of how skillful he might be. Or otherwise. My God, Horace has the timing of that defensive swing just about perfect! Look at that! And that! Terrific!"
Now Horace had apparently decided not to back away any farther. Continuing to parry Carney's every stroke with obvious ease, he stood his ground, letting the bandit expend his strength like the sea breaking on a rock. And as he stood, Carney's strokes became slower and more ragged. His arm was beginning to ache with the effort of wielding the long, heavy sword. He was really more accustomed to using a knife to the back of most of his opponents and he hadn't looked for this engagement to go past one or two crushing, hacking strokes to break down the boy's guard before killing him. But his most devastating blows had been flicked aside with apparent contempt.
He swung again, losing his balance in the follow-through. Horace's blade caught his, spun it in a circle, holding it with his own, then let it rasp down its length until their crosspieces locked.
They stood there, eye to eye, Carney's chest heaving, Horace absolutely calm and totally in control. The first worm of fear appeared in Carney's stomach as he realized that, boy or not, he was hopelessly outmatched in this contest.
And at that point, Horace went on the attack.
He drove his shoulder into Carney's chest, unlocking their blades and sending the bandit staggering back. Then, calmly, Horace advanced, swinging his sword in confusing, terrifying combinations. Side, overhead, thrust. Side, side, backhand, overhead. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Forehand. Backhand. One combination flowed smoothly into the next and Carney scrambled desperately, trying to bring his own blade between himself and the implacable sword that seemed to have a life and an inexhaustible energy all its own. He felt his wrist and arm tiring, while Horace's strokes grew stronger and firmer until finally, with a dull and final clang, Horace simply beat the sword from his numbed grasp.
Carney sank to his knees, sweat pouring off him and running into his eyes, chest heaving with exertion, waiting for the final stroke that would end it all.
"Don't kill him, Horace!" called Gilan. "I'd like to ask him some questions."
Horace looked up, surprised to see the tall Ranger standing there. He shrugged. He wasn't really the type to kill an opponent in cold blood anyway. He flicked Carney's sword to one side, way out of reach. Then, setting one boot against the defeated bandit's shoulder, he shoved him over in the dust on his side.
Carney lay there, sobbing, unable to move. Terrified. Worn-out. Physically and mentally defeated.
"Where did you come from?" Horace asked Gilan indignantly. "And why didn't you give me a hand?"
Gilan grinned at him. "You didn't seem to need one, from what I could see," he replied. Then he gestured behind Horace to where Bart was slowly rising from his kneeling position, shaking his head as the effect of the hilt strike began to wear off.
"I think your other friend needs a little attention," he suggested. Horace turned and casually raised his sword, swinging it to clang, flat-bladed, against Bart's skull.
Another small moan and Bart went facedown in the sand.
"I really think you might have said something," Horace said.
"I would have if you were in trouble," Gilan said. Then he moved across the clearing to stand over Carney. He seized the bandit by the arm and dragged him upright, frog-marching him across the clearing to throw him, none too gently, against the rock face at the far side. As Carney began to sag forward, there was a hiss of steel on leather and Gilan's saxe knife appeared at his throat, keeping him upright.
"It seems these two caught you napping?" Gilan asked Will.
The boy nodded, shamefaced. Then, as the full import of the comment sank in, he asked: "Just how long have you been here?"
"Since they arrived," Gilan said. "I hadn't gone far when I saw them skulking through the rocks. So I left Blaze and doubled back here, trailing them. Obviously they were up to no good."
"Why didn't you say something then?" Will asked incredulously.
For a moment, Gilan's eyes hardened. "Because you two needed a lesson. You're in dangerous territory, the population seems to have mysteriously disappeared and you stand around practicing sword craft for all the world to see and hear."
"But," Will stammered, "I thought we were supposed to practice?"
"Not when there's no one else to keep an eye on things," Gilan pointed out reasonably. "Once you start practicing like that, your attention is completely distracted. These two made enough noise to alert a deaf old granny. Tug even gave you a warning call twice and you missed it."
Will was totally crestfallen. "I did?" he said, and Gilan nodded. For a moment, his gaze held Will's, until he was sure the lesson had been driven home and the point taken. Then he nodded slightly, signifying that the matter was closed. Will nodded in return. It wouldn't happen again.
"Now," said Gilan, "let's find out what these two beauties know about the price of coal."
He turned back to Carney, who was now going quite cross-eyed as he tried to watch the gleaming saxe knife pressed against his throat.
"How long have you been in Celtica?" Gilan asked him. Carney looked up at him, then back to the heavy knife.
"Tuh-tuh-tuh-ten or eleven days, my lord," he stammered eventually.
Gilan made a pained face. "Don't call me 'my lord,'" he said, adding as an aside to the two boys, "These people always try to flatter you when they realize they're in trouble. Now:" He returned his gaze to Carney. "What brought you here?"
Carney hesitated, his eyes sliding away from Gilan's direct gaze so that the Ranger knew he was going to lie even before the bandit spoke.
"Just:wanted to see the sights, my:sir," he amended, remembering at the last moment Gilan's instruction not to call him "my lord." Gilan sighed and shook his head with exasperation.
"Look, I'd just as soon lop your head off here and now. I really doubt that you have anything useful to tell me. But I'll give you one last chance. Now let's have THE TRUTH!"
He shouted the last two words angrily, his face suddenly only a few inches away from Carney's. The sudden transition from the languid, joking manner he had been using came as a shock to the bandit. Just for a few seconds, Gilan let his good-natured shield slip and Carney saw through to the white-hot anger that was just below the surface. In that instant, he was afraid. Like most people, he was nervous of Rangers. Rangers were not people to make angry. And this one seemed to be very, very angry.
"We heard there were good pickings down here!" he answered immediately.