"Then we'd better warn the King, surely!" insisted Horace.
"Horace," said Will patiently. "It would take us four days to reach the Plains."
"Even more reason to get going. We haven't a moment to waste!" said the young warrior.
"And then," put in Evanlyn, seeing Will's point, "it would take at least another four days for any sort of force to get back here and hold the bridge. Maybe more."
"That's eight days all told," said Will. "Remember what that poor miner said? The bridge will be ready in four days' time. The Wargals and Skandians will have had plenty of time to cross the Fissure, assemble in battle formation and attack the King's army."
"But:" Horace began, and Will interrupted him.
"Horace, even if we get warning to the King and the barons, they'll be badly outnumbered and they'll be caught between two forces-with no way to retreat. The swamps of the fenlands will be behind them. Now, I know we have to get a warning to them. But we can also do something here to even the numbers."
"Plus," Evanlyn put in, and Horace turned to face her, "if we can do something to stop the Wargals and Skandians from crossing here, the King will have the advantage over this northern force of Skandians."
Horace nodded. "They won't be outnumbered, I guess," he said.
Evanlyn nodded, but then added, "That's part of it. But those Skandians will be expecting reinforcements to attack the King from the rear-reinforcements that will never arrive."
Understanding dawned in Horace's eyes. He nodded slowly, several times. Then the frown returned. "But what can we do to stop the Wargals here?" he asked.
Will and Evanlyn exchanged a glance. He could see they'd come to the same conclusion. They both spoke at the same time.
"Burn the bridge," they said.
22
B LAZE'S HEAD HUNG LOW AS HE TROTTED SLOWLY INTO THE outskirts of the King's camp on the Plains of Uthal. Gilan swayed wearily in the saddle. They had barely slept in the past three days, snatching only brief rests once every four hours.
Two guards stepped forward to query his progress and the young Ranger fumbled inside his shirt for the silver amulet in the form of an oak leaf-the Rangers' badge of office. At the sight of it, the guards stepped back hurriedly to clear the way. In times like these, nobody delayed a Ranger-not if he knew what was good for him.
Gilan rubbed his gritty eyes. "Where is the War Council tent?"
One of the guards pointed with his spear to a larger-than-normal tent, set up on a knoll overlooking the rest of the camp. There were more guards there, and a large number of people coming and going, as one would expect at the nerve center of an army.
"There, sir. On that small rise."
Gilan nodded. He'd come so far, so fast, finishing the four-day journey in just over three. Now these few hundred meters seemed like miles to him. He leaned forward and whispered in Blaze's ear.
"Not much farther, my friend. One more effort, please."
The exhausted horse's ears twitched and his head came up a few inches. At Gilan's gentle urging, he managed to raise a slow trot and they passed through the camp.
Dust drifting on the breeze, the smell of woodsmoke, noise and confusion: the camp was like any army camp anywhere in the world. Orders being shouted. The clang and rattle of arms being repaired or sharpened. Laughter from tents, where men lay back relaxing with no duties to be performed-until their sergeants found them and discovered jobs for them to be doing. Gilan smiled tiredly at the thought. Sergeants seemed to be totally averse to seeing their men having an easy time of it.
Blaze came to a halt once more and he realized, with a jerk, that he'd actually nodded off in the saddle. Before him, two more guards barred the way to the War Council compound. He looked at them blearily.
"King's Ranger," he croaked, through a dry throat. "Message for the Council."
The guards hesitated. This dust-covered, half-asleep man, seated on a lathered, exhausted bay horse, might well be a Ranger. He was certainly dressed like a Ranger, as far as they could tell. Yet the guards knew most of the senior Rangers by sight, and they had never seen this young man before. And he showed no sign of identification.
What's more, they noticed, he carried a sword, which was definitely not a Ranger's weapon, so they were reluctant to admit him to the carefully guarded War Council compound. Irritably, Gilan realized that he had neglected to leave the silver oakleaf device hanging outside his shirt. The effort of finding it again suddenly became intense. He fumbled blindly at his collar. Then a familiar, and very welcome, voice cut through his consciousness.
"Gilan! What's happened? Are you all right?"
That was the voice that had meant comfort and security to him throughout his years as an apprentice. The voice of courage and capability and wisdom. The voice that knew exactly what action should be taken at any point in time.
"Halt," he murmured, and realized that he was swaying, then falling from the saddle. Halt caught him before he hit the ground. He glared at the two sentries, who were standing by, not sure whether to help or not.
"Give me a hand!" he ordered and they leapt forward, dropping their spears with a clatter, to support the semiconscious young Ranger.
"Let's get you somewhere to rest," Halt said. "You're all in."
But Gilan summoned some last reserves of energy and, pushing clear of the soldiers, steadied himself on his own feet. "Important news," he said to Halt. "Must see the Council. There's something bad going on in Celtica."
Halt felt a cold hand of premonition clutch his heart. He cast his gaze around, looking back down the path where Gilan had come. Bad news from Celtica. And Gilan apparently alone.
"Where's Will?" he asked quickly. "Is he all right?"
"He's all right," Gilan said, and the senior Ranger's heart lifted just a little. "I came on ahead."
As they had been talking, they had begun to move toward the central pavilion. There were more guards on duty here but they moved out of the way at the sight of Halt. He was a familiar figure around the War Council. He put out a hand now to steady his former apprentice and they entered the cool shade of the Council pavilion.
A group of half a dozen men was clustered around a sand map-a large table with the main features of the Plains and Mountains modeled in sand. They turned now at the sound of the new arrivals and one of them hurried forward, concern written on his face.
"Gilan!" he cried. He was a tall man, and his graying hair showed him to be in his late fifties. But he still moved with the speed and grace of an athlete, or a warrior. Gilan gave that tired smile again.
"Morning, Father," he said, for the tall gray-haired man was none other than Sir David, Battlemaster of Caraway Fief and supreme commander of the King's army. The Battlemaster looked quickly to Halt and caught the quick nod of reassurance there. Gilan was all right, he realized, just exhausted. Then, his sense of duty caught up with his fatherly reaction.
"Greet your King properly," he said softly, and Gilan looked up to the group of men, all their attention now focused on him.
He recognized Crowley, the Ranger Corps Commandant, and Baron Arald and two other senior Barons of the realm-Tyler of Drayden and Fergus of Caraway. But the figure in the center took his attention. A tall blond man in his late thirties, with a short beard and piercing green eyes. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, because Duncan was not a king who let other men do all his fighting for him. He had trained with sword and lance since he was a boy and he was regarded as one of the most capable knights in his own kingdom.
Gilan attempted to sink to one knee. His joints screamed in protest and tried to lock up on him. The pressure of Halt's hand under his arm was all that stopped him from falling once again.