Now the Outsiders were moving out of the trees in greater numbers. Some of them were beginning to start up the hill after Colly. But there was no real urgency in them so far. They knew there was nowhere for the running man to go. The tracking dogs were yelping furiously, restrained on their long leashes by their handlers. Halt counted about a dozen men. At least, he thought gratefully, they hadn't loosed another of the war dogs.
He glanced back at Colly, now labouring against the steep slope of the last few metres of the hill. He knew the man would hesitate at the bluff. It was inconceivable that he wouldn't. He had another arrow on the string and his eyes narrowed as he judged speed and distance and estimated his arrow's flight time. Colly was a few paces from the edge of the bluff when Halt drew the arrow back until he felt his right forefinger touch lightly against the corner of his mouth, sighted and released.
The arrow sped uphill in a shallow arc.
Colly was staggering, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as he reached the bluff. Below him, still in shadow, the water of the river was a black sheet. There was no way he could tell if it were deep enough for him to jump and, as Halt had predicted, he hesitated, looking back down the hill to the figure by the rocks.
A second after he had stopped, he heard a hissing, whistling sound and actually felt the passage of Halt's shot as the arrow passed a few centimetres above his head. Just as the Ranger had said it would.
His sides were aching with the effort of the mad uphill run. His chest was heaving and he doubled over, trying for breath. He saw the Ranger's right arm go up as he drew another arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. Very deliberately,, the Ranger pocked the arrow and raised the bow again, bringing the string back to full draw.
Colly could feel a burning sensation in his chest. The point where Halt had said the next arrow would go. He remembered the smashing impact of the first arrow on the tree stump and the sudden lurch of terror as the second arrow had passed within a hand's breadth of his head. All this flashed through his mind in a second as he watched the figure below him and he knew that he had only one chance to survive.
He jumped. He howled with fear all the way down, then smashed into the surface of the river in an enormous explosion of spray. He sank deep under the surface but there was no sign of the bottom. In fact, the river at this point was at least fifteen metres deep. Then, with an enormous sense of relief that he had survived the drop, he began to claw his way back up. His left knee had been twisted and wrenched by the impact with the water and a lance of pain shot through him as he kicked for the surface. He cried out, swallowed water and remembered too late to keep his mouth shut. Coughing and spluttering, his head broke the surface and he gasped for air, swimming sideways to ease the pain in his knee as he stroked weakly for the bank.
On the hillside, the pursuers had stopped as the cloaked figure hurled himself off the bluff. They were familiar with the territory and knew the river lay below him. Now they paused, but a voice from above directed them.
`He's in the river! Cut round the bottom of the hill and head him off!'
Several of the quicker-witted among them saw the gesticulating figure, whom they took to be the scout sent out during the night. He was waving them back and to one side and they realised the sense of what he was saying. There was no point continuing to the top unless they wanted to jump after their quarry. Back down the hill and round to the river bank was the quickest way.
`Come on!' shouted a burly dog handler. 'Get to the river bank!'
He gestured for his dogs to lead and he ran, following them. All it took was one man to start the movement and the others fell in with him. Halt watched with grim satisfaction as the knot of men plunged back downhill, angling off to the left to reach the river bank below the bluff.
As the last of them disappeared from view, he clicked his fingers twice. Abelard stepped clear of the rocks where they had sheltered through the night. Halt swung easily up onto his horse's back. Abelard twisted his head to lookaccusingly at his master, taking in the greasy woollen jacket that had belonged to Colly.
`I know,' Halt said resignedly. 'But his socks were even worse.'
He set Abelard to a lope and they moved quickly down the hill. As they reached the cover of the trees, Halt did a strange thing. Instead of turning east, back towards Redmont, he swung Abelard's head north-west, back to the fishing village. Again, Abelard turned his head to look inquiringly at his master. Halt patted the shaggy mane reassuringly.
`I know. But there's something I need to attend to,' he said and Abelard tossed his head. So long as his master knew what he was doing, he was content.
Farrell, the leader of the Outsiders group, was having an uncomfortable time trying to calm the villagers. They were openly suspicious that he and his people had played a hand in the unsuccessful raid on the boats. As Farrell tried to reassure them that he knew nothing about the raiders, he could sense their disbelief growing.
Might be time to move on, he thought. He could allay their suspicions for a short time, but in the long run, it would be safer to take what they had gained so far and try their luck elsewhere.
`Wilfred,' he was saying now to the village head man, `I assure you that my people are innocent of any wrongdoing. You know us. We're just simple religious folk.'
`Funny how all these troubles have started since you "simple religious folk" have turned up, though, isn't it?' Wilfred said accusingly.
Farrell spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. `Coincidence, my friend. My people and I will pray for you and your village to be protected from further misfortune. I assure you…'
There was the sound of a scuffle outside the entrance to the marquee that Farrell was using as a headquarters and main centre of worship. Then a bearded stranger burst through the entrance. At least, Farrell thought he was a stranger. Then he realised there was something familiar about him.
The newcomer was shorter than average height, dressed in simple brown leggings and boots and a dull green jacket. A massive longbow was in his hand and a quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder. Then something in Farrell's memory clicked.
`You!' he said in surprise. 'What are you doing here?'
Halt ignored him. He addressed his remarks to Wilfred.
`You've been robbed,' he said briefly. 'This man and his band are about to run out on you. And they'll be taking the gold and jewellery you've given them.'
Wilfred's gaze, which had been drawn to Halt at his sudden entrance, now switched back to Farrell. His eyes were narrow with suspicion. Farrell forced a nervous laugh, indicating the massive golden altar that dominated the far end of the marquee.
`I told you, we used the gold to build our altar – so we could pray for your people! D'you think we're going to just walk away with that? It's solid gold! It must weigh tons!'
`Not quite,' Halt said. He strode quickly towards the altar, the villagers following him uncertainly, Wilfred making sure that Farrell came along with them.
Halt drew his saxe knife with a soft hiss and sliced its razor edge along one gleaming side of the golden altar. The thin veneer of gold leaf that had covered it peeled away, revealing the plain wood beneath it.
`Not as solid as it looks,' Halt said and he heard an angry growl from the villagers as they moved to encircle Farrell. The Outsider's eyes flicked from Halt to the circle of hostile faces around him. His mouth opened as he instinctively tried to think of some plausible explanation for the deception, then closed as he realised there was none.