Halt faced him, his gaze level and unblinking.
`No thanks are necessary. Just spread the word that the Sunrise Warrior has returned to bring order to Clonmel,' Halt told him.
He saw a slightly puzzled frown crease Conal's forehead and smiled quietly to himself, although his face showed no trace of it. It didn't matter that Conal didn't believe. Halt had noticed that several of the villagers working nearby had heard his words and were looking with interest at the tall warrior mounted on his battlehorse. He heard the phrase 'Sunrise Warrior' repeated several times in lowered tones. Gossip and hearsay would spread the word of the Warrior's appearance here within a few days. Halt always wondered how such things could spread so quickly through a fief or shire. But he knew they could and that was what he needed. He also knew that the farther the word spread, the more exaggerated the facts would become. By the end of the week, he was willing to bet, the story would be that the Sunrise Warrior had faced Padraig's band all alone, in an open field, and cut down all of them with three mighty sweeps of a flaming sword.
`We'll do that,' Terrence said fervently.
Conal studied Halt's face. Instinctively, he had trusted this grey-bearded stranger when they had met the previous night, and his trust had been borne out. Now he sensed that Halt wanted this rumour spread and Conal saw no harm in that. He was no fool and he'd heard rumours about a religious band that was moving through Clonmel, with a prophet claiming to offer safety and protection under the wing of his god. He suspected that Halt was working to undermine this group. Why, he didn't know. But he trusted and liked the small man in the mottled cloak. And if Conal had little time for myth or legend, he had even less for hysterical religious cults.
`Aye, we will,' he agreed. His eyes met Halt's and a message of understanding passed between them. The Ranger nodded his thanks and Conal continued. 'Will you stay the night? You'll be welcome inside the barrier this time,' he added, with a smile.
Halt shook his head. 'I appreciate the offer. But we have business in Mountshannon.'
Of course, no word had reached Craikennis of events in the neighbouring village. But now that the outlaw band was broken and scattered, it would only be a few daysbefore traffic on the roads was more or less back to normal. Halt was curious to know what Tennyson had been up to in the time they'd been gone – and whether word had reached him of today's events.
He shook hands with the two men and turned away to where Abelard and Tug were quietly grazing, side by side. Will was a few metres away and he caught Halt's eye. The older Ranger gave an imperceptible nod and Will hurried to join him. They mounted together and rode towards the knoll, where Horace sat waiting for them.
`What's Horace looking so enigmatic about?' Will asked. A faint trace of a smile touched Halt's lips.
`Someone gave him a stale fish,' he said and was gratified by Will's puzzled reaction. Sometimes, he thought, you had to keep these youngsters guessing.
Mountshannon was deserted. No more than half a dozen older residents remained in the village – people too old or infirm to travel – and they seemed anxious to stay out of sight. The three Araluans rode down the silent high street of the village, where shuttered windows and locked doors greeted them on either side. Occasionally, they caught a glimpse of a face at a window, hurriedly withdrawn as its owner stepped back to avoid being seen. But such sightings were few and far between. It was late afternoon and the long shadows thrown by the lowering sun seemed to accentuate the air of desertion that hung over the village. Halt nudged Abelard into a trot and the others matched his pace. They made their way to the market ground, only to find it empty.
The market stalls were gone. The large white pavilion that Tennyson used as a headquarters was gone as well. The only sign of recent habitation was the two small green tents pitched in the far corner of the big empty field. There was a huge charred patch in the centre of the field, evidence of a massive bonfire. The grass all around it was flattened, trampled that way by several hundred feet.
`What do you think happened here?' Will asked, indicating the blackened circle. Halt regarded it for a few seconds.
`I'd say the villagers were giving thanks to Alseiass for saving them.'
`You mean I could have had a bonfire and a party at Craikennis if I'd wanted?' Horace asked and they both looked at him. He shrugged apologetically. 'Well, you said you told them that I'd saved their village.'
`Yes,' Halt replied. 'And?'
`And… you know, I could have done with a little adulation for my trouble. Maybe a bonfire, a feast perhaps. I would have made sure that a reasonable share went to my faithful servants,' he finished, indicating the two of them with a lordly sweep of his hand. Then he spoiled the effect by allowing a grin to break through.
Halt muttered something inaudible and set Abelard to a canter, heading for the tents.
`I was just being enigmatic!' Horace called after him.
That evening, they packed up their camp and rode back into the village, where they hammered at the door of the darkened inn. There was no reply to their repeated attempts to raise someone inside. Horace stepped back into the street and bellowed at the top of his voice.
`Hullo the inn! Is there anyone there? Hullo!' Both Will and Halt winced at the sudden noise.
`Warn us if you're going to do that, will you?' Will said sourly.
Horace gave him an injured look. 'I was only trying to help.'
But there was no reply from the inn. As they stood uncertainly, contemplating breaking in so they could spend a night in comfort, they heard shuffling footsteps behind them. An old woman, wrapped in a shawl, hunched with age, had emerged from the cottage next to the inn, wondering who could be causing the disturbance. She gazed at them now through watery, faded eyes, sensing instinctively that these three strangers offered no danger to her.
`They've gone. All gone,' she told them.
`Gone where?' Halt asked her. She made a vague gesture towards the north.
`Gone to follow the prophet to Dun Kilty, so they said.'
`Dun Kilty?' Halt asked. 'That's the castle of King Ferris?' The old woman regarded him with tired, knowing eyes and nodded.
`That it is. The prophet -'
`You mean Tennyson?' Will interrupted.
She frowned at him, not appreciating the interruption. `Aye. The prophet Tennyson. He says that's where this god of his will bring peace to the Kingdom once more. He called on the people of Mountshannon to follow him and bring that peace and they all went, like the simpletons that they are.'
`But you didn't,' Halt said.
There was a long silence as she regarded them.
`No,' she said finally. 'Some of us here worship the old gods. We know the gods send us good times and bad to try us. I don't trust a god that promises only good times.'
`Why not?' Horace urged her gently, when she seemed unwilling to say more. Now, as she looked at him, there was a definite knowing look in her eyes.
`A god who brings you good and bad in equal amounts doesn't ask for much,' she said. 'Maybe a prayer or two. Maybe the odd sacrifice of a beast. But a god who promises only good times?' She shook her head and made the warding sign against evil. 'A god like that will always want something of you.'
Halt smiled at her, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the wisdom that comes with years, and the cynicism that comes with wisdom.
`I fear you're right, Mother,' he told her.