Buttle, however, was a different matter altogether. His total lack of scruples and the basic evil nature of the man would make him a valuable deputy to the scheming usurper. Men like Keren needed men like Buttle, Will knew. They needed men who would obey orders to kill and rob and destroy without any hesitation. Such men made it easier for others to follow suit. He had no doubt that Buttle was already established as one of Keren's key retainers.
And there he sat, just two hundred meters away from Will, who had an arrow nocked to the string already.
It was a long bowshot and there was a slight crosswind. Will could see it stirring the tops of the bare alders that lined the road on the far side. Most archers would have approached such a shot with misgivings, but Will was a Ranger and for a Ranger, a two-hundred-meter shot was bread and butter. And he knew that misgivings were the beginning of a miss. Anxiety over a missed shot all too often rewarded itself with the very result that it sought to avoid. Will raised his bow to the aim position.
The arrow seemed to slide back effortlessly, drawn by the big muscles in his back and shoulders with an ease born of thousands of repetitions. He created his sighting picture, focusing on the target, not on the arrow or the bow. They were simply two parts of the overall picture that culminated in the figure of Buttle sitting his horse two hundred meters away.
He continued raising the bow until he was satisfied that the elevation was correct for the distance. At that moment, had anyone asked him how he knew that it was correct, he could not have answered. It was instinctive in him now, another product of those years of practice. He allowed for the wind and held steady a moment. His left hand, holding the bow, was loose and relaxed, so that the shaped grip sat in the gap between thumb and forefinger, supported but not actually gripped. The thumb of his right hand rested against the corner of his mouth, the first three fingers restraining the string at the full draw position, one above and two below the nocking point.
He exhaled half of the last breath he had taken, vaguely aware of his own heartbeat and natural body rhythms, and allowed the string to release itself from his fingers, both hands passive, without a trace of jerking or twisting. The entire process, once he had raised the bow, took less than four seconds.
The bow sang and the arrow leapt away.
Ironically, it was the years of practice that now betrayed him.
The shot was an excellent one. In any other archer, it would have been considered a success. But Will was using the three-piece bow, not the yew longbow that he had practiced with during the last three years of his apprenticeship. Over the two hundred meters it traveled-although it actually covered more distance through the air, moving in a smooth curve-the arrow dropped farther than he had estimated. Instead of striking home into Buttle's upper body, it came out of nowhere and slammed into his thigh, tearing through the fleshy part of the leg and pinning it to the hard leather of the saddle.
Buttle screamed with the sudden burning agony in his thigh. His horse reared in fright, as did several others around him. His men, already wary about venturing toward Grimsdell Wood, took one look at the feathered shaft that had transfixed their leader and turned and rode for the shelter of the bend in the track. Buttle, cursing the pain and his men with equal savagery, wheeled his horse helplessly, then, furious, he gave in to the inevitable and rode after them, reeling in the saddle with the pain.
"Damn," said Will dispassionately, watching him go. He remembered Crowley's words about the bow. A flat trajectory at first, but then it would drop faster than he was accustomed to. "No more long shots," he said to Tug, whose ears flattened back against his head in answer. Will glanced down at the dog, who was looking up at him, her tail moving slowly. It seemed she was quite content to see the arrow hit Buttle anywhere at all, he mused.
He looked back at the road. There was no sign that the men were renewing the pursuit, so he nudged Tug with one knee to turn him and followed the track into the wood.
He caught up to the others a hundred meters down the trail, where be had told Xander to wait. Orman was sinking further and further into the coma that he had predicted, swaying in the saddle, almost totally unconscious, mouthing meaningless words and making little mewling noises.
"How's he doing?" he asked Xander, although the question was clearly unnecessary. The secretary frowned.
"We don't have a lot of time," he said. "Do you have any idea where Malkallam might have his headquarters?"
Will shook his head. "I assume it'll be right in the center of the wood," he said. "But where that might be is anyone's guess,"
Xander glanced anxiously at his master. "We'll have to do something," he said, the worry evident in his voice.
Will looked around helplessly, hoping for an idea. He knew that, Ranger skill notwithstanding, they could blunder for days in this thick forest, with its narrow intersecting trails. And they had hours, at best.
His gaze fell on the dog, sitting patiently, head cocked to one side, looking to him for direction. There was a chance, he realized.
"Come on," he said tersely to Xander, and nudged Tug, starting out down the path that he and Alyss had followed only a day ago. So much had happened in that short time, he thought. They skirted the edge of the sinister black mere until they came to the spot where Alyss had found the scorched grass. Will stopped there now and dismounted. Xander, after a moment's hesitation, followed him. He looked at the scorch marks.
"What caused this?" he asked. Will told him of Alyss's theory about a giant magic lantern. Xander's eyebrows went up, but he nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, she could be right," he said. "Mind you, you'd need a near-perfect lens for the job."
"A lens?" Will asked.
"The focusing device that would create a beam of light. I've never seen one of the standard you'd need for this, but I imagine it would be possible to construct one."
"You'd need one hell of a light source as well," Will told him, bur the small man shrugged that objection away.
"Oh, there's plenty of ways you can achieve that," he said. "Whiterock, for example."
"Whiterock?" Will asked. The word was unfamiliar to him. Xander nodded again.
"It's a porous rock that releases a flammable gas when you drip water onto it. The gas burns with an intense white flame. Very hot too… just like whatever caused these scorch marks." He nodded to himself several times. "Yes, I'd say whiterock would do the job. But what do you have in mind here?" he added.
Will clicked his fingers and the dog moved closer to him, eyes fixed on him as she waited for instructions.
"I figured if there was some kind of lamp here, there must have been people tending it. And people leave a scent. Maybe the dog can track them. Odds are, if we find them, we'll find this wizard's lair as well."
He ruffled the dog's ears and pointed to the ground around them.
"Find," he said.
The black-and-white head went down and she began quartering the ground by the bank of the mere. After several minutes, she began casting wider and wider. Then she stopped, one forepaw rising into the air as her nose stayed close to the ground. She sniffed several times, then barked once, a sharp, urgent sound.