Chapter 24

Will awakened with a start. He'd been dreaming… a memory really… He had been pressed down by an unseen weight, and unable to think clearly. He was cold, and…

He shivered. It was when he was coming off the Warmweed. In Skandia, more than a year ago. He and Evanlyn had been captured and held as slaves in the capitol of the Northern country. While he was there, he'd been given Warmweed, an addictive, mind-numbing drug that had kept him more captive than the slavers had. Then Evanlyn had helped him regain his senses in a snowy little cabin…

Now, waking to the darkness that was what his eyes saw, he felt stifled. Panic rose in his chest, and he fought to master himself. He closed his eyes so that his mind wouldn't keep trying to find light.

Breathe.

Woolen cloak covering you. Feel its texture. Feel it's weight, its solidity.

Breathe again.

Wind in the treetops. Late afternoon.

Breathe.

Gradually, his pounding heart slowed to a more normal pace. His fingers, groping and grasping at the fabric of his cloak, stilled.

Despite his panic, years of training reminded him to listen and check to be sure he was alone before he moved. He was.

He sat up, crossing his legs under himself. Opening his eyes again, he tilted his face toward the sky. Since he was in the shade of the oak and beech trees, there was no direct sunlight on his face, but he felt pretty nearly sure that his guess of late afternoon was right.

Unconsciously, he checked that his double knife scabbard hung at his left hip. It felt good to have the weight of his Saxe in it again. On his right was the pouch with his eating knife, flint, bowstring and medicine kit.

Everything seemed to be in order.

Why did his head still feel so foggy? It must be the dream that somehow still clung to him.

Without thinking, he reached up to run his right hand through his tousled hair… and gasped as pain ripped through his upper arm. His wound!

With the pain came sudden clarity of thought. He remembered what he was here to do and remembered too that Halt was back in the village.

Horace wasn't here; he'd evidently gone to meet the soldiers. Will felt a momentary flash of resentment. Just when he could really use his friend's help, he'd gone. Then, he pushed that thought aside. A man, a Ranger, had to stand on his own two feet. Rangers didn't need to be backed up by knights. Rangers were the backup: unseen usually, but there.

Will shivered again. He didn't know if he could do what a Ranger was expected to do. He was all alone. He couldn't even see. How crazy was this? The soldiers had all come north based on his word alone. He now needed to capture a Scotti spy who had killed a fully trained Ranger. One who could see. He was still just a boy, an apprentice.

He turned his face to the sky again. The chill of darkness crept closer.

Darkness.

In the dark, they were equals, he and MacDougal. No, Will had the advantage. In the darkness, he was at home. In the darkness, he could both hide and fight. In the darkness, he could still do a Ranger's job. In the night.

He was a Night Ranger.

Will stood up. His shoulders squared with new resolution.

"I am still a Ranger's apprentice," he told himself. Whether he passed the Corps Ranger tests or not, Will now knew in his heart of hearts that this was what he was meant to do. His heart swelled with the knowledge and he smiled under the darkness of his cowl.

In the darkness, he was the best, and Rangers were the best.

And now, as the spring darkness fell, he had a job to do.

He crouched, sweeping his hands in a wide arc, searching for his knapsack and his longbow/staff. He found them quickly, hidden under the tree branch where Horace had hidden them. Will smiled at the branch, thinking that it probably had worked well; he filed it away in his memory to use in the future should he need it. A Ranger could learn from anyone, even a "smash-and-grab" guy, as Horace liked to call himself. Horace was smart, and had quite a few good ideas, for all that.

Will adjusted his pack on his shoulders and checked to make sure the bowstring was in his belt pouch. It was, and he unwound it, running the waxed deer sinew through his fingers, thinking. He came to a decision and regretfully wound the string again into a bundle and put it back in the pouch. His right arm simply wasn't healed enough yet. He wouldn't even be able to string the bow much less draw back the string to shoot. For now, the weapon would be merely a staff.

He turned to go, and stopped. He stood in the middle of the grove, suddenly feeling foolish. Here he was, ready to go into battle, and he had no idea which way to go.

For a moment, his newfound resolve wavered. Rangers didn't get lost! Especially not in a grove this small! Then, he smiled to himself again. Maybe Night Rangers did. After all, he was the one writing the book on Night Rangers, wasn't he? Maybe a Night Ranger spent plenty of time not knowing precisely where he was located or which direction he was headed, and as long as he got there in the end, what did it matter? Still, he needed to move now.

"What would Granny Cooper do?" Will muttered to himself.

Information, her voice seemed to say in his head. Blindness is merely a lack of information.

He needed information about which way was south, since he remembered that he and Horace had turned left off their eastbound course into the trees.

Which way was south?

Will tipped his face to the wind. He didn't know which way it blew, so that was no help. No sun on his face meant no help there. Had they come uphill? No, the ground was flat.

He sniffed the air. He could smell the salt of the sea. Did it come ever-so-slightly from his left? He reached out, touching the nearest tree. He felt around its trunk, thinking about the moss on it and about the side that seemed more pitted and worn. Halt had told him that moss often grew on the northern side of tree trunks where there was more shade and therefore more moisture. He wondered if the sea salt had aged the east side of each tree.

He decided to use these clues to make his best guess. He took a deep breath. Holding his staff in front of himself as a shield against the branches that would try and snap him in the face, he plunged through the thicket.

For fifty meters or so, he fought his way past bushes and branches, unable to determine any sort of path. Just as he began to be discouraged, the way in front of him cleared. He could feel that there was an open space, but he hadn't yet stepped into it. Again, his training had kicked in and Halt's voice spoke in his memory.

"Wait before you step out where you can be seen. Take a look around you."

Will stood in the company of the last row of trees, his mottled gray-and-green Ranger cloak blending like one more shadow into the dimness.

It was a good thing he did. The road wasn't empty.

Footsteps, not loud ones and not very many, paced along the road. Boots, those belonging to a man. They walked with an unevenness that told Will the man was injured in one leg.

Was it the thigh? Was the man injured in the thigh from Will's arrow just a few short days ago? Was this MacDougal, on his way to light the signal fire and direct his Scotti fighters into their beach?

Will made a quick, sharp whistle through his teeth.

"Who's there?" the man demanded in a low voice, the footsteps dancing in a startled circle.

It was MacDougal's voice.

Will considered stepping out of the shadows now, frightening the superstitious man and overpowering him, but he was at too much of a disadvantage here. The evening was probably still light enough to see quite a bit, and Will guessed that MacDougal would be armed.

At least he was alone, and Will mentally thanked Halt for whatever he was doing to keep Penner and Moira busy at the inn.

MacDougal, seeing nothing in the shadows of the trees surrounding the road, began to hurry along it again, his lame right leg still dragging slightly and slowing his progress.

His fear began to give Will a glimmer of an idea. Halt had told him that the Scotti were a superstitious bunch, even more than the gullible Araluen commonfolk. If he could continue to scare MacDougal as they made their way toward the cliff, it could only help Will in the long run. If MacDougal was thoroughly panicked by the time Will needed to fight him, the older, bigger man mightn't think straight and would be easier to outwit. In the meantime, Will could also use the man's noise and even the feeling of fear and tension as something to use as a guide for himself.

He waited for MacDougal to pass, and then stepped softly onto the hard-packed earth of the road to follow him. MacDougal limped along as quickly as he could, not stopping to look around, and for that Will felt grateful. Will himself walked carefully, heel-to-toe so that he made almost no noise with his soft leather Ranger boots. He didn't tap his staff in front of him, but occasionally touched the ground, all too aware of the approaching cliff's edge.

He bit his lip with the tension, listening for MacDougal to turn right to move along the top of the cliff. Once, Will stepped on a few small rocks, about the size to fit into his palm, and he stooped to sweep them into his hand. He held them loosely, knowing he would have to throw them left-handed when he did throw them.

MacDougal slowed his limping shamble, and Will sank into the grass just to the right of the trail, letting his cloak settle around him, his staff lying flat in the grass at his knees. As soon as he did so, the footsteps on the road turned in a tight circle.

Will froze in place.

Trust the cloak.

He barely breathed.

The limping footsteps hurried onward.

Will rose silently and followed.

Hefting the handful of small rocks, he decided not to throw them directly at MacDougal. Instead, he raised his left arm out of the drape of woolen fabric that covered him and threw them as hard as he could off the left side of the trail.

They gave a satisfying clatter and he heard the startled gasp and then curses from the man ahead of him.

The limping walk turned into an awkward run, and Will allowed himself a small smile.

He was soon reminded how precarious his position was, however, because just a few steps later, his staff struck hard rock instead of packed earth, and he realized the man he was following had already turned aside and now he, Will, was right at the cliff's edge.

Heart hammering, he turned away from MacDougal in a half-crouch, hoping against hope that the darkness was now thick enough to conceal him, exposed as he was on top of the open cliff.

If MacDougal had heard Will's staff hit the rock, he gave no indication but continued his halting run along the cliff road.

Will listened just long enough to be sure the man hadn't turned around, and then he rose to follow. He soon had to stop again as the man in front of him crouched and began rummaging in his bags. For a moment Will felt panic, but just as quickly realized what the man was doing. This was confirmed when he heard the sharp sound of steel striking flint. Will reasoned that MacDougal would have to have a lantern to help him find his way and to use to light the fire. As long as Will stayed out of the circle of light, the lantern could only help him since it made MacDougal completely unable to see into the darkness beyond its glow.

MacDougal accomplished his task of lighting his small soft bundle of tinder and with it lit the lantern wick. He stood up with a soft groan as his weight landed on his injured leg.

A gust of wind hooted through the rocks on the cliff, helping along Will's fear-mongering with its eerie wail.

The lantern clinked as the frightened man held it aloft. Will stood silent and unmoving, nothing more than a dark figure in the darkness.

Now that he was sure MacDougal couldn't see him, he felt an almost giddy sense of power. If he wished, he could walk up to the Scotti right now with his Saxe knife held to the man's throat.

Just in time, he stopped himself. He still needed the man to lead him to the bonfire. He wished he knew for sure whether to let MacDougal light the signal fire or not. As he stepped lightly along, following the shuffling, limping, cursing Scotti, half his mind was occupied with the path and half wondered what the soldier commander wanted.

The Redmont soldiers' goal was to fight off the Scottis, which means they needed to engage them in battle here. If the Scottis floated right on by their beach in the dark, they wouldn't engage them here, and the invaders might end up coming ashore in another location where the Araluens weren't prepared for them. It made more sense to light the fire in order to draw them here where they were expected.

As a result of these thoughts, Will pulled back a little in his pursuit of the man. It was well he did so, because MacDougal stopped, and it soon became clear he had reached his signal fire. He grunted and fussed, pushing the logs more snugly into place. Will realized the bonfire had been built earlier by the three Scotti spies, and it occurred to Will to wonder why none of the local fishermen had remarked on the pile of logs sitting on the cliff top. Or maybe they actually had noticed it after all. But if they had, who would they tell? The Ranger? MacDougal himself was posing as the local Ranger. He would likely just tell them not to worry about it.

Will sat on the ground just off the path to wait. There was very little moonlight on this night, he knew. They obviously had planned to use fire piles instead of moonlight, since coming when the moon was dark would be unexpected. Will wondered if there were more pyres built down on the beach, ready to be lit with torches. No wonder MacDougal's injured leg pained him if he had been building fire piles all day.

Sitting with his back to the cliff, his chin in his hands, Will listened to everything around him, taking in every detail, absorbing all the information he could get. Below him, the waves sucked and splashed onto the sand of the beach. The peculiar sound-feeling of empty space opened up as the cliff fell away, but no seagull cries broke the waiting silence. In front of Will, the barren, wind-swept grass of the cliff-top stretched along for kilometers, broken only here and there by patches of forest, which Will couldn't hear, but he remembered they were there, and so placed them into the mental map he was forming.

Behind him, out on the water, he dimly heard another sound, distant but coming nearer. He heard a group of sounds, really. He heard the sound of water splashing on a gunwale. A bosun cried orders to a crew and the snap of a sail drew taut in the wind. The low murmur of voices, and a few rattles of swords and clubs could be heard as the Skandian wolf ships drew nearer, gliding closer on the night sea, carrying their dangerous passengers.

Will heard MacDougal suck in his breath through his teeth, and then the crackle of flames as they licked hungrily at the piled wood. Because it was still damp from the morning's rain, the wood hissed and steamed, but it burned.

The fire was lit.

It had begun.