The Burning Bridge

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.

"My lord:" he began apologetically, but Duncan had already stepped forward, seizing his hand to steady him. Gilan heard Halt's introduction.

"Ranger Gilan, my lord, attached to Meric Fief. With messages from Celtica."

Suddenly, the King was galvanized with interest. "Celtica?" he repeated, studying Gilan more closely. "What's happening there?"

The other Council members had moved from the sand map to group around Gilan. Baron Arald spoke: "Gilan was carrying your messages to King Swyddned, my lord," he said. "Invoking our mutual defense treaty and requesting that Swyddned send troops to join us-"

"They won't be coming," Gilan interrupted. He realized he had to tell the King his news before he collapsed from exhaustion. "Morgarath has them bottled up on the southwest peninsula."

There was a stunned silence in the Council tent. Finally, it was Gilan's father who broke it. "Morgarath?" he said, incredulously. "How? How could he get any sort of army into Celtica?"

Gilan shook his head, suppressing a huge need to yawn. "They sent small numbers down the cliffs, until they had enough troops to catch the Celts by surprise. As you know, Swyddned keeps only a small standing army:"

Baron Arald nodded, anger showing on his face. "I warned Swyddned, my lord," he put in. "But those damned Celts have always been more interested in digging than protecting their own land."

Duncan made a small, pacifying gesture with one hand. "No time now for recriminations, Arald," he said softly. "What's done is done, I'm afraid."

"I should imagine Morgarath has been watching them for years, waiting for their greed to overcome their good sense," Baron Tyler said bitterly. The other men nodded quietly. Morgarath's ability to maintain a network of spies was all too well known to them.

"So Celtica has been defeated by Morgarath? Is this what you're telling us?" Duncan asked. This time, as Gilan shook his head, there were relieved glances around the tent.

"The Celts are holding out in the southwest, my lord. They're not defeated yet. But the strange business of it all is that Wargal raiding parties have been carrying off the Celt miners."

"What?" This time it was Crowley who interrupted. "What earthly use has Morgarath for miners?"

Gilan shrugged in reply. "I've no idea, sir," he told his chief. "But I thought I'd better get here with the news of it as soon as possible."

"You saw this happening, then, Gilan?" Halt asked, frowning darkly as he puzzled over what the young Ranger had just told them.

"Not exactly," Gilan admitted. "We saw the empty mining towns and the deserted border posts. We were heading deeper into Celtica when we met a young girl who told us about the raids."

"A young girl?" the King said. "A Celt?"

"No, my lord. She was Araluen. A lady's maid whose mistress was visiting Swyddned's court. Unfortunately, they ran into a Wargal war party. Evanlyn was the only one to escape."

"Evanlyn?" Duncan said, his voice the merest whisper. The others turned to him as he spoke and were startled. The King's face had turned a chalky white and his eyes were wide with horror.

"That was her name, my lord," said Gilan, puzzled by the King's reaction. But Duncan wasn't listening. He had turned away and moved blindly to a canvas chair set by his small reading table. He dropped into the chair, his head sunk in his hands. The members of his War Council moved toward him, alarmed at his reaction.

"My lord," said Sir David of Caraway. "What is it?"

Duncan slowly raised his eyes to meet the Battlemaster's.

"Evanlyn:" he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "Evanlyn was my daughter's maid."