Kings of Clonmel by John Flanagan

be retiring within the next six months or so . . . once Alun tells them about the advantages of a warm bed. Then you’ll have your appointment. In the meantime, you’ll move to Castle Araluen and work as my personal assistant. How’s that?”
    Clarke nodded his thanks. Crowley’s duties as Commandant sometimes conflicted with his work as Ranger of Araluen Fief. Clarke could fill in for him as acting Ranger in his absences. It was a good solution to the problem. The boy would gain experience in the field, and Crowley could shed some of his workload.
    Crowley folded up the sheet of notes he had been using for re ference.
    “And that just about winds us up. There are no other assignments to discuss. It’s been a good Gathering, and I thank you all for your efforts. So now let’s have a glass of wine and call it a night.”
    As the assembled Rangers broke up and moved off, forming smaller groups, Will sat quietly for a few moments. He was relieved that he hadn’t been sent to Norgate. But he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at being overlooked. He knew Crowley didn’t move people around merely for the sake of it—a Ranger formed a special bond with the fief he was assigned to. But still, very little happened in Seacliff these days.
    He shook himself irritably. You worry they’ll send you to Norgate and then when they don’t, you feel slighted, he thought to himself. And he was honest enough to grin at his contrariness. Then he felt a hand on his arm and turned to find Crowley beside him.
    “Give me a minute, please, Will?” Crowley said. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

8
    HALT WAS TRAPPED. HE CURSED HIMSELF FOR TAKING THE ENEMY so lightly.
    Once he’d reached Abelard, he had easily outstripped his pursuers. Gradually, their shouts died away to silence and, confident that he had shaken them off, he eased Abelard down to a trot. He had no idea that another group of enemies was on horseback and had been riding to flank him and cut him off from the main highway that led back to Redmont Fief.
    Worse still, this second party had dogs. Abelard sensed them long before Halt did. He saw the little horse’s ears prick up and heard the nervous, warning whinny. A tremor ran through the sturdy horse’s body. Halt could feel it and knew something was wrong. He urged Abelard into a canter once more as the sun showed itself above the rim of the trees.
    Then he heard the baying and realized that his pursuers had managed to get between him and the highway. He angled Abelard back, hoping to outdistance them and loop around the end of their picket line.
    That was when the first of the dogs burst from the trees.
    This was no tracking dog. It ran silently, wasting none of its energy on the baying and howling of the others. This dog was a killer. A war dog, trained to chase silently, then attack without warning and without pity.
    It was huge, its short coat mottled gray and black and its eyes blazing red with hate. It saw its quarry now and leapt at Abelard, aiming for the horse’s throat with its massive fangs.
    Any normal horse might have frozen in terror or shied violently at the sudden attack. But Abelard was a Ranger horse, well trained, intelligent and courageous. He spun on his rear legs and skipped sideways, avoiding the headlong rush of the monster with a minimum of panic and with just the amount of movement necessary. Abelard’s instinct, borne of long years of experience, told him that his best defense lay with the figure seated astride him. And a violent, sudden reaction could unseat his rider.
    The dog’s jaws snapped shut on empty air, missing the horse’s throat by centimeters.
    It hit the ground, spun and tensed, ready to spring again. Now, for the first time, it uttered a sound . . . a deep rumbling snarl.
    Which was cut off almost instantly by Halt’s first arrow.
    Faced with a head-on target, the Ranger waited until the dog had lifted its head to sound that snarling challenge. Abelard