Kings of Clonmel by John Flanagan Page A

stood rock steady, giving Halt a stable platform. Then Halt shot for the throat, the impact of the heavy arrow, with the eighty pounds of draw weight from his bow behind it, sending the dog staggering backward and sideways.
    The second arrow, coming within seconds of the first, struck the snarling killer in the heart, dropping it stone dead.
    Halt patted his horse’s neck. He knew the strength of will it had taken for Abelard to stand steadily, allowing him to shoot. He understood the depth of trust the little horse had just placed in him and was glad he hadn’t let his old friend down.
    “Good boy,” he said quietly. “Now let’s get out of here.”
    They wheeled, running at a tangent to the way they had come. The country was unfamiliar to Halt, and for the moment all he could do was try to put distance between himself and the baying hounds—as well as any other war dogs that might be loping silently through the woods after them.
    The baying was still close behind them as they broke clear of the heavy tree cover and began moving up a slope. The ground was covered in waist-high gorse and shrubs, dotted with rocky outcrops and occasional groves of trees. But as he neared the top, Halt saw, too late, that he had made a mistake. What he had taken to be a hill was a bluff—a sloping piece of ground that gradually narrowed and led to a sheer cliff overlooking a deep, wide river.
    He wheeled Abelard and began to race back down the slope. But they hadn’t gone far before he saw mounted figures moving in the fringes of the trees at the base of the hill. It was too late to head back down. They were trapped halfway up. As he watched, another massive gray-and-black shape detached itself from the group and came arrowing up the slope after them, belly close to the ground, huge fangs bared in a murderous snarl.
    Abelard rumbled a warning.
    “I see him,” Halt said quietly, and the horse relaxed, his faith in Halt absolute.
    Ordinarily, Halt was fond of dogs. But this was no dog. This was a pitiless killing machine, perverted by its cruel training so that it sought only to kill and kill again. He would destroy these beasts without a qualm.
    The dog was fifty meters away when Halt slid from the saddle, nocking an arrow as he did so. He let the ravening animal draw closer. Thirty meters. Twenty-five.
    Abelard whinnied in mild consternation. What are you waiting for?
    “Settle down,” Halt told him, and released.
    It was an instant killing shot. The running dog simply collapsed in mid-stride, its legs buckling under it, head dropping so that it rolled several times, momentum carrying it forward, before it came to a stop. A dead stop, Halt thought grimly.
    Abelard whinnied again. Halt thought he could detect a note of satisfaction in the sound, but he may have imagined it.
    “I told you I know what I’m doing,” he said. But then he frowned. Because he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. He could see men emerging from the trees, gesturing upward as they saw him and Abelard halfway up the slope. Several were carrying bows and one of them began to raise his, an arrow on the string.
    He’d barely begun to draw when a black-shafted arrow hissed downhill and sent him tumbling back into the trees. His companions looked at his lifeless body, looked again at the indistinct figure above them and saw he was nocking another arrow.
    As one, they broke back for the cover of the trees, stumbling over the excited hounds as they beat them out of the way. The second arrow slammed, quivering, into the trunk of a tree at chest height. The message was clear. Don’t show yourself if you wish to remain healthy.
    In the confusion, none of them saw the gray-cloaked figure lead his horse into a jumble of rocks. When they looked back up the slope, there was no sign of man or horse.
    The day wore on. The sun rose to its zenith and began to descend toward the western horizon. But still the Outsiders could see no sign of the figure up the hill.