Kings of Clonmel by John Flanagan Page B

They knew he was there—somewhere. But exactly where, they had no idea—there were at least half a dozen piles of tumbled rock that could be sheltering the stranger and his horse. And they knew if they tried to rush blindly up the hill, they would pay for it with their lives.
    In the mid-afternoon, they released another war dog to see if it might flush the Ranger out. The dog swung back and forth, sniffing the air for some trace of its prey. Then, catching a faint scent on the breeze, it began to run—the remorseless, belly-to-the-ground lope of its kind.
    All eyes were on the dog as it settled into its stride. That was a mistake, for no one saw where the arrow came from as it struck the dog down and sent it rolling back down the slope, eyes glazed, tongue lolling.
    Up the slope, behind a tumble of large boulders, Halt glanced to where Abelard lay, legs folded underneath him so that he was completely concealed from view.
    “In Gallic,” the Ranger said conversationally, “this might be called an impasse . But you should know that. You speak Gallic, after all.”
    He expected no answer from the horse, of course. But Abelard tilted his head at Halt, liking the sound of his voice.
    “The question is, what do we do next?”
    Again, Abelard had no answer. And for once, neither did Halt. He knew that when darkness came, he could make his way down the bluff and slip through the line of watchers. Even the dogs would pose no real problem for him. The wind had shifted so that it was blowing from them to him. They wouldn’t pick up his scent until he was past them.
    But the problem was Abelard. He couldn’t hope to take the horse with him and avoid detection. Even if the men didn’t see him, the dogs would certainly hear some slight noise from the horse’s hooves on the ground. Ranger horses were trained to move quietly. But even they had their limits.
    And Halt wasn’t going to leave Abelard behind. That was unthinkable. He had no idea whether there were any more of the killer dogs waiting down there in the tree line. If there were, Abelard on his own wouldn’t stand a chance.
    He considered moving back up the slope to the cliff. He’d seen the river winding below the bluff, some ten to twelve meters below. If the water were deep enough, he could survive a jump into it. But Abelard wouldn’t. They would fall at the same speed, but the horse’s extra mass meant he would hit the water with far greater force than Halt would. And unlike his master, Abelard couldn’t streamline his body to reduce the impact when he hit the surface of the water. He would land on his belly.
    “So we can’t go up, and we can’t go down,” Halt said.
    Abelard snorted. You’ll think of something.
    Halt raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Don’t be too sure of it,” he said. “If you get any ideas, I’d like to hear them.”
    The sun was well below the treetops in the west now. The light on the slope was becoming uncertain. Halt peered through a small gap in the rocks. There was no sign of movement below.
    “Not yet,” he muttered. “We’ll see what happens when it’s full dark.”
    Sometimes, he thought, all you could do was wait.
    As night fell, he unpacked a folding canvas bucket from his saddlebag and half filled it with water from one of his canteens so that Abelard could drink. He was a little thirsty himself, but he felt he could wait a while longer.
    He listened carefully to the night sounds that began to fill the still air. Frogs, and a persistent cricket somewhere. The occasional cry of a hunting owl. From time to time, small animals scuttled through the gorse and the long grass. Each time he heard such a sound, he’d look inquiringly at Abelard. But the horse showed no sign of interest, so Halt knew they were all naturally made.
    He fully expected the Outsiders to make some sort of probe during the night. That was one reason why he listened so carefully to the sounds of animals and birds. He was attuning himself to the