The Tournament at Gorlan by John A. Flanagan

against him.”
    â€œAnd who would benefit from that?” Halt asked. He hadlearned some time back that when a situation like this occurred, asking who would benefit from it usually provided a good direction as to who was behind it all. They exchanged a glance as he set the coffeepot down into the flames.
    â€œMorgarath,” they both said at the same time.
    â€œAs you said,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “He’s hungry for power. He’s popular among most of the other barons. He’s the Kingdom’s champion knight, after all, so a lot of them look up to him. The only person who might have rivaled that popularity was Prince Duncan.”
    â€œBut not now,” Halt said.
    â€œNot now. He’s provoked trouble with the Scotti and he’s becoming hated by the common people.”
    â€œNext question,” Halt asked. “What do we do about it?”
    There was a long silence, during which the two of them stared into the bright, leaping flames of the fire.
    â€œI suppose we could drag that false Duncan—Tiller, wasn’t he called?—out of the inn and ask what he’s up to?” Crowley suggested.
    But Halt shook his head. “Chances are, he doesn’t even know who’s hired him. He’s a cat’s paw, after all. Besides, he has twenty men-at-arms around him. That might make the dragging a little difficult.”
    â€œThen we’re going to have to find the real Duncan—assuming he’s still alive.”
    â€œHow do we do that?” Halt asked.
    Crowley regarded him with a sidelong glance. “You’re full of helpful questions, aren’t you. How about coming up with an answer for a change?”
    Halt shrugged. “You’re the local expert. I’m just an ignorantforeigner.”
    There was another long silence, then Crowley spoke again.
    â€œIf Morgarath really is behind this, then all I can suggest is that we head back into Gorlan and nose around to see what we can find out.”
    â€œAnd if he’s not?” Halt asked.
    â€œThen we’ll go with your plan,” Crowley told him.
    Halt raised his eyebrows as he tossed a handful of coffee into the boiling water. “Do I have a plan?” he asked mildly.
    â€œYou’d better have.”

    The two friends rode silently, retracing their steps toward Gorlan Fief. There was an unmistakable air of defeat about them. They had found the false Duncan, which at least established that Crowley’s suspicions were correct and that the real Prince Duncan wasn’t behind the raiding and pillaging that had been going on. But they had no leads as to where the real Duncan might be, or what had become of him. They were back where they had started—in fact, Halt thought, they were several paces behind where they had started, with no leads to follow and only the vague hope that they might find more information in Gorlan.
    Although how we’ll go about that defeats me, the Hibernian thought. After all, Morgarath was likely to clap them in a dungeon as soon as he set eyes upon them. Still, Halt couldn’t think of an alternative, save for wandering aimlessly about the Kingdom hoping to hear some word of the missing Crown Prince. And that was no plan at all.
    They were almost at the border of Gorlan Fief, close to the winding body of water known as Crowsfoot River. The path herewas a narrow one, cut through the thickly growing trees of an old forest. In fact, the path hadn’t really been cut at all. It had been worn by the passage of thousands of travelers over the years. They were riding abreast, which meant they took up the entire width of the path, when they heard drumming hoofbeats coming toward them, from the direction of the ford across the Crowsfoot toward which they were heading.
    As they reached a long, straight stretch of the path, a rider came into view. He was traveling at a full gallop, waving his arms at them to clear the path for him. He