The Tournament at Gorlan by John A. Flanagan Page A

wore a black leather vest, studded with metal disks, and woolen trousers tucked into thigh-high riding boots. A sword bounced at his hip and he was also wearing a long-billed, crested cap—the mark of a messenger or dispatch rider.
    As he came closer, they could make out a gold insignia on the left breast of his jacket.
    â€œBlack and gold,” Crowley muttered. “Morgarath’s colors.”
    â€œClear the way!” the rider shouted imperiously. “Dispatches from Lord Morgarath! Clear the way!”
    He was closer now, and showed no signs of slackening his pace. His horse was bigger and heavier than those the two Rangers rode and it appeared that if they didn’t move aside, he would plow right through them.
    â€œNotice how when you put a uniform on a man he tends to throw his weight around?” Halt said. Crowley didn’t answer but they urged their horses to either side of the path, leaving room for the man to pass between them.
    â€œOut of my way, curse you!” the messenger shouted, in spite of the fact that they had already made room. Perhaps it was the final, unnecessary demand that tipped the scales for Halt. Heslipped his bow from his shoulder and, as the dispatch rider thundered past them, he reached to his right and dropped the end of the weapon over the man’s head, so that the thick bowstring fastened around his neck.
    â€œWhat . . . ?” the dispatch rider began as he felt the string draw taut across his neck. But at that moment, Halt heaved back on the bow, hauling the rider bodily out of the saddle and sending him crashing to the ground. There was a woof of exhaled breath as he landed flat on his back, then a dull thud as his head struck the compacted leaf mold and mud that formed the surface of the path.
    Halt swung down from the saddle to study the fallen man. Crowley did the same. About twenty meters up the path, the man’s horse seemed to become aware that its rider was no longer in place. It slowed to a trot, then a walk. Then it stopped, looking around curiously.
    Halt and Crowley knelt beside the unconscious man.
    â€œYou didn’t kill him, did you?” Crowley asked.
    Halt shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to. But he certainly is still.”
    At that moment, the man took in a great shuddering breath. He twitched violently once or twice, but his eyes remained tight shut.
    â€œNo. Just unconscious,” Halt said. “He should be out for an hour or more. He certainly caught his head a whack.”
    â€œSo was this a good idea?” Crowley asked. He stood up.
    Halt remained on his knees, rifling through the inside pockets of the dispatch rider’s leather vest. “It certainly seemed like one at the time,” he said. There was nothing of interest in the man’s pockets. He stood and glanced down the path at the riderless horse. It was slowly picking its way back toward them. Hewalked to meet it, making calming, reassuring noises as he got closer, and patting its smooth muzzle. The horse pushed its head against him.
    â€œGood boy,” Halt said. “You can’t help who you work for, can you?”
    The horse shook its mane, seeming to agree with him. Halt grinned at it, then took its reins and led it to the side of the path, where he tied the reins to a sapling. He noticed the leather saddlebags hanging either side of the horse’s rump, behind the saddle. He untied the fastenings that kept them in place and lifted them clear.
    â€œHe said he was a dispatch rider. Let’s see what dispatches he was carrying.”
    He unstrapped the saddlebags and dumped the contents onto the path. There were half a dozen rolled scrolls in the bags, each one fastened with a black ribbon, which was itself sealed with wax, into which a signet ring had been pressed. Halt picked up one at random and peered at the seal. It was the now-familiar lightning bolt that denoted the man’s allegiance to