`There'll be more where that came from in a few days,' Padraig said. 'Now, once we've rendezvoused with Driscoll, here's what we'll…'

Whatever they were going to do, Will never learned. At that moment, there was a shout of alarm from outside the camp. Then a voice was raised in anger and men started shouting and running towards the open space that led to the forest.

Will knew what had happened. The unconscious sentry had been found and the alarm had been raised. He'd hear nothing further tonight, he realised. He wriggled back a few metres from the tent, then, knowing that all attention would be turned towards the point where the shouting was going on, he rose into a crouch and melted back into the tent lines again.

He began running towards the sentry line, following scattered groups of men. As he passed one tent, he saw several spears stacked together outside it. He grabbed one, sending the others clattering to the ground like giant pickup sticks, and ran out onto the open grassy area that separated the camp from the forest. He passed several other men as he did so. He could hear sergeants bellowing orders, trying to bring some sense into the chaos of the disturbed camp. But for now, this confusion was exactly what Will needed.

`This way!' he shouted, to nobody in particular, and angled towards a point in the trees which he knew to be some fifty metres from where he had knocked the sentry out. The more noise he made, the more conspicuous he made himself seem, the less notice anyone would take of him. If anyone actually followed him into the forest, he was confident that he could lose them within a few minutes.

He glanced over his shoulder but nobody had followed his lead. Already, as word filtered back that it was nothing but a sentry found sleeping on watch, men were beginning to slow down and stop. Some had even turned back to the camp.

None of them noticed when Will plunged into the forest. Within seconds the darkness beneath the trees seemed to have swallowed him. All that was left was the spear, lying half concealed in the long grass where, having no further use for it, he had tossed it to one side.

He smiled to himself as he ran silently through the trees. There'd be several unhappy men in the camp that evening. The owner of the spear would wonder what had become of his weapon – good spears were expensive. And the man who had gathered the bundle of kindling would be furious to discover that one of his comrades had stolen it.

As for the unconscious sentry, Will didn't envy him having to convince his superiors that he had been attacked. Particularly as he would be reeking of brandy. Chances were he'd be punished – and severely. In a band like this, sleeping on watch would attract savage punishment.

So the evening would be ruined for at least three of the outlaws, Will thought.

`All in all, a good night's work,' he said to himself.

Chapter 22

The market ground was a large meadow at the eastern end of the village. To the north and south were open farmlands – ploughed fields and fields under crops. Several small farmhouses were visible in the near distance. On the eastern side of the meadow there was a thick band of trees where the forest began again.

`Look who's here,' Halt said quietly. Horace followed his gaze. In the south-western corner of the meadow was a large white pavilion. Several figures in white robes were moving around the pavilion, tending a fire and preparing food.

`That's them?' Horace asked and Halt nodded once. `That's them.'

They pitched their two small tents by a blackened ring of firestones some distance from the pavilion.

`What now?' Horace asked.

Halt looked up at the sun. He estimated that it was past noon.

`We'll have a bite to eat,' he said. 'Then, later on, we'll go and listen to what Tennyson has to say.'

Horace's face brightened at the mention of food. `Sounds like a plan to me.'

In the late afternoon, people began making their way towards the Outsiders' camp. Halt and Horace joined the rapidly growing crowd. Halt raised an eyebrow as he saw that Tennyson's followers had set up several casks of ale and wine under a large, open-sided marquee and were serving generous mugs of both to all comers.

`That's one way to get a congregation together,' he muttered to Horace. They edged their way through the throng who were jostling for position at the refreshment tables. 'Try to look diffident,' he added to Horace.

The tall warrior frowned. 'How do I do that?'

`Look as if you're not certain you should be here,' Halt said. 'As if you're uncertain of yourself.'

`Well, I'm not certain I should be here,' Horace said.

Halt sighed. 'Then stop striding along so confidently. Look as if you think I'm going to whack you over the head any minute. That'll do the trick.'

`Are you?' Horace asked, smiling to himself. 'Are you going to whack me over the head?'

Halt turned a baleful glance on the younger man. But before he could speak, another voice interrupted them.

`Greetings, friends! Greetings!' The voice was deep and resonant, the powerful, well-modulated voice of a trained orator. Halt and Horace turned to view the speaker, who was walking towards them. He was a tall, heavily built man in a long white robe. In his right hand, he held a staff.

Flanking him, but a few paces behind him, were two startling identical figures. They were massively built, well over two metres in height. Tall as the leader might be, he was dwarfed by these two men. Both were totally bald. Horace studied them for a few seconds, then turned his attention back to the speaker.

His face was broad, with strong features and a prominent nose. The eyes were a startling blue. They gave the impression that their owner was looking far into the distance and seeing things normal folk could not. Horace was willing to bet that this was a look the man had carefully cultivated. On a closer inspection Horace realised that the man was well built but somewhat overweight. Obviously, he wasn't a warrior. He was bare-headed and his hair was shoulder length, brushed back from his forehead, and grey all over. Not pepper and salt grey like Halt's, but a uniform shade of white-grey throughout. The man assessed Halt and Horace quickly, then addressed himself to Halt as the obvious leader.

`You're new to the town.' His tone was friendly and he smiled in greeting. 'I saw you arrive earlier today.'

Halt nodded. He made no attempt to return the other man's smile. 'And you're taking a census, are you?'

Horace stayed silent, content to let Halt take the lead. He realised that the Ranger was playing the role of a typical country person – guarded and suspicious of strangers. His manner didn't seem to bother the newcomer, however. He seemed genuinely amused by Halt's curt rejoinder.

`Not at all. I'm just always glad to greet a new friend.' `I wasn't aware that we were friends,' Halt said.

The burly man's smile widened. 'I'm a servant of the

Golden God Alseiass. And he says all men are my friends – and I should be a friend to all men.'

Halt shrugged, still unimpressed. 'Can't say I've heard of Alseiass, either,' he said. 'He's new, is he? Just arrived from another part of heaven, perhaps?'

The man chuckled. It was a rich, deep sound. Horace found himself thinking that, if he didn't know who this man was, he would find him easy to like.

`I'll admit that Alseiass isn't well known in this part of the country,' the man said. 'But that will change. My name is Tennyson, by the way. I'm the Golden God's minister and these are my assistants Gerard and Killeen, who are also disciples of Alseiass.' He indicated the two silent giants behind him. 'We bid you a warm welcome to our camp site.'