`We'll do that,' Terrence said fervently.

Conal studied Halt's face. Instinctively, he had trusted this grey-bearded stranger when they had met the previous night, and his trust had been borne out. Now he sensed that Halt wanted this rumour spread and Conal saw no harm in that. He was no fool and he'd heard rumours about a religious band that was moving through Clonmel, with a prophet claiming to offer safety and protection under the wing of his god. He suspected that Halt was working to undermine this group. Why, he didn't know. But he trusted and liked the small man in the mottled cloak. And if Conal had little time for myth or legend, he had even less for hysterical religious cults.

`Aye, we will,' he agreed. His eyes met Halt's and a message of understanding passed between them. The Ranger nodded his thanks and Conal continued. 'Will you stay the night? You'll be welcome inside the barrier this time,' he added, with a smile.

Halt shook his head. 'I appreciate the offer. But we have business in Mountshannon.'

Of course, no word had reached Craikennis of events in the neighbouring village. But now that the outlaw band was broken and scattered, it would only be a few daysbefore traffic on the roads was more or less back to normal. Halt was curious to know what Tennyson had been up to in the time they'd been gone – and whether word had reached him of today's events.

He shook hands with the two men and turned away to where Abelard and Tug were quietly grazing, side by side. Will was a few metres away and he caught Halt's eye. The older Ranger gave an imperceptible nod and Will hurried to join him. They mounted together and rode towards the knoll, where Horace sat waiting for them.

`What's Horace looking so enigmatic about?' Will asked. A faint trace of a smile touched Halt's lips.

`Someone gave him a stale fish,' he said and was gratified by Will's puzzled reaction. Sometimes, he thought, you had to keep these youngsters guessing.

Mountshannon was deserted. No more than half a dozen older residents remained in the village – people too old or infirm to travel – and they seemed anxious to stay out of sight. The three Araluans rode down the silent high street of the village, where shuttered windows and locked doors greeted them on either side. Occasionally, they caught a glimpse of a face at a window, hurriedly withdrawn as its owner stepped back to avoid being seen. But such sightings were few and far between. It was late afternoon and the long shadows thrown by the lowering sun seemed to accentuate the air of desertion that hung over the village. Halt nudged Abelard into a trot and the others matched his pace. They made their way to the market ground, only to find it empty.

The market stalls were gone. The large white pavilion that Tennyson used as a headquarters was gone as well. The only sign of recent habitation was the two small green tents pitched in the far corner of the big empty field. There was a huge charred patch in the centre of the field, evidence of a massive bonfire. The grass all around it was flattened, trampled that way by several hundred feet.

`What do you think happened here?' Will asked, indicating the blackened circle. Halt regarded it for a few seconds.

`I'd say the villagers were giving thanks to Alseiass for saving them.'

`You mean I could have had a bonfire and a party at Craikennis if I'd wanted?' Horace asked and they both looked at him. He shrugged apologetically. 'Well, you said you told them that I'd saved their village.'

`Yes,' Halt replied. 'And?'

`And… you know, I could have done with a little adulation for my trouble. Maybe a bonfire, a feast perhaps. I would have made sure that a reasonable share went to my faithful servants,' he finished, indicating the two of them with a lordly sweep of his hand. Then he spoiled the effect by allowing a grin to break through.

Halt muttered something inaudible and set Abelard to a canter, heading for the tents.

`I was just being enigmatic!' Horace called after him.

That evening, they packed up their camp and rode back into the village, where they hammered at the door of the darkened inn. There was no reply to their repeated attempts to raise someone inside. Horace stepped back into the street and bellowed at the top of his voice.

`Hullo the inn! Is there anyone there? Hullo!' Both Will and Halt winced at the sudden noise.

`Warn us if you're going to do that, will you?' Will said sourly.

Horace gave him an injured look. 'I was only trying to help.'

But there was no reply from the inn. As they stood uncertainly, contemplating breaking in so they could spend a night in comfort, they heard shuffling footsteps behind them. An old woman, wrapped in a shawl, hunched with age, had emerged from the cottage next to the inn, wondering who could be causing the disturbance. She gazed at them now through watery, faded eyes, sensing instinctively that these three strangers offered no danger to her.

`They've gone. All gone,' she told them.

`Gone where?' Halt asked her. She made a vague gesture towards the north.

`Gone to follow the prophet to Dun Kilty, so they said.'

`Dun Kilty?' Halt asked. 'That's the castle of King Ferris?' The old woman regarded him with tired, knowing eyes and nodded.

`That it is. The prophet -'

`You mean Tennyson?' Will interrupted.

She frowned at him, not appreciating the interruption. `Aye. The prophet Tennyson. He says that's where this god of his will bring peace to the Kingdom once more. He called on the people of Mountshannon to follow him and bring that peace and they all went, like the simpletons that they are.'

`But you didn't,' Halt said.

There was a long silence as she regarded them.

`No,' she said finally. 'Some of us here worship the old gods. We know the gods send us good times and bad to try us. I don't trust a god that promises only good times.'

`Why not?' Horace urged her gently, when she seemed unwilling to say more. Now, as she looked at him, there was a definite knowing look in her eyes.

`A god who brings you good and bad in equal amounts doesn't ask for much,' she said. 'Maybe a prayer or two. Maybe the odd sacrifice of a beast. But a god who promises only good times?' She shook her head and made the warding sign against evil. 'A god like that will always want something of you.'

Halt smiled at her, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the wisdom that comes with years, and the cynicism that comes with wisdom.

`I fear you're right, Mother,' he told her.

She shrugged. She had little use for his words of praise.

`I know I'm right,' she said. Then she added, 'There's a small door at the side that's never locked. You can get in there. It might stop you knocking and bellowing to raise the dead.' She gestured down the narrow alley beside the inn. Then she turned slowly away and hobbled back to her cottage and the warmth of her fireplace. The late afternoon air brought no comfort to her old bones. At this time of life, she reflected, a person needed to stay close to the fire.

They found the door and let themselves into the inn. While Halt lit a fire and a few candles, Horace searched the pantry for food and Will took care of stabling their horses in the barn behind the main building.

A short while later, the three sat comfortably around the fire, eating slightly stale bread and cheese, with some slicesoff a good country ham and tart local apples, washed down with the inevitable coffee. Halt looked around the deserted room. Normally, he knew, it would be packed with customers.

`So it's started,' he said. When his two young companions looked questioningly at him, he elaborated. 'It's the final phase of Tennyson's plan – the classic Outsiders' pattern. He's got a solid group of converts now, ready to attest to his ability to make bandits fall down in fear and run away. He's probably arranged for some of his acolytes to bring in other groups from villages that he's already saved in the south. They'll move from village to village and his band will grow larger with each passing day. The hysteria will grow as more people join him.'