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It was Crowley's turn to buy supplies. The rebel Rangers couldn't exactly take turns as was proper—some were too well-known to risk showing up in public, but the rest rotated the task among themselves without complaint. This far from Gorlan—and even further from his designated fief of Hogarth—redheaded Crowley Meratyn was deemed a safe enough choice, and he was eager to go.
"I'm going with him," Halt announced suddenly. Calmly, he brushed off the dirt from his trousers and picked up one of the sacks from a somewhat dumbfounded Crowley. Before anyone could protest, or even process through the surprise enough to realise that they perhaps should, Crowley nodded his assent and the pair were off.
Pritchard watched his former apprentices disappear in the forest and felt the cold fingers of a premonition creep up his spine.
It was the last day of the week, which meant the local tavern would be full of townsfolk consuming their hard-earned ale. Given how close the nearest fortress was, its single tower peeking above the treetops in the distance, chances were there would be off-duty soldiers as well.
Despite the temper as fiery as his hair, Crowley was a good pick for this sort of mission. He had a knack for making fast friends with the townsfolk and pulling at ale-loosened tongues. And perhaps most importantly, Crowley didn't have an aggressive bone in his body. He seldom picked fights, even if fights occasionally picked him.
Well, last time Pritchard checked, Halt had been the exact opposite.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Halt, who had been striding ahead with relentless determination ever since they left the camp, slowed down and waited for Crowley to catch up before replying, "What?"
"I asked, to what do I owe the pleasure," Crowley obediently repeated, adding a smile to emphasise how happy he was to have his friend tag along.
Halt looked anything but happy. He made a show of glowering around, first up at the overcast sky threatening a drizzle, then at the snagging bushes overgrowing the trail around and ahead, at the mud squelching beneath their boots, and finally back at Crowley. "What pleasure?" he grumbled.
"Of your company, of course," Crowley said with cheer, not thrown off track in the slightest.
Halt's glower deepened. He sped up, forcing Crowley to jog to catch up again. The redhead shook his head in amusement. His comment had been sincere, of course, but trust Halt to take it for sarcasm. Presumably there weren't many people who put 'pleasure' and 'Halt's company' in one sentence and meant it.
Crowley did, though. And he firmly believed that under the grumpy facade, Halt liked him too. Because Halt was capable of liking a person, that much at least was clear from his interactions with Pritchard. It was people, plural, that he despised.
"I meant it, you know. I appreciate your company. I just wondered why… "
Halt gave him a pointed look from under his hood. "If you consider my company pleasurable, then you're clearly not mentally sound enough for a solo mission."
"Ah." Crowley grinned. So that's what this was about. "You're worried about me."
Halt shrugged, not even trying to deny it. "I figured you might need backup."
"Why would I need backup on—" Oh. He had mentioned he was going to visit a tavern, hadn't he? "Well, I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself in the unlikely event of a fight."
Halt's eyebrow went up in his trademark expression of doubt. He tapped his finger on the side of his nose.
"That was an isolated accident!" protested Crowley. "Besides, I'm not getting into fights today. It's a covert mission," he added matter-of-factly.
Up the eyebrow went, dipping the expression from doubt to outright incredulity.
Crowley measured it up and shut his protests. First rule of not losing fights: know the ones you cannot win.
The tavern was unimpressive even by off-road taverns' standards. The wooden building was leaning to one side like a drunkard after a long evening, creaking and wobbling like said drunkard's knees. Its door hung on a lone crooked hinge; Crowley pushed it open with reluctance, praying that it not break down on him. The way it looked, it was entirely up to its goodwill.
Halt followed behind, carrying their sacks of supplies. The tavern was their last stop for the evening, but perhaps the most important. The rebel Rangers could live a few more days on rabbit meat and stream water—much as they wouldn’t want to—but information was vital.
If the outside could deter all but the most determined patrons, the inside of the tavern looked almost welcoming. Almost, but not quite. Something was off, even if Crowley couldn't pinpoint it immediately.
It was dim, but cosy-dim rather than dark. To the right, a merry fire burned high in the hearth, illuminating the silhouettes of the dozen or so patrons hunched over the tables in varying states of intoxication. A few raised their heads when the two men entered, but seeing nothing of note, they went back to their mugs or quiet conversations.
Crowley headed left, towards the bar and the row of stools set in front of it. He claimed the outer two, leaving the outermost to Halt. This meant the unsociable Ranger sat at the edge of the bar and was therefore an unlikely target for anyone seeking a sympathetic ear. It also made it less suspicious that he chose to sit sideways and to keep an eye on the door.
There were four other men by the bar. They wore plain clothing, but the sheer bulk of their muscles suggested an occupation more violent than farming. Steer clear, Crowley reminded himself. The men were currently being served by the innkeeper, who brought to mind the establishment itself: aged and doddery but amiable, with smile-wrinkles framing his thin mouth.
The innkeeper finished serving the burly men and turned to the Rangers. "What for you, lads?" he asked in a cheerful manner Crowley immediately took to.
Halt, to the contrary, tensed. Crowley was by now experienced enough in reading his friend's expressions to make an educated guess: he was upset at being called a lad. However, to protest would only prove the innkeeper right, thus Halt resorted to scowling sourly enough to spoil milk in his cellars.
Crowley couldn't resist poking at that chip on his shoulder some more.
"Ale for me," he called back. "And milk for my younger brother here."
If he expected another amusing reaction from Halt, he was in for a sore disappointment. "And ale for me," Halt amended without missing a beat. "You'll pardon my younger brother; he was dropped on the head in childhood and since then he seems to think he's funny."
"It's you who misplaced his sense of humour when ma dropped you; I simply picked it up."
The innkeeper chuckled and turned to pour them two mugs of ale. It was the only drink the establishment offered anyway. He set the mugs in front of the Rangers.
But as soon as they reached out to the handles, he pulled them back and leaned forward over the counter. "You aren't really brothers, are you, lads?" he asked in a conversational tone.
Crowley and Halt exchanged glances. Silence hung for a few tense seconds.
"It's that nose of his, isn't it?" Halt deadpanned.
"Aye, his nose," the innkeeper nodded with a grin, releasing the mugs. "If my brother tried to order me milk I'd have broken his in no time!"
Halt gave Crowley a meaningful look. Get your lies together, it seemed to say, or I'll help along.
This time, the innkeeper laughed out loud.
Ices broken, it was Crowley's turn to lean close. "We met on the road, but it's best not to travel alone these days, so we hear."
"Wise choice. These are turbulent times."
But before he could elaborate, turbulent times decided to make a direct appearance. "Barkeep!" a man at the other end of the counter shouted, slamming his fist on the wood.
The old man gave them an apologetic smile and rushed to serve the rowdy patron. He wasn't moving as quickly as in his long bygone youth, and that was too slow for the man. "Where's that cursed barkeep!" he shouted again. Whispers arose in the back of the room.
"Manne—" Crowley began loudly, until Halt's hand clamped over his mouth.
"You mind yours, brother," he said quietly. Crowley glared at him. He was about to cross manners for good and bite on that hand when Halt at last pulled back.
By then the rowdy men were being served and the tavern appeared peaceful again. But appearances could be deceptive, and this one was: whoever those men were, the patrons in the back were afraid of them. Crowley realised this must have been what had unsettled him earlier.
He took a deep breath. He had to control his temper today. They'd come to hear some rumours, not make new ones. Even if the group at the other end of the counter was determined to make self-control difficult.
"Aren't you even gonna clear that mug?! It's dirty!" called the man whose shirt held more dirt and old ale than the entirety of the tavern. He was the one who'd called for the innkeeper earlier, the biggest and nastiest of the group. "I ain't paying for that!"
Crowley's hand clenched into a fist, his pulse hammering in his head.
"Crowley," Halt warned, but Crowley's temper was too hot to listen.
"They're terrorising him! Do you think I will stand back and watch? I am a King's Ranger—!"
"Are you?" Halt asked calmly. Instantly Crowley deflated, his eyes drifting down to the counter. Halt had a point. Crowley was, although (hopefully) temporarily, not a King's Ranger. He was a fugitive who certainly shouldn't pick fights in traverns during undercover scouting missions.
"I'm glad you understand," Halt muttered and turned back to his ale. Crowley looked into his own mug dejectedly. It felt like a betrayal, of both the amiable innkeeper and his personal ideals.
The people of Araluen deserved better than this.
"Sir, you already owe me for a round," the innkeeper protested meekly.
"I owe you?" the man rose from his seat, towering over the old man, who took a step back. "You heard him, boys? He thinks we're gonna pay for this piss in dirty mugs?!"
Crowley froze. His body tensed, poised to spring—
Halt's hand clamped on his shoulder like a vise, and like a vise it held.
Crowley snapped around, met his eyes. He didn't know what he expected to see there, but certainly not the ice-cold fury that he found, a mirror to his own burning rage.
But Halt's restraining hold on Crowley's shoulder remained firm and sure. "Control yourself," he whispered. "If you get caught here, this will continue to happen everywhere."
"It is happening here. Now," Crowley grit out, watching the cowed innkeeper pour the thugs more ale. Gone was his happy demeanour; the poor man was shaking, on the verge of spilling the drink.
But Halt was all coldblooded reason. "You can't concern yourself with individuals when the whole kingdom is at stake."
Crowley heard his voice as if from a distance, raw with guilt and fury. "What is the kingdom for if not its people?"
Slowly, Halt's hold on his shoulder turned from prohibitive to sympathetic. He then opened his other fist and showed Crowley its contents. Three gold coins from his personal hoard lay there, doubtless more than the innkeeper saw in a month. "There are other ways to help," he said simply. Softly. Apologetically.
And Crowley might have listened, might have bought this cold, cold reason and ransomed his conscience with gold, had one of the rowdy men not done the unthinkable.
Neither Ranger noticed what had provoked him. Little did it matter. It was the result, the outrageous result of a fist connecting with the elderly innkeeper's forced smile that they saw, and it was enough.
It was too much.
Crowley was prepared to feel that restraining touch of Halt's hand again. He was prepared to shake it off.
But it never came, the hand in question too busy flying towards the burly man's red face.
Then it landed, the punch reinforced by all of Halt's body mass and impetus, and hell broke loose.
Crowley grinned, downed his ale in one gulp and jumped into the fray.
Halt and Crowley returned to the rebel Ranger's camp well past sundown.
Berrigan and Pritchard momentarily forgot the topic of their discussion as the pair stumbled into the camp, dragging their sacks with supplies over the ground.
The young Rangers were leaning against each other as if the other was the only thing keeping each upright. Crowley tried to smile reassuringly, waving away everyone's looks of concern, while Halt kept glowering at the ground as if it owed him some answers and a fair sum of money besides.
Berrigan whistled under his breath. "Wonder what happened," he muttered to Pritchard.
Pritchard glanced at him sideways and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Crowley ran into a tree, Halt fell off the stairs, and it's none of your business."
"What?"
"Go on, ask them." Pritchard crossed his arms on his chest. "I bet my knives you're not getting other answers."