The Ruins of Gorlan ra-1

by John Flanagan

  The pricking sensation became a little more pronounced and, as he tried to look down, Alda gave a gasp of fear. Halt's larger knife, razor edged and needle pointed, was just under his chin, pressing lightly into the soft flesh of his throat. "Don't ever talk to me like that again, boy," the Ranger said, so softly that Alda had to strain to hear the words. "And don't ever lay a hand on my apprentice again. Understand?" Alda, all his arrogance gone, his heart pounding in terror, could say nothing. The knife pricked a little harder against his throat and he felt a warm trickle of blood sliding down under his collar. Halt's eyes blazed suddenly, like the coals of a fire in a sudden draft.

  "Understand?" he repeated, and Alda croaked a reply. "Yes… sir."

  Halt stepped back, re-sheathing the knife in one fluid movement. Alda sank to the ground, massaging his injured ankle. He was sure there was damage to the tendons. Ignoring him, Halt turned to face the other two second-year apprentices. Instinctively, they had moved closer together and were watching him fearfully, uncertain as to what he was going to do next. Halt pointed to Bryn. "You," he said, his words edged with contempt, "pick up your cane.

  Fearfully, Bryn moved to where his cane lay on the ground, Halt's arrow still embedded halfway along its length. Without taking his eyes off the Ranger, fearing some trick, he stooped at the knees, his hand scrabbling awkwardly until it touched the cane. Then he stood again, holding it uncertainly in his left hand.

  "Now give me back my arrow," the Ranger ordered, and the tall, swarthy boy struggled to remove the arrow, stepping close enough to hand it to Halt, tensed in every muscle as he waited for some unexpected move from the Ranger. Halt, however, merely took the arrow and replaced it in his quiver. Bryn stepped hurriedly back out of reach. Halt gave a small, contemptuous laugh. Then he turned to Horace.

  "I take it these are the three who gave you those bruises?" he asked. Horace said nothing for a moment, then realized that his continued silence was ridiculous. There was no reason why he should shield the three bullies any further. There never had been a reason." Yes, sir," he said decisively. Halt nodded, rubbing his chin. "I rather thought so," he said. "Well then, I've heard rumors that you're pretty good with a sword. How about a practice bout with this hero in front of me?"

  A slow grin spread over Horace's face as he understood what the Ranger was suggesting. He started forward. "I think I'd like that. " Bryn backed away a pace. "Just a moment!" he cried. "You can't expect me to…"

  He got no further. The Ranger's eyes glittered with that dangerous light once more and he took a half step forward, his hand dropping to the hilt of the saxe knife again.

  "You've got a cane. I suggest you use it. Now get on with it," he ordered, his voice very low and dangerous.

  Realizing he was trapped, Bryn turned to face Horace. Now that it was a matter of one-on-one, he felt far less confident about dealing with the younger boy. Everyone had heard of Horace's almost uncanny natural swordsmanship.

  Deciding that attack might be the best defense, Bryn stepped forward and aimed an overhead slash at Horace. Horace parried it easily. He parried Bryn's next two strokes with equal ease. Then, as he blocked Bryn's fourth stroke, he flicked his wooden blade down the length of the other boy's cane in the instant before the two weapons disengaged. There was no crosspiece to protect Bryn's hand from the movement and the hardwood drill sword slammed painfully into his fingers. With a cry of agony, he dropped the heavy stick, leaping back and wringing his injured hand painfully under his arm. Horace stood, ready to resume. "I didn't hear anybody call stop," Halt said mildly. "But… he's disarmed me!" Bryn whined.

  Halt smiled at him. "So he has. But I'm sure he'll let you pick up your cane and start again. Go ahead." Bryn looked from Halt to Horace and back again. He saw no pity in either face. "I don't want to," he said in a very small voice. Horace found it hard to reconcile this cringing figure with the sneering bully who had been making his life hell for the past few months. Halt appeared to consider Bryn's statement. "We'll note your protest," he said cheerfully. "Now continue, please." Bryn's hand throbbed painfully. But even worse than the pain was the fear of what was to come, the certainty that Horace would punish him without mercy. He bent down and reached fearfully for the cane, his eyes fixed on Horace. The younger boy waited patiently until Bryn was ready, then made a sudden feint forward.

  Bryn yelped in fear and threw the cane aside. Horace shook his head in disgust. "Who's the baby now?" he asked. Bryn wouldn't meet his gaze. He shrank away, his eyes cast down. "If he's going to be a baby," Halt suggested, "I suppose you'll just have to paddle him." A grin spread over Horace's face. He sprang forward and grabbed Bryn by the scruff of his neck, spinning him around. Then he proceeded to whack the older boy's backside with the flat of the drill sword, over and over again, following him around the clearing as Bryn tried to pull away from the remorseless punishment. Bryn howled and hopped and sobbed but Horace's grip was firm on his collar and there was no escape. Finally, when Horace felt he had repaid all the bullying, the insults and the pain that he had suffered, he let go.

  Bryn staggered away and dropped to his hands and knees, sobbing with pain and fear.

  Jerome had watched the proceedings in horror, knowing his turn was coming. He began to edge away, hoping to escape while the Ranger's attention was distracted. "Take one more step and I'll put an arrow through you." Will tried to model his voice on the quiet, threatening tone Halt had used. He had retrieved several of his arrows from the nearest target and now he had one of them ready, laid on the bowstring. Halt glanced around approvingly. "Good idea," he said. "Aim for the left calf. It's a very painful wound." He glanced over to where Bryn lay, sobbing, on the ground at Horace's feet. "I think he's had enough," he said. Then he jerked a thumb at Jerome.

  "Your turn," he said briefly. Horace retrieved the cane that Bryn had dropped and moved toward Jerome, holding it out to him. Jerome backed away. "No!" Jerome yelled, wide-eyed. "It's not fair! He…"

  "Well, of course it's not fair."

  Halt agreed in a reasonable tone. "I gather you think three against one is fair. Now get on with it." Will had often heard the saying that a cornered rat will eventually show fight. Jerome proved it now. He went onto the attack and to his own surprise, Horace gave ground before the rain of blows aimed at him. The bully's confidence began to grow as he advanced. He failed to notice that Horace was blocking every stroke with consummate ease, almost with contempt. Jerome's best strokes never even looked like they were breaking through Horace's defense. The second-year apprentice might as well have been hitting a stone wall.

  Then, Horace stopped retreating. He stood fast, blocking Jerome's latest stroke with an iron wrist. They stood chest to chest for a few seconds, and then Horace began to push Jerome back. His left hand gripped Jerome's right wrist, keeping their weapons locked together. Jerome's feet skidded on the snow as Horace forced him backward, farther and farther. Then he gave a final heave and sent Jerome sprawling on the ground.

  Jerome had seen what happened to Bryn. He knew that surrender wasn't an option. He scrambled to his feet and defended himself desperately as Horace began his own attack. Jerome was driven back by a whirlwind of forehands, backhands, side and overhead cuts. He managed to block some of the strokes, but the blistering speed of Horace's attack defeated him. Blows rained on his shins, elbows and shoulders almost at will. Horace seemed to concentrate on the bony spots that would hurt most. Occasionally, he used the rounded point of the sword to thrust into Jerome's ribs just hard enough to bruise, without breaking bones.

  Finally, Jerome had had enough. He wheeled away from the onslaught, dropped the cane and fell to the ground, hands clasped protectively over his head. His backside was raised invitingly in the air and Horace paused and looked a question at Halt, The Ranger made a little gesture toward Jerome. "Why not?" he said. "An opportunity like that doesn't come every day." But even he winced at the thundering kick in the backside that Horace delivered. Jerome, nose down in the wet snow, ski
dded at least a meter from the force of it.

  Halt retrieved the cane that Jerome had dropped. He studied it for a moment, testing its weight and balance. "Really not much of a weapon," he said. "You have to wonder why they chose it." Then he tossed the cane to Alda. "Get busy," he ordered.

  The blond boy, still crouched, nursing his injured ankle, looked at the cane in disbelief. Blood streamed down his face from his shattered nose. He'd never be quite so good looking again, Will thought. "But… but… I'm injured!" he protested, hobbling awkwardly to his feet. He couldn't believe that Halt would require him to go through the punishment he'd just witnessed.

  Halt paused, studying him as if that fact hadn't occurred to him. For a moment, a ray of hope shone in Alda's mind. "So you are," the Ranger said. "So you are. " He looked a little disappointed, and Alda began to believe that Halt's sense of fair play would spare him the sort of punishment that had been handed out to his friends. Then the Ranger's face cleared.

  "But just a minute," he said, "so is Horace. Isn't that right, Will?" Will grinned. "Definitely, Halt," he said, and Alda's brief hope vanished without a trace.

  Halt now turned to Horace, asking with mock concern, "Are you sure you're not too badly injured to continue, Horace?" Horace smiled. It was a smile that never reached his eyes. "Oh, I think I can manage," he said. "Well, that's settled then!" Halt said cheerfully. "Let's continue, shall we?" And Alda knew there was to be no escape for him either. He faced up to Horace and the final duel began.

  Alda was the best swordsman of the three bullies, and at least he gave Horace some competition for a few minutes. But as they felt each other out with stroke and counterstroke, thrust and parry, he quickly realized that Horace was his master. His only chance, he felt, was to try something unexpected.

  He disengaged, then changed his grip on the cane, holding it in both hands like a quarterstaff and launching a series of rapid left and right hooking blows with it.

  For a second, Horace was caught by surprise and he fell back. But he recovered with catlike speed and aimed an overhead blow at Alda. The second-year student attempted the standard quarterstaff parry, holding the staff at either end, to block the sword stroke with the middle section. In theory, it was the right tactic. In practice, the hardened hickory drill sword simply sheared through the cane, leaving Alda holding two useless, shortened sticks. Totally unnerved, he let them drop and stood defenseless before Horace.

  Horace looked at his long-time tormentor, then at the sword in his hand. "I don't need this," he muttered, and let the sword drop.

  The right-hand punch that he threw traveled no more than twenty centimeters to the point of Alda's jaw. But it had his shoulder and body weight and months of suffering and loneliness behind it – the loneliness that only a victim of bullying can know.

  Will's eyes widened slightly as Alda came off his feet and hurtled backward, to come crashing down in the cold snow beside his two friends. He thought about the times in the past when he had fought with Horace. If he'd known the other boy was capable of throwing a punch like that, he never would have done so.

  Alda didn't move. Odds were, he wouldn't move for some time, Will thought. Horace stepped back, shaking his bruised knuckles and heaving a sigh of satisfaction.

  "You have no idea how good that felt," he said. "Thank you, Ranger."

  Halt nodded acknowledgment. " Thank you for taking a hand when they attacked Will. And by the way, my friends call me Halt."

  Chapter 23

  IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING HIS FINAL ENCOUNTER WITH THE three bullies, Horace noticed a definite change in life at the Battleschool.

  The most important factor in the change was that Alda, Bryn and Jerome were all expelled from the school – and from the castle and its neighboring village. Sir Rodney had been suspicious for some time that there had been a problem among the ranks of his junior students. A quiet visit from Halt alerted him as to where it lay and the resultant investigation soon brought to light the full story of the way Horace had been victimized. Sir Rodney's judgment was swift and uncompromising. The three second-year students were given a half day to prepare and pack. They were supplied with a small amount of money and a week's supplies and were transported to the fief's boundaries, where they were told, in no uncertain terms, not to return.

  Once they were gone, Horace's lot improved considerably. The daily routine of the Battleschool was still as harsh and challenging as ever. But without the added burden that Alda, Bryn and Jerome had laid upon him, Horace found he could easily cope with the drills, the discipline and the studies. He rapidly began to achieve the potential that Sir Rodney had seen in him. In addition, his roommates, without the fear of incurring the bullies' vengeance, began to be more welcoming and friendly.

  In short, Horace felt that things were definitely looking up. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to thank Halt properly for the improvement in his life. After the events in the meadow, Horace had been placed in the infirmary for several days while his bruises and contusions were attended to. By the time he was released, he found that Halt and Will had already left for the Rangers' Gathering.

  "Are we nearly there?" Will asked, for perhaps the tenth time that morning.

  Halt gave vent to a small sigh of exasperation. Other than that, he made no reply. They had been on the road now for three days and it seemed to Will that they must be close to the Gathering Ground. Several times in the past hour, he had noticed an unfamiliar scent on the air. He mentioned it to Halt, who said briefly, "It's salt. We're getting close to the sea," then refused to elaborate any further. Will glanced sidelong at his teacher, hoping that perhaps Halt might deign to share a little more information with him, but the Ranger's keen eyes were scanning the ground in front of them. From time to time, Will noticed, he looked up into the trees that flanked the road. "Are you looking for something?" Will asked, and Halt turned in his saddle."Finally, a useful question," he said. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. The Chief Ranger will have sentries out around the Gathering Ground. I always like to try to fool them as I'm approaching."

  "Why?" asked Will, and Halt allowed himself a tight little grin.

  "It keeps them on their toes," he explained. "They'll try to slip behind us and follow us in, just so they can say they've ambushed me. It's a silly game they like to play."

  "Why is it silly?" asked Will. It sounded exactly like the sort of skill exercises that he and Halt practiced regularly. The grizzled Ranger turned in his saddle and fixed Will with an unblinking stare.

  "Because they never succeed," he said. "And this year they'll be trying even harder because they know I'm bringing an apprentice. They'll want to see how good you are."

  "Is this part of the testing?" Will asked, and Halt nodded. "It's the start of it. Do you remember what I told you last night?" Will nodded. For the past two nights, around the campfire, Halt's soft voice had given Will advice and instructions on how to conduct himself at the Gathering. Last night, they'd devised tactics for use in case of an ambush just the sort of thing that Halt had mentioned now. "When will we…" he began, but suddenly Halt was alert. He held up a warning finger for silence and Will stopped speaking instantly. The Ranger's head was turned slightly to listen. The two horses continued without hesitation. "Hear it?" Halt asked.

  Will craned his head too. He thought that, just maybe, he could hear soft hoofbeats behind them. But he wasn't sure. The gait of their own horses masked any real sound from the trail behind. If there was someone there, his horse was moving in step with their own. "Change gait," Halt whispered. "On three. One, two, three." Simultaneously, they both nudged their left toes into the horses' shoulders. It was just one of many signals to which Tug and Abelard were trained to respond.

  Instantly, both horses hesitated in their stride. They seemed to skip a pace, then continued in their even gait.

  But the hesitation had changed the pattern of their hoofbeats, and for an instant, Will could hear another set of horse's hooves behind them, like a sligh
tly delayed echo. Then the other horse changed gait as well to match their own and the sound was gone. "Ranger horse," Halt said softly. "It'll be Gilan, for sure."

  "How can you tell?" Will asked.

  "Only a Ranger horse could change his pace as quickly as that. And it'll be Gilan because it's always Gilan. He loves trying to catch me out."

  "Why?" asked Will, and Halt looked sternly at him. "Because he was my last apprentice," he explained. "And for some reason, former apprentices just love to catch their former masters with their breeches down." He looked accusingly at his current apprentice. Will was about to protest that he would never behave in such a fashion after he graduated, then realized that he probably would, and at the very first opportunity. The protest died unspoken.

  Halt signaled for silence, and scanned the trail ahead of them. Then he pointed. "That's the spot there," he said. "Ready?" There was a large tree close to the side of the trail, with branches hanging out just above head height. Will studied it for a moment, then nodded. Tug and Abelard continued their even pacing toward the tree. As they came closer, Will kicked his feet from the stirrups and rose to stand, crouching, on Tug's back. The horse didn't vary his pace as his master shifted position.

  As they passed under the branches, Will reached up and seized the lowest one, swinging himself up onto it. The instant his weight left Tugs back, the little horse began to pace more vigorously, forcing his hooves into the ground with each step so that there would be no sign to a tracker behind them that his load had suddenly lightened.