The Royal Ranger: The Missing Prince

by John F. Flanagan

  Duncan cleared his throat to interrupt. He wasn’t sure he liked the way this conversation was going. The Rangers were a very special resource. They had been founded to keep the peace in Araluen and to serve the Araluen King’s needs. They were not intended to be hired out to other countries.

  “One point I would like to make,” he said. “The Rangers are tasked with serving the King. They’re known as King’s Rangers, after all.”

  Louis smiled unctuously. “And my brother is a king.”

  Duncan’s brows drew together. Sometimes Gallicans could be altogether too glib, he thought. “He’s not their king,” he said brusquely.

  Philippe responded with a typically Gallic shrug of the shoulders. “That’s true, of course. But there is a brotherhood among kings, surely? And after all, a threat to one royal family is a threat to all. If it goes unchecked in Gallica, it could encourage others here as well.”

  There was a certain amount of truth in what he was saying, but Duncan wasn’t totally convinced. Events in Gallica had no real bearing on the situation in Araluen. Yet Duncan was realistic enough to know that, while his kingdom was at peace and relatively stable, there were always undercurrents of resentment and intrigue in any realm.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed grudgingly. He let his gaze travel around the room, looking for some reaction from Anthony and the others. Their expressions told him they were not convinced one way or the other. “I’ll need to confer with my advisers,” he told the Gallican King. “I’ll give you my decision tonight.”

  Philippe bowed gracefully, despite his seated position.

  “That’s all I can ask,” he said smoothly.

  * * *

  • • •

  After Philippe and his brother had returned to their quarters, Duncan faced his three counselors.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked. They exchanged glances. None of them seemed willing to speak first. He prompted his son-in-law. “Horace?”

  The tall warrior shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not sure it’s any of our business,” he said eventually. “Much as I dislike the idea of anyone holding a hostage and giving out demands for his return, it seems to me it’s a Gallican matter—one they should resolve themselves. Morally, I disapprove of Lassigny’s actions. But practically, I’m not sure we should get involved. And it’s not as if we owe Philippe any favors.”

  “Quite so,” Duncan agreed. “And Philippe has never been a particularly friendly neighbor, has he? This situation could be largely his own doing.”

  “What makes you say that, my lord?” Gilan asked.

  The King shrugged and gestured to his chamberlain. “You tell them, Anthony.”

  Lord Anthony cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts before speaking. While the Ranger Corps was responsible for keeping the King informed of potential threats or trouble within Araluen itself, Anthony maintained a network of secret agents on the continental landmass—in Gallica, Teutlandt and Iberion particularly. They reported to him on a regular basis, keeping him up to date with events and political affairs that might impact Araluen.

  “He’s a weak king,” Anthony said eventually. “He’s never been one to assert his authority over his barons. He rules by keeping them at each other’s throats and he is known to accept bribes for royal favors. Consequently, Gallica has been an unstable kingdom for years, riddled with factions and corruption. This current situation is probably largely due to his own weakness and indecisiveness. Lassigny has seen an opportunity and has seized it.”

  “What do we know about Lassigny?” Horace asked.

  “He could be a problem,” Anthony told him. “He’s aggressive and ambitious and quite obviously not too concerned about how he achieves his ends. He’s got a strong garrison at Falaise, and a large militia to draw on. And, as King Philippe told us, he’s got the support of some of the other barons.”

  “Just how ambitious do you think he is?” Duncan asked.

  Anthony paused thoughtfully as he considered the question. “I would guess he wants more than control of the two provinces. From what I’ve heard of him, I’d say that’s a means to an end.”

  “What end?” Duncan asked, although he felt he knew the answer already.

  “In my opinion, he wants to take the throne. He has the power and support of the other barons—doubtless bought with promises of reward if he’s successful. He’s taking a big risk holding the King’s son hostage. He has to be looking for more than just control of another province.”

  “What about Philippe’s claim that an attack on one royal family is an attack on all?” Horace asked.

  Anthony spread his hands, shaking his head. “He may well see it that way,” he replied. “He tends to believe that he is King by some divine right. You, sir,” he said, nodding toward Duncan, “hold your position and rank due to your own merits. The people are loyal to you because they respect you.”

  Duncan allowed himself the faintest smile. “Most of them, perhaps,” he said. “But I tend to agree. Rebellion in Gallica won’t necessarily lead to the same thing happening here.” He turned to Gilan. “What do you think of sending a Ranger to help?”

  The Commandant screwed up his face in an expression of distaste. “I don’t like it,” he said. “The Corps was founded to operate mainly inside Araluen—and for your benefit, sir,” he said. “I’m not too comfortable with outsiders getting to know more and more about us. We’ve tried to maintain a low profile over the years and I don’t like to see that slip away.”

  Duncan nodded. “I tend to agree. I don’t like the idea of sending a Ranger to help Philippe. It’s a little too close to treating the Corps as mercenaries for hire.”

  “We’ve used Rangers in the past to help the Skandians—and the Arridans,” Anthony pointed out.

  “They’re friends and allies,” Duncan replied immediately. “We have treaties with them and they give back as much as they get. Philippe, on the other hand, has generally treated us with disdain. Until now, when he needs our help.”

  “There is something else to consider,” Anthony said. “It’s probably in our interest to make sure Philippe retains his throne.” He paused and Duncan made a gesture for him to continue with the thought. “Philippe is a weak king and Gallica is divided and fragmented. Lassigny, on the other hand, would be a strong king. He’d unite the barons and he’d create stability within Gallica.”

  “Surely that’s to the good?” Horace asked.

  But Anthony shook his head. “He’s ambitious and unscrupulous,” he said. “If he gained power, he might look to expand his borders. He might have to, in fact, if he were to repay the other barons who supported him in usurping the throne.”

  “You’re saying he could be a threat to Araluen?” Duncan asked.

  Anthony nodded slowly. “Certainly more of a threat than Philippe poses.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. At length, Duncan broke it.

  “Then it might be in our interests to do as Philippe is asking.”

  4

  Barton turned in shock to stare at his bearskin cap, now pinned to the trunk of the tree he’d been concealed behind. He looked back at the farmer, who returned his gaze, totally unconcerned and not in the least fearful. This sort of behavior in an intended victim was totally new to Barton, and his brain, never the brightest, struggled to make sense of it all.

  “Oh, what a shame,” the farmer said sympathetically. “Your nice cap has a new hole in it.”

  Still trying to make sense of what had happened, Barton looked back down the road, in the direction from which the farmer—and the arrow—had come. Sure enough, there was someone there—a cloaked and hooded person sitting astride a small shaggy horse. The newcomer was about forty meters away and was holding a bow ready, an arrow nocked on the string. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed this second person before.

  �
�Jem! Walt!” he yelled. “Lend a hand here!”

  His two companions burst from the cover of the bush that had been concealing them and started back across the road, brandishing their weapons.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t—” the farmer began.

  But before he could finish the sentence, Jem was down, rolling in agony on the ground and clutching at the arrow that had transfixed his left calf. Walter Scar looked down at his fallen comrade and stopped in mid-stride, not sure what he should do. The question was settled in the next moment as a rock hissed through the air at high speed and slammed into his head. Luckily, he was wearing a thick felt cap, otherwise his skull might have been shattered. Even so, the impact was sufficient to send him reeling. Then his knees buckled and he crashed to the road, unconscious.

  Donald, on the opposite side of the road, showed more sense. Seeing his two comrades fall in quick succession, he took to his heels and ran.

  For the first time, Barton’s sense of disbelief was replaced by a sudden stab of fear. This was looking decidedly dangerous. Even as he had the thought, the farmer, showing more agility than one might expect of an old man, vaulted down from the cart and moved toward him.

  “Let’s have that club,” he said, pointing at the heavy cudgel.

  Now anger replaced the fear and Barton stepped toward the smaller man, taking the club back for a wide, swinging strike.

  “I’ll let you have it all right!” he said, and launched a killing blow.

  Which never landed. The farmer moved with deceptive speed and closed the distance between them, moving inside the arc of the whistling cudgel. With his left arm, he seized Barton’s right wrist and jerked it forward, deflecting the heavy club. At the same time, and in one coordinated movement, he stepped in closer, crouched and rammed his behind into the bandit’s midsection. The momentum of Barton’s attempted blow carried the bandit forward and off balance as the farmer’s right hand joined his left on Barton’s wrist. He pulled the unbalanced attacker farther forward, then lifted with his bent knees so that Barton’s feet left the ground and he felt himself sailing over the farmer’s shoulder.

  Barton landed with a heavy thud, flat on his back. The breath in his lungs was driven from him with a loud WHOOF. His head hit the turf and for a moment he was stunned, bright lights dancing before his eyes. When he recovered, he found himself looking along the blade of a very sharp saxe knife, which pricked the soft skin of his throat.

  “It hasn’t been a good day for you so far, has it?” the farmer said, smiling.

  Barton went to shake his head to clear it, remembered the saxe and decided not to. He stared at the face leaning down above him. The man was bearded and his hair and beard were shot with gray. But he was nowhere near as old as he had appeared to be from a distance. Nor was he hunched over anymore. He was a smallish man, considerably shorter than Barton’s hulking frame. But his shoulders were broad and he appeared well muscled.

  Barton heard the hoofbeats of an approaching horse, then heard the creak of leather as the rider swung down from the saddle.

  “Are you all right, Will?”

  It was a girl’s voice, Barton registered with some surprise. He realized that it must have been she who had shot Jem and then, somehow, knocked Walt senseless. She came into his field of vision now, leaning over him beside the bearded man to study their captive.

  “This is Barton Bearkiller,” the farmer said. “Although Barton Blowhard might be a more appropriate name. Barton Bearkiller the Blowhard, meet my apprentice, Maddie Regale.”

  “You’re a girl . . .” Barton said, even more confused than before.

  The girl looked at her older companion, and said mockingly, “He’s quick on the uptake, isn’t he?”

  The bearded man nodded in agreement. “Not much gets past him.”

  Barton frowned, trying to make sense of it all. The day had started so well, he thought. And now it had all fallen to pieces and he didn’t really understand why or how it had happened.

  “Who are you?” he said finally.

  The farmer inclined his head in greeting. “I’m Will Treaty,” he said. “We’re King’s Rangers, and you’re under arrest.”

  Barton’s spirits dropped to a new low as he realized that he’d run afoul of a pair of Rangers.

  Suddenly, it all made sense. Rangers were definitely not people to tangle with. It was said, and Barton didn’t disbelieve it, that they had magical powers. They could change their shape as they wished, appear or disappear at will and shoot with uncanny accuracy.

  He groaned, then said, in a groveling tone, “Let me go, Ranger Treaty. Please. I’m just a poor honest man trying to make his way in the world.”

  Will Treaty let out a short bark of laughter. He straightened up, moving the saxe knife away from Barton’s throat. Barton made a move to rise, but a warning glance from the Ranger stopped him.

  “I’ll accept poor,” he said, “but you’re anything but honest. You and your friends have been robbing farmers on this road for the past month.” He paused as the girl touched his arm. “What is it?”

  “Speaking of his friends, wasn’t there a fourth one?”

  Will looked around. Donald had acted with more intelligence than his comrades. He was a good hundred and fifty meters away and disappearing from view over a rise in the ground.

  “There he goes,” Will said. “I’m sure our friend here can tell us where we’ll find him. In the meantime, we’ll secure this lot.” He looked down at Barton once more. “You: over on your belly, hands behind your back.”

  His hand had dropped to the hilt of his saxe once more and Barton wasted no time in complying. The girl dropped to one knee beside him and Barton felt two leather loops slip over his thumbs. Then they were pulled tight and he was securely trussed.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” she told him, although, lying on his stomach with his hands fastened behind him, he would be unable to regain his feet in a hurry. The Rangers strode to the other two bandits. Jem was sitting up, clutching his leg where the arrow had passed through the muscle of his calf, protruding on the other side. The wound was bleeding, but the presence of the arrow stemmed most of the flow. Jem was moaning in agony, rocking back and forth.

  “If you think it hurts now, wait till we take that arrow out,” Will told him unsympathetically. The robber band hadn’t just taken money from defenseless farmers over the past month. They’d also been responsible for half a dozen severe beatings, leaving their victims bruised and bleeding. Most of their victims had been elderly men. All of them had been outnumbered four to one, and Will had no sympathy for the thugs who had carried out the beatings.

  He knelt behind Jem and roughly dragged his hands behind his back, securing them with another pair of thumb cuffs. Maddie did the same for Walt, who was still dazed and groggy and offered no resistance.

  “You used your sling on him?” Will asked.

  Maddie nodded. “I assumed you wanted him alive, and I didn’t have a clear shot at his legs.”

  Will sniffed disdainfully. “Admit it, you were just showing off.” He stooped to peer more closely at Walt, raising the felt cap to study the bruise on the side of his head. “You threw a rock, did you?”

  Normally, Maddie used specially cast lead shot from her sling, but she also carried a supply of smooth river rocks.

  “I thought a lead shot might split his skull,” she said. “A rock was safer.”

  Will grinned. “I doubt he’d agree with you.”

  Walt gazed owlishly at them, following the sound of their voices. His eyes were still unfocused and bleary.

  Will slipped his hands under the bandit’s arms and hoisted him upright. “Come on. Let’s have you on your feet.”

  Walt stood, swaying uncertainly. Will waited until he was sure the dazed man wasn’t about to fall to the ground again, then heaved Jem to his feet as well. He studied Jem, looking cr
itically at the arrow that had gone through his calf. It protruded some thirty centimeters from the inside of the muscle, which would make it almost impossible for Jem to walk—the shaft would strike against his other leg with every step.

  “That’ll have to come out,” he said.

  Jem whimpered in anticipation of the pain. “Can’t you just leave me here while you fetch a healer?” he pleaded. “I swear I won’t go anywhere.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” Will said cheerfully. “But we need to get that arrow out and clean and bandage the wound.”

  “Do you have to break it?” Maddie asked. “That’s a good shaft.”

  Will shook his head at her lack of sympathy. “Spare a thought for our poor friend here,” he said. “It’ll be less painful if we break it off. Otherwise I’d have to pull the whole thing through.”

  With the barbed head on the arrow, there was no way they could remove it by pulling it back the way it had come. The easiest and quickest way was to break the shaft of the arrow close to the exit wound, then pull it back. Maddie gave Jem a disgruntled look.

  “Who cares about less painful?” she said. “That’s a good shaft.”

  Will made a tut-tutting noise and shook his head as he looked at Jem. “Young people can be so cruel,” he said. Then he bent and quickly snapped off the shaft, pulling it back through the wound in the same motion. Jem blanched with the sudden pain and his leg nearly gave way. Will steadied him, then whipped a bandage around the wound, which had begun to ooze blood when the arrow was removed. Will tightened the bandage and tied it off, then stood, watching Jem carefully. The bandit hobbled a pace or two. It was obviously painful for him to put weight on the leg. Will turned him around and removed the thumb cuffs.

  “Don’t think we’ll need these.” He beckoned Barton to come closer. “You can help him walk,” he told the bandit leader. Then, looking again at Jem, he said, “Put your arm around the bear-killer’s shoulders.”