The Lost Stories

by John Flanagan

  “Then it was as well you didn’t kill him,” he said.

  “I thought so, my lord.”

  “Still, even a leg wound seems a severe punishment for simply annoying an innkeeper and a serving girl.”

  Crowley cleared his throat and interrupted. “Excuse me, my lord. The men’s treatment of the innkeeper and his girl was insufferable. But the fact that they laid hands on and threatened a King’s officer is a far more serious matter.”

  “They offended your dignity, did they, Ranger?” Morgarath sneered.

  Crowley shook his head. “It’s not a personal matter with me, sir. They showed disrespect to the uniform and the Corps and they threatened a superior officer.”

  “And you expect me to punish them, is that it?”

  Crowley shrugged.“I thought it best to report the matter to you for action, sir. They’re your men, after all, so it’s better to deal with it unofficially, as it were. Otherwise I’d have to report it to Ranger headquarters.”

  Morgarath’s brows lowered. That was the problem, of course. He had no idea how this Crowley was regarded by his superiors. The idiots who ran the Ranger Corps these days were an arrogant bunch. Even though they were technically aligned with Morgarath and the other members of the Royal Council, they tended to stand on their dignity if their pride was offended. If they felt their organization had been treated with disrespect, they could demand all sorts of retribution. And ineffectual as they might be as fighting men, they had a lot of influence. They belonged to some of the more important families in the Kingdom and Morgarath wasn’t yet in a strong enough position to alienate them. He forced a smile.

  “I appreciate your discretion, Ranger Crowley. As you say, it’s better to keep these matters among ourselves. I’ll have them flogged.”

  Crowley was startled by the words. “No need for that, sir! I think demotion and a few months of unpleasant duties would be enough.”

  “You’re too softhearted, Ranger. I think a flogging is merited. Fifty lashes at least. After all, they offended the Ranger Corps, and we can’t have that. What do you think, Halt Arratay?”

  Halt had to force himself not to smile at Morgarath’s unwitting use of the ridiculous repetitive name. He sensed that the Baron, by proposing such a cruel punishment, was attempting to keep Crowley off balance and to undermine his resolve. He was playing a sadistic mind game. Crowley was a decent man and the thought that he had caused three men to have their flesh torn from their backs would sicken him. Halt, however, felt no such qualms.

  “Flog them by all means, my lord. A good flogging never hurt anyone—certainly not the flogger, anyway.”

  Crowley glanced quickly at him. Halt gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Crowley wasn’t sure what Halt was doing, but elected to follow his lead. “As you see fit, my lord,” he said.

  Morgarath considered the two men before him in silence for some time. Then he stroked his chin slowly.

  “Quite so. As I see fit. Very well. You can rest assured that I will see to their punishment—and it will be appropriate to the crime they committed. That’s all. Get out of here.”

  He made a shooing gesture with one languid hand and turned his gaze from them, picking up the dagger and examining the design work on its hilt once more. Halt and Crowley turned and walked quickly away. For a moment, Crowley was inclined to back away from the dais, then he took his lead from Halt and turned smartly, putting his back to the tall black-clad figure on the throne. As they walked away in step, Morgarath abandoned his feigned interest in the dagger and stared after them, his gaze unblinking. The Ranger was predictable, he thought—one of the last of a rapidly disappearing kind. He was of little interest to Morgarath.

  The Hibernian was a different matter. He was bold, resourceful and difficult to cow. Surrounded by yes-men and toadies as he was, Morgarath had need of a few strong-willed lieutenants. The Hibernian could be a useful person to have on his side.

  Crowley and Halt spent the night at Castle Gorlan, eating in the main hall with the castle senior staff and knights from the Battleschool. For the most part, the locals ignored them. Morgarath chose to eat in his own quarters and made no appearance.

  They were assigned comfortable guest chambers in one of the towers. The rooms were big, airy and well furnished. After he had blown out his candle, Halt lay, eyes open, thinking over events of the day. Long after midnight, he heard a light rap at the door. He slipped out of bed. His belt with the two scabbards was looped over the headboard beside his pillow. He drew the saxe knife and moved quietly to the door. Opening it, he found a castle servant, who recoiled in fear as his candle’s light reflected on the heavy blade in the Hibernian’s hand.

  “Lord Morgarath wishes to speak to you,” the servant said nervously.

  “Wait here,” Halt told him. He dressed hurriedly, debated whether to leave his knives behind, then shrugged and buckled on the heavy leather belt, replacing the saxe in its scabbard. He followed the servant downstairs to a lower level. They crossed to another staircase, this one leading to the central tower, and the man led him upward again. After four flights, they came to Morgarath’s private quarters. The servant knocked apprehensively on the massive door. Faintly, they heard Morgarath’s voice.

  “Come in.”

  They entered. The Baron was sitting behind a massive desk, leafing through sheaves of parchment. One solitary candle lit the room. Shadows pressed in around the black-clad form and Halt stopped in front of the desk. Morgarath glanced at the servant.

  “Get out,” he said, and the man scuttled away. Halt was put in mind of a cockroach hurrying for cover when a light was shone upon it. He heard the door close behind the man. Morgarath had kept his gaze fixed on Halt while the servant left. Halt returned the scrutiny.

  The Baron waved him to a chair.

  “Sit down,” he said, and as Halt complied, Morgarath leaned forward on his elbows, pushing the candle closer to the Hibernian so he could see his face more clearly.

  “You interest me, Halt,” he said finally.

  Halt shrugged. “I’m not a very interesting person, my lord,” he said evenly, but Morgarath shook his head.

  “Oh, but you are. You’re a man who knows his own mind, and who’s not afraid to speak it. I value that. You’re resourceful and, from what I’ve heard, you’re a skilled fighter.”

  Halt said nothing. The silence between them grew. Finally, Morgarath broke it.

  “I could use a man like you.”

  A faint smile touched the corners of Halt’s mouth.“I’m not sure I like the idea of being used, my lord.”

  Morgarath waved the statement aside.“A figure of speech. Let me put it another way. I’d like to have you working for me. I pay well, and as you can see, conditions here at Gorlan are extremely pleasant. A lot of men would be honored to work for me.”

  “Regretfully, sir, I don’t think I’m worthy of that honor.” There was no trace of regret in Halt’s voice.

  “I find that those who aren’t for me are usually against me, Halt,” Morgarath said. Halt recognized the warning implicit in the words, but he was unmoved. He remained silent, meeting Morgarath’s basilisk stare without any sign of wavering or uncertainty.

  Morgarath tried one last time.“I’d rather have you as an ally than as an enemy,” he said.

  Halt stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood on wood.

  “That choice may not be yours,” he said. And before the furious Baron could respond, Halt turned on his heel and left the room.

  5

  CROWLEY AND HALT LEFT THE CASTLE THE FOLLOWING MORNING. Halt made no mention of his late-night meeting with Morgarath and they rode in silence for several minutes. Finally, inevitably, it was Crowley who spoke first.

  “I wonder what he’ll do to them?”

  Halt glanced sidelong at him.“Who’ll do to who?” he said, ignoring strict grammar. Halt was never a stickler for rules of any kind.

  “Morgarath. I wonder how he’ll punish th
ose three men-at-arms we brought in.”

  Halt’s lip curled in disdain. “I doubt he’ll do anything to them. I suspect they were throwing their weight around with his full approval.”

  Crowley frowned at the statement. “Why would he encourage them to do that?”

  “He’s a tyrant. Tyrants like their subjects to live in fear. Helps keep them in line.”

  Crowley nodded sadly. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed deeply and Halt looked at him again.

  “What’s the trouble? You’re normally such a cheery fellow.”

  Crowley allowed himself a faint grin at that description, coming as it did from the grim, unsmiling figure riding beside him.

  “I was just thinking what a terrible state the Kingdom is in,” he said. “Men like Morgarath treating their own subjects so badly, the Royal Council doing their best to undermine the King, and the Ranger Corps nothing more than a group of vain, indolent loafers. I wonder where it will all end?”

  “You’re a Ranger, and you’re not vain,” Halt pointed out. “You may be indolent, of course. I can’t be sure about that. And you said there were others like you.” He was obviously trying to cajole Crowley out of his gloomy mood. But the Ranger shook his head and made a hopeless little gesture.

  “Only a few,” he said. “A dozen at most. And we’re widely scattered. The Corps Commandant sees to that. They’ll get rid of us one by one, with trumped-up charges and accusations—just as they did with Pritchard and the others.”

  “Why not get in first?” Halt said. “Get the others together and fight back. From what you say about the current commanders, they wouldn’t put up much of a fight.”

  “I think that’s what Morgarath is hoping we’ll do,” Crowley said. “He’d like to see the last traces of the old Ranger Corps totally destroyed. If we rebelled against our own leadership, technically we’d be rebelling against the King.”

  “It’s a problem,” Halt said thoughtfully. “Band together and they accuse you of treason, stay separate and they can pick you off one at a time.”

  “Well, it’s not your problem, anyway. Have you any idea what you might do?”

  Halt shrugged. “As I told you, I had a vague idea of joining the Rangers. But that doesn’t seem like an option now. I suppose I’ll head south and east and cross over to Gallica.”

  “Well, we can ride together for a while longer. The highway south is farther along this way. I’ll be glad of some cheerful company.”

  “First time anyone’s said that about me,” Halt replied.

  They came to the fork in the road some forty minutes later. The south highway branched off to the left, heading across rolling countryside and farmland. The north road, the road Crowley would follow, entered a large forest half a kilometer away. The two men shook hands.

  “Thanks for your help,” Crowley said.

  “And my cheerful company,” Halt added, straight-faced.

  Crowley smiled. “Yes. That too. I hope things work out for you.”

  “Same to you,” Halt said, and the Ranger shrugged with mock cheerfulness.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  There was an awkward pause. The two men had enjoyed each other’s company and each sensed the other was a kindred spirit. But they didn’t have a long history of friendship to smooth out the parting. Eventually, Halt broke the silence and turned his horse south.

  “Well . . . I suppose I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and Crowley nodded, raising one hand in salute.

  “Be seeing you.”

  They rode away from each other and Halt considered how ridiculous their final words had been. We won’t be seeing each other, he thought. Why do we say we will?

  His path led down a long incline, then up a slope on the other side. He reached the crest and stopped to turn in his saddle, looking after Crowley. But the Ranger had already disappeared into the thick forest that straddled the road. Halt pursed his lips. He had a vague feeling that he should have offered help to the Ranger. He had a sense that he was letting Crowley down. He wasn’t sure what else he could have done, but the uneasy feeling remained.

  He was about to urge his horse on again when he remembered his fletching jig. He had lent it to Crowley on the first night they were camped and he realized now that the Ranger hadn’t returned it. He could manage without it, but the process of fletching an arrow was much more time-consuming without it. He clicked his tongue and turned his horse, setting him to a canter, retracing his path and heading after Crowley.

  The gray had an easy, long-striding gait, and they covered the distance to the forest in short time. They rode into the dim coolness under the trees. Over the years, branches had grown across the path from each side so that the road resembled a green shaded tunnel. The road turned sharply to the right a few hundred meters ahead. There was no sign of Crowley. He must have covered more ground than Halt had expected. He tapped the horse with his heels, urging more speed from him. The hoofbeats were cushioned by the soft surface of the road under the trees. Shaded constantly by the overhanging foliage, the road had never dried out and hardened. In addition, a thick carpet of leaves had built up over the passage of the years.

  As they neared the turn in the road, Halt became aware of a faint sound—the sliding, scraping clash of steel on steel. He felt a tightening of apprehension in his stomach. He slipped the bow from his shoulder and flicked back a corner of his cloak to leave his quiver unencumbered.

  The horse’s rear hooves skidded slightly on the damp ground as they made the right-hand turn around the bend in the road.

  Sixty meters away, Crowley was backed against a large oak tree, surrounded by a group of armed men. As he took in the scene, Halt counted four attackers, with a fifth a few meters away, out of the fight, on his knees and crumpled over, holding his side. Crowley’s horse was limping awkwardly on the far side of the road.

  Without conscious thought, Halt’s hand flew to his quiver and sent two arrows on their way in the space of a heartbeat. The first inkling that Crowley’s attackers had of his presence was when two of their number cried out in pain as the black-shafted arrows drove into them, slicing through their chain mail as if it were no more than linen. After the first cry, one fell and lay silent. The other continued to moan in pain, crawling on hands and knees away from the scene of combat.

  The others turned to see what had happened to their comrades. It was a fatal mistake. Crowley lunged at one and the saxe knife bit deep into the man’s body. The other was sent flying as Halt’s horse slammed its shoulder into him. The man thudded to the ground, skidding on the damp leaves, then lay still.

  Halt reined in and swung down from the saddle, dropping the bow and drawing his saxe. There was a smear of blood on Crowley’s forehead.

  “Are you all right?” Halt asked.

  The Ranger nodded breathlessly. “Thanks to you, yes,” he said. He glanced down at the man he had just run through. He was sprawled on his back, eyes open, staring sightlessly at the sky. “Recognize him?”

  Halt looked down. He saw the familiar lightning bolt symbol on the man’s surcoat, then looked more closely at his face. It was the stoutly built man he had shot through the leg at the tavern. He looked quickly at the others. The man doubled over on his knees, crying in pain, had also been in the tavern, as had the first of the attackers Halt had shot.

  “Morgarath has a strange idea of punishment,” he said.

  Crowley gave him a tired smile. “Oh, I don’t know. It certainly didn’t do them any good in the long run. What should we do with them, do you think?” He gestured at the three surviving wounded men.

  “Leave them,” Halt said briefly. “No use taking them back to Morgarath. He obviously sent them after you. Five of them,” he added. “He thought they’d need more than three this time.”

  “Probably thought you’d still be with me,” Crowley said, and Halt nodded thoughtfully.

  “You realize that Morgarath can’t afford to let you live now, don’t you?” h
e said. “He’ll probably trump up some charges against you—say that you were responsible for the death of two of his loyal soldiers.”

  “That thought had occurred to me.”

  “Then come with me. We’ll head for Gallica. There’s always work for good fighting men there. And I can see you’re a good fighting man.” Halt indicated the bodies scattered across the road. But Crowley was already shaking his head before Halt finished speaking.

  “I was thinking about what you said—about organizing the remaining Rangers and fighting back. I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “You’re not worried about being declared a traitor?” Halt asked.

  “I’m going northeast to find Prince Duncan. As the heir to the throne, if he’ll give me a royal warrant to assemble the other remaining Rangers and re-form the Corps, I can’t be charged with treason. And he might find it useful to have a dozen or so highly trained men in his service.”

  Halt considered Crowley’s words for a few seconds, then nodded. “That might be your best course,” he said. “And I like the idea of your re-forming the Ranger Corps. Mind you, a dozen men isn’t a lot.”

  “A dozen Rangers,” Crowley corrected him. “And it may not be a lot, but it’s a start.” He paused, then added, “It’d be thirteen if you’d consider joining us. I’m sure Prince Duncan could be persuaded to give you a commission in the Corps.”

  Halt shook his head, a frown bringing the dark eyebrows together. “I don’t place a great deal of trust in princes,” he said.

  “This one you can trust. He’s a good man,” Crowley told him. But still the Hibernian was reluctant.

  “They’re all good men until they get a taste of power.”

  “Not this one. You can trust Duncan, believe me.” A long, steady look passed between them.

  “So you say,” Halt said.

  Crowley nodded emphatically. “Yes. I do. Do you trust me?”

  Now Halt looked deep into Crowley’s hazel eyes, and he saw nothing there but honesty and dedication—no sign of deceit or underhandedness. He recalled his earlier moment of unease, when he felt that somehow he was letting Crowley down by simply riding away. The sandy-haired Ranger sensed that Halt was wavering.