Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup

by John Flanagan

  Ragnak chewed on one end of his moustache, taking in what the Ranger had said. He was impressed, in spite of himself. His ability to plan for a battle usually amounted to the words, ‘Everyone ready? Follow me!’, before he led the way in a frontal assault.

  Perhaps, he thought, this Ranger might be useful after all.

  ‘Be aware of one thing, however, Oberjarl,’ Halt continued and Ragnak looked up at him, surprised at the tone of uncompromising command in his voice.

  ‘I’m going to be asking you questions about your establishment, your fighting men, your numbers. They’re questions that might give me an advantage in any future disagreement between our two countries.’

  ‘I see …’ said Ragnak slowly. He didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘You’ll be tempted to lie to me. To exaggerate your numbers and your abilities. Don’t do it.’

  Once more, the Oberjarl was taken aback at the peremptory tone of command. But Halt’s gaze was unwavering.

  ‘If I am to help you, you’ll need to be honest with me. And so will your jarls.’

  Ragnak considered the statement for a moment or two, then nodded ponderously.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘that axe cuts two ways. You’ll also be showing us how you think and plan for a battle.’

  And once more, that trace of a smile hovered around Halt’s mouth as he acknowledged the Oberjarl’s point.

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘I guess if we want to win, we both have to be willing to lose a little.’

  The two men studied each other once more. Each decided that he liked what he saw in the other’s eyes. Abruptly, Ragnak gestured to one of the massive pinewood armchairs.

  ‘Sit down!’ he said, indicating a flagon of Gallican wine on the table between them, almost lost in the glittering crystal fittings of the chandelier.

  ‘Have a drink and tell me this. Why do you think these Temujai have chosen to make themselves a nuisance in Skandia? Surely the way would have been easier for them to move south, through Teutlandt and Gallica?’

  Halt poured himself a glass of the brilliant red wine and drank deeply. He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Ragnak certainly knew the right wines to steal, he thought.

  ‘I’ve been wondering that myself,’ he said at length. He wished the chair he was sitting on was made for someone smaller than the normal massive Skandian build. His feet barely brushed the floor as he sat there and he felt like a small boy in his father’s study. ‘Even if they win here, they must know that you’ll be a tough nut to crack. Certainly tougher than the Teutlanders.’

  Ragnak snorted in derision at the mention of the unorganised, squabbling race to the immediate south. Riddled by factions and internecine distrust, the Teutlanders were at the mercy of any would-be conquerors. In fact, if Skandian ambitions had lain in that direction, Ragnak would have felt confident that he could have subjugated the country with his small army of warriors.

  ‘And the Gallicans are nearly as bad,’ Halt continued. ‘They’d be almost incapable of agreeing on one overall leader to take command. So I wondered what it was that made the Temujai swing north and risk a bloody nose here in Skandia.’

  ‘And?’ the Oberjarl prompted. Halt took another swallow of wine, and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘I asked myself what you had that would make the risk worthwhile,’ he said. ‘And there was only one thing I could think of.’

  He paused. It was a theatrical thing to do, he knew, but he couldn’t resist it. As he felt sure would happen, the Oberjarl leaned forward.

  ‘What was it? What are they after?’

  ‘Ships,’ replied Halt. ‘The Temujai want control of the seas. And that means their ambitions don’t stop here. They’re planning to invade Araluen as well.’

  Evanlyn was watching Will practising his shooting. It was something that Halt had insisted on, once they had reached the relative safety of Hallasholm. Will’s speed and accuracy had fallen far below the levels that Halt found acceptable and he wasted no time making his apprentice aware of the fact.

  ‘Remember the golden rule?’ he’d said, after he’d watched Will shoot a dozen arrows at different targets set up in a semi-circle in front of him, at ranges varying from fifty metres out to two hundred. Most of Will’s arrows flew wide of the more distant targets, and it took him far too long to fire the set of twelve shots.

  Will had looked up at his mentor, knowing how badly he’d shot. Halt was frowning, and shaking his head slightly. It made matters worse that Horace and Evanlyn had chosen that moment to come and watch.

  ‘Practise?’ he’d replied glumly and Halt had nodded.

  ‘Practise,’ he affirmed. As they’d walked out to collect the arrows he’d fired, Halt had dropped a consoling arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘Don’t feel too badly about it,’ he told him. ‘Your technique is still good. But you can’t expect to spend the winter making snowmen in the mountains and retain your edge.’

  ‘Making snowmen?’ Will replied indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know things were pretty rough up in the mountains …’ He stopped as he realised that Halt had been pulling his leg. He had to admit that the Ranger was right, however. The only way to attain the almost instinctive accuracy and speed with the bow that was the hallmark of a Ranger was to practise, constantly and assiduously.

  Over the following days, he took himself to the practice area and gave himself over to the task of perfecting his skills once more. As his old skill returned, along with his strength and fitness, a small crowd would follow and watch. Even though Will couldn’t boast the skill levels of a fully fledged Ranger, his ability was far above that of normal archers and he was watched by Skandians and some of the slaves with a deal of respect.

  Evanlyn and Horace, however, seemed to find plenty of other things to fill their days – riding and hiking in the nearby woods, or sometimes taking a small skiff out on the bay. Of course, they had asked Will to join them, but each time, he had replied that he had to attend to his practice.

  There were times when he could have gone. But even on these occasions, his feelings injured, he begged off, claiming the need for extra work sessions.

  The practice sessions were intensified when Erak produced the double knife scabbard that Will had been wearing when he and Evanlyn had been captured by the Skandians. Erak, a true hoarder, had kept the weapons and now saw fit to return them to their rightful owner. A word from Halt let Will know that he would soon be tested for his knife throwing skills as well. Experience had taught Will by now that the long months without practice would have eroded his abilities in this area too. So he set about restoring them. The township of Hallasholm soon rang to the repetitive thud of his throwing knife and saxe knife striking point first into a target of soft pinewood.

  As each day passed, his accuracy and speed improved with both the bow and the knives. He was beginning to recapture that smooth, flowing action that Halt had drilled into him over so many hours in the forest outside Castle Redmont.

  Now he switched easily from target to target, his arm raising or lowering the bow to adjust for the variations in distance, his eyes wide open, seeing a total sighting picture that included the bow, the arrow and the eventual target. He was pleased that Evanlyn had chosen today to come and watch his practice session. He felt a savage exultation as arrow after arrow thudded into the targets, striking either in the centre or close enough to make no difference.

  ‘So,’ he said casually, as he released two arrows at two widely varying targets in quick succession. ‘Where’s Horace today?’

  The arrows thudded, one after another, into their respective targets and he nodded to himself, turning ninety degrees to loose another at one of the targets set closer in.

  Another hit. Another thud.

  The girl shrugged. ‘I think you made him feel guilty,’ she replied. ‘He thought he’d better get some practice in. He’s working out with some of the Skandians from Erak�
��s crew.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Will, then paused to put an arrow into one of the farthest targets, watching it arc smoothly through the air before burying its point in the centre ring.

  ‘And why didn’t you go along to watch him?’ He felt a little pleased that Evanlyn had chosen, finally, to see how proficient he was becoming, and hadn’t bothered to watch her constant companion of the past few days. Her next words dashed that small glow of pleasure, however.

  ‘I did,’ she replied. ‘But after you’ve seen two people whack at each other for several minutes, you develop a sense of déjà vu. I thought I’d come and see if you’d improved since the other day.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Will replied, a little stiffly. ‘Well, I hope you don’t feel you’ve wasted your time.’

  Evanlyn looked up at him. He was facing away from her, firing a sequence of shots at three targets – one at fifty metres, one at seventy-five and one at a hundred. She could hear the stiff tone in his voice and wondered what was bothering him. She decided not to answer the question. Instead, she commented on the three-shot sequence, as all three arrows found their mark.

  ‘How do you do that?’ she asked. Will stopped and turned towards her. There was a genuine note of enquiry in her voice. It wasn’t just an idle question.

  ‘Do what?’

  She gestured towards the three targets.

  ‘How do you know how far to lift the bow for each distance?’ she asked. For a moment, the question left him nonplussed. Finally, he shrugged.

  ‘I just … feel it,’ he replied, uncertainly. Then, frowning, he tried to elaborate. ‘It’s a matter of practice. When you do it over and over again, it becomes sort of … instinctive, I suppose.’

  ‘So, if I took the bow, could you tell me how high to hold it for that middle target, for instance?’ she asked and he cocked his head to one side, thinking the question through.

  ‘Well … it’s not just that. I suppose I could, but … there are other factors.’

  She leaned forward, her face querying, and he continued.

  ‘Like your release … it has to be smooth. You can’t snatch at it or the arrow goes off line. And your draw weight would probably vary.’

  ‘Draw weight?’

  He indicated the tension on the bow string as he pulled it back to full draw. ‘The longer your draw, the more weight you put behind the arrow. If you didn’t draw exactly the same distance as I did, the result would vary.’

  She thought about the answer. It seemed logical. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and nodded once or twice.

  ‘I see,’ she said. There was a slight tone of disappointment in her voice.

  ‘Is there some kind of problem there?’ Will asked and she sighed deeply.

  ‘I was kind of hoping that maybe you could show me how to shoot so that I could actually do something when the Temujai turn up here,’ she replied, more than a little downcast.

  Will laughed. ‘Well, maybe I could – if we had a year to spare.’

  ‘I don’t want to be an expert,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you could just show me one or two basic things so I could … you know …’ She tailed off uncertainly.

  Will shook his head apologetically, regretting the fact that he’d laughed at her.

  ‘I’m afraid the real secret is a whole lot of practice,’ he said. ‘Even if I showed you the basics, it’s not something you can just learn in a week or two.’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘I suppose not.’ She realised that her request had been unrealistic. She felt foolish now and seized the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Is that when Halt thinks they’ll get here – a week or two?’

  Will fired the last arrow in the set and laid his bow down.

  ‘He said they could be here then. But he thinks they’ll take a little longer. After all, they know the Skandians aren’t going anywhere.’ He gestured to her to accompany him as he collected his arrows and they started across the practice field together.

  ‘Did you hear his theory?’ she asked him. ‘About attacking here because they want the Skandians’ ships?’

  Will nodded. ‘It makes sense when you think about it. They can overrun Teutlandt and Gallica almost as they choose. But they’d be leaving a dangerous enemy behind them. And the Skandians could raid them anywhere along the coast, hitting them where and when they choose.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Evanlyn replied, tugging one of the arrows from the fifty-metre target. ‘But don’t you think his theory about invading Araluen is a little far-fetched?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Will replied. ‘Hold them closer to the head as you pull them out,’ he said, indicating the next arrow as she reached for it. ‘Otherwise you’ll break the shaft, or warp it. There’s no reason why the Temujai should stop at the Gallican coast. But if they tried to transport their army by ship without taking care of the Skandians first, they could be in big trouble.’

  Evanlyn was silent for a few seconds. ‘I suppose so,’ she said eventually.

  ‘It’s only a theory, after all,’ Will replied. ‘Maybe they’re just making sure their flanks are secure before they move into Teutlandt. But Halt says you should always plan for the worst case scenario. Then you can’t be disappointed.’

  ‘I guess he’s right about that,’ she replied. ‘Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him around for a few days.’

  Will nodded his head towards the south-east. ‘He and Erak have gone to scout the Temujai advance,’ he said. ‘I think he’s looking for a way to slow them down.’

  He collected the last of his arrows and stowed them in his quiver. Then he stretched and flexed his arms and fingers.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll shoot another set,’ he said. ‘Are you staying to watch?’

  Evanlyn considered for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I might go see how Horace is doing,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to spread the encouragement around.’ She smiled at him, waggled her fingers in farewell, and strode off across the field, back towards the palisade. Will watched her slim, upright figure as she walked away.

  ‘You do that,’ he muttered to himself. Once more, he felt a flutter of jealousy as he thought of her watching Horace. Then he shook the feeling off, as a duck shakes water away. Head down, he began to mooch back to the firing line.

  ‘Women,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’re nothing but trouble.’

  A shadow fell across the ground beside him and he glanced up, thinking for a moment that Evanlyn might have changed her mind. After all, the prospect of watching two muscle-bound hulks whacking each other with practice weapons was a little boring, he thought. But it wasn’t Evanlyn, it was Tyrell – blonde, pretty, fifteen years old and the niece of Svengal, Erak’s first mate. She smiled shyly at him. Her eyes were amazingly blue, he realised.

  ‘Can I carry your arrows back for you, Ranger?’ she asked and he shrugged magnanimously, unclipping the quiver and handing it to her.

  ‘Why not?’ he said and her smile widened.

  After all, he thought, it would have been churlish to refuse.

  The pine had fallen several years back, finally defeated by the weight of snow in its branches, the insidious rot at the heart of its massive trunk and one too many seasons of gale force winter winds. Even in death, however, its neighbours had tried to support it, keeping it from the ignominy of the ground, holding it in the grip of their tangled branches so that it lay at an angle of thirty degrees to the horizontal, seemingly supported between heaven and earth by its closely packed fellows.

  Halt leaned now on the rough bark that still coated the dead trunk and peered down into the valley below, where the Temujai column moved slowly past.

  ‘They’re taking their time,’ Erak said, beside him. The Ranger turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  ‘They’re in no hurry,’ he replied. ‘It’s going to take them some time to get their wagons and supply train through the passes. Their horses don’t like confined spaces. They’re used to the open plai
ns of the steppes.’

  The cavalry army continued its slow advance. There seemed little order to their march, Halt thought, frowning. There were no outriders, no patrols screening the flanks of the mob of men, horses and wagons as they made their way towards Hallasholm, ninety kilometres to the north.

  Halt, Erak and a small party of Skandians had come south-east, moving over the mountains, along steep, narrow paths where the Temujai cavalry found it more difficult to move, to scout the invaders’ progress. Now, as he watched them, a thought struck him.

  ‘Mind you, we could make sure they moved a little slower,’ he said softly. Erak shrugged impatiently at the idea.

  ‘Why bother?’ he asked bluntly. ‘The sooner we come to grips with them, the sooner we settle this.’

  ‘The longer they take, the more time we have to prepare,’ Halt told him. ‘Besides, it bothers me to see them just ambling along, taking no precautions, riding in no order. It’s too damned arrogant.’

  ‘I thought you said they were smart?’ the Skandian queried and it was Halt’s turn to shrug.

  ‘Maybe it’s because they expect you to simply come at them head-on when they finally reach Hallasholm,’ he suggested. The Skandian war leader considered the thought, looking a little offended by it.

  ‘Don’t they give us any credit for strategy?’

  Halt tried to hide a grin. ‘How would you plan to fight them?’

  There was a pause, then Erak replied reluctantly, ‘I suppose I’d simply wait till they reached our position then … attack them head-on.’ He looked carefully at the shorter man, but Halt was being very obvious about not saying anything further. Finally, Erak added, in an injured tone: ‘But there’s no need for them to simply assume that.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Halt replied. ‘So perhaps we should give them something to think about. Something to put them a little off balance – and maybe put a little doubt in their minds.’

  ‘Is that good strategy?’ Erak asked and the Ranger grinned at him.