The Royal Ranger: A New Beginning

by John Flanagan

  Harold, a black-haired, heavy-set man, returned his glare sullenly. ‘Never said I was a cook,’ he replied. He’d spitted the bird on a green branch and suspended it over their fire. But he didn’t wait for the flames to die down to hot coals and soon the outer skin was blackening and charring. Assuming that the inside meat would be the same, he’d taken it off the fire and served it to his leader.

  The Stealer threw the leg bone into the bushes. Then, his anger mounting, he grabbed the rest of the chicken carcass and sent it spinning after the leg.

  ‘Get me some cheese and bread,’ he ordered. ‘Even you couldn’t mess that up. And some ale as well.’

  Harold muttered angrily to himself. But he kept the comments down. Bitter experience had taught him that the Stealer had a vicious temper – and an uncertain one.

  The leader of the kidnappers was dressed all in black, the colour he wore when he entered households and stole children away. He was above average height and well built – although he was running to fat and had thickened round the middle. His hair had once been blond – almost white. Now it was a dirty grey colour. It hung to his neck and was matted in thick strings. The Stealer didn’t believe in washing it too often.

  His features were regular. His chin was strong, although the same tendency to fat was becoming apparent around his chin and neck. His would have been a handsome face except for the eyes and mouth. The eyes were pale, tinged with yellow. They were like a wolf’s eyes, he had been told once – although the man who told him regretted those words a few minutes after uttering them. They were cold, cruel eyes and they were matched by the thin-lipped mouth that turned down at the corners. Nobody could remember seeing him smile.

  Harold placed a wooden platter before him, with a hunk of strong cheese and the end of a loaf of bread. The Stealer grunted, drew his belt knife and cut himself some of the cheese.

  ‘Where’s the ale?’ he demanded. His follower turned hurriedly back to the supply table and drew a mug of ale from a small cask. The Stealer grunted again when it was placed in front of him. The words ‘thank you’ didn’t seem to be part of his vocabulary.

  They were in the camp that was their temporary headquarters. There were nine men, including the Stealer himself and the blue-cloaked Storyman. In addition, there were five children, with ages ranging from ten to fourteen, chained together underneath a large tree. The Stealer glanced at them now. They were huddled under the tree, where a torn piece of canvas was stretched over the branches to provide them with cover in the event of rain. The kidnappers themselves shared small two-man tents, except for the Stealer. As leader, he demanded a tent to himself. It was larger than the low-standing tents his followers slept in, and where they made do with sleeping blankets on the ground, he had a small folding camp bed.

  The gang had been abducting children from small villages throughout Trelleth Fief for several months. They targeted small villages, remote from one another and with little or no communication between them. That way, by the time one village where a child had gone missing found out that there were others in the same fief where a similar thing had happened, the Stealer and his men would be long gone.

  The system he’d devised worked admirably. The Storyman entered a village, gained the trust of the local children and targeted a child for kidnapping. He selected boys or girls who were mistreated by their parents. That way, when they disappeared, they were usually assumed to be runaways. Their parents might search for them, but there would be no organised hue and cry.

  Once he’d engaged the children in a village and selected a target, the Storyman changed tack. His stories, at first amusing and entertaining, took on a darker, more sinister nature. He described the fearsome person known as the Stealer, a figure from the shadows, who stalked through the land seeking out children and stealing them away to his realm in the netherworld. He warned the children that if the Stealer should visit their village, they were to say nothing about him. They were never to discuss him with their parents, or any other adult.

  If they did, the Stealer would know, and he would wreak terrible vengeance on them.

  The Storyman was an accomplished raconteur. By the time he moved on from a village, the children were usually terrified out of their wits.

  That way, when one of their number disappeared shortly after, they said nothing. It was a clever stratagem. In many cases, in poor villages like the ones they preyed on, several children would sleep in the same room. If by chance a child woke and saw the black-clad figure, the fear engendered by the Storyman would ensure that he or she remained mute. Mute and terrified. The children knew if they interfered, if they said anything about him or tried to raise the alarm, they would disappear along with their companion.

  The Stealer’s gang had been operating this way for the past twelve months, moving from one fief to another, changing their area of operation frequently, so that no word of their activities ever reached the authorities.

  Once they settled in a new area, they would begin abducting children. Then, when they had sufficient prisoners – usually ten or twelve – they would move on to the next phase of their operations.

  The Stealer heard hoofbeats and looked up. One of his scouts had ridden into the camp. The man was dressed in a patched farmer’s smock and wore a shapeless felt hat. He would pass virtually unnoticed in any of the villages or hamlets the gang had passed through. He looked around, saw the Stealer sitting hunched at his table and strode across to him.

  ‘We may have trouble brewing,’ he said briefly. He sat down opposite his leader and turned to yell at the man who had served the Stealer. ‘Harold! Get me some ale here!’

  Harold mumbled to himself. But he moved towards the cask and selected a mug from the table. There was a distinct ranking order in the gang and he was close to the bottom of it.

  The Stealer frowned.

  ‘Where?’ he asked. The scout held up a hand for him to wait while Harold handed him a mug of ale, foam slopping over the brim. The scout didn’t seem to care. He upended it and drank thirstily, then slammed the mug down with a satisfied grunt.

  ‘Esseldon,’ he said, and belched. The Stealer frowned. They’d hit Esseldon recently. He glanced towards the group of prisoners under the tree, trying to pick out the one he’d abducted from that village. But after they’d been operating for a few weeks, the faces all blurred and he couldn’t be sure which one it was.

  The fear that the Storyman struck into the hearts of the village children was usually enough to prevent any mention of the Stealer reaching the ears of their parents.

  Usually.

  But there was always the chance that a child, braver or more foolish than the others, might talk. If that happened, the villagers would be alerted to the presence of the Stealer in their area and might well mount a search for the missing child. And in that case, the gang would have to move on to a new fief to avoid discovery. To gain early warning of such an occurrence, the Stealer had his scouts make regular visits back to the villages where they’d already struck to make sure that their secret was still secure.

  In Esseldon, apparently, someone had been talking.

  ‘May be nothing,’ the scout continued. ‘But there’s a young girl been asking questions.’

  ‘One of the locals?’ the Stealer asked.

  The other man shook his head. ‘No. She’s travelling through with her da. He’s looking for work and they’ve been staying at the inn. But I heard her quizzing one of the local kids about the Storyman – and about the boy we took out of that village. She’s learned nothing so far, but I thought you ought to know.’

  The Stealer massaged his jaw between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. There was always the chance that one child might talk. And now, it seemed, his extra precautions in sending the scout back to check things in Esseldon had proved worthwhile.

  ‘I think we’d better let this girl know what happens to people who ask awkward questions,’ he said thoughtfully. Then he turned and shouted towards the group of men
sitting on the grass around the camp fire.

  ‘Benito! Come here. I’ve got a job for you!’

  Yes, he thought, Benito was the one to send. He’d been injured in a fight some years before, struck by a blow to the throat that left his voice little more than a harsh whisper. Benito was bitter and angry about the injury and he was usually only too glad to undertake the task of frightening any child who disobeyed the Storyman’s instructions.

  He walked to the table now, touching one knuckle to his forehead in a sign of respect for the gang leader.

  ‘What is it, Jefe?’ he asked, using the Iberian term for boss or chief. Benito’s Iberian accent overlaid the harsh whisper of his voice. The combination was usually enough to frighten any child.

  ‘There’s a girl in Esseldon asking questions. Robert here can tell you what she looks like and where to find her,’ the Stealer told him, indicating the scout. ‘Go in there tonight and frighten her off. Or kill her,’ he added carelessly.

  A cruel smile stole over Benito’s swarthy features.

  ‘That will be my pleasure, Jefe.’

  EARLY IN THE afternoon, long before the shadows began to lengthen, Maddie slipped away from the village and walked out to the spot where Bumper was waiting. Will had taken Tug, of course, so her black and white horse was alone in the small clearing a little way off the road. She had worried about this, but Bumper seemed quite content with his own company.

  She brushed him down and fed him two apples. A small stream ran near the clearing and she took the water bucket and filled it for him. Of course he could have drunk from the stream, but it was visible from the road and there was a chance that he might be seen by any casual passers-by.

  Or any who were not so casual, she thought, considering the stories she had been told in the past twenty-four hours. She was glad she had visited Bumper while it was still full daylight. She would have been too nervous to walk out to the clearing after dark. She hurried back to the village while there was still plenty of light.

  After sunset, troubled by the story of the evil and mysterious Stealer, Maddie was glad to spend the night in the inn. The attic room she had been given had a stout door with a good lock on it. That gave her a certain sense of security. But she was still nervous and tended to jump at any unexpected noise. The sound of footsteps on the stairs would make her freeze, head cocked to one side and listening attentively. Even though logic told her they probably belonged to Jerome or his wife, or another member of the inn’s staff, she would keep one hand close to the hilt of the saxe knife, hanging over the bedhead, until she heard them move away again.

  As Will suggested, she offered to help in the kitchen and her offer was gladly accepted. Aside from anything else, it gave her a few hours in the company of other people, and the noise and bustle of the busy kitchen was a welcome change from the little room at the top of the stairs.

  Jerome watched approvingly as she bundled her hair up under a head scarf, donned an apron and began scraping the greasy platters, then plunging them into a large iron cauldron of soapy water suspended over the kitchen fire. She would then scrub them thoroughly with a long-handled wooden brush. After a few minutes, her face was red and damp from the steam and her arms were coated with soap suds up to the elbows. When the washing-up was done, she busied herself sweeping the kitchen and the tap room. She was still at it when the last customers made their way out, calling their farewells to the innkeeper. A few of them muttered pleasantries to her as well. They’d seen how hard she had been working and they admired such industry.

  It was still relatively early when the tavern emptied out. It was a weeknight, after all, and country folk went to bed and rose early.

  Jerome entered the tap room as she finished sweeping and put the broom away in its cupboard. He moved to the front door and shot the two heavy iron bolts across to lock it – one near the top and the other at the bottom of the door. He glanced at her and smiled reassuringly.

  ‘I’ll bolt the kitchen door too, once Emma and Ted have gone,’ he said. He assumed she might be nervous with her father away and he wanted to reassure her. He liked her. She had worked hard through the night. Even though he would charge Will for a night’s accommodation in the stable – after all, their handcart and their belongings were stored there – he decided he would pay Maddie a few coins for her work.

  Maddie smiled at him. The doors were solid oak, with the inside reinforced by a second layer of planks, set diagonally to the outside layer. The tavern, after all, held a lot of valuable items – wine and ale and food, not to mention the money that had been paid across the bar during the evening. It was probably the most secure building in the village.

  The cook and the kitchen hand, Emma and Ted, said their goodnights and left for their homes. Jerome went into the kitchen and locked the door that led into the stable-yard. He moved around the big, low-ceilinged room, pinching out the candles and blowing out the one large lantern that hung from the central beam. The only light now came from the fireplace. The fire had been banked down and cast flickering shadows into the corners. That left only Jerome and his wife, Tildy, in the inn with Maddie. The innkeeper and his wife had a small suite of rooms that took up half the first floor of the building, leaving room for an additional three bedrooms for guests. Maddie’s room was on the next floor up, under the sloping ceiling of the attic.

  ‘Time for bed, Maddie,’ Jerome told her. ‘Be careful with your candle now. Make sure it’s out before you go to sleep.’

  After the cheerful noise and bustle of the evening, the inn seemed strangely silent as Maddie mounted the stairs to her room. She carried a candle with her, in a pewter tray, shielding its open flame with her free hand as she went upstairs. The inn was riddled with draughts and the night was cold.

  The attic was positively icy. None of the heat from the ground floor seemed to penetrate here and she shivered as she pulled her dress over her head. She hesitated, then delved into her pack and took out her breeches and jerkin, pulling them on over her shirt. There was a thick pair of socks in there, and she pulled them on too. When she finally lay down and pulled the two thin blankets up to her chin, she felt passably comfortable, if not exactly warm. The wind had risen during the night and it whistled round the upper floors of the inn, seeking out the many cracks that would give it entry and shaking the walls and rattling the small attic window with its heavier gusts.

  ‘A good night to be inside,’ she told herself. Of course, the wind set off a myriad of small noises, with the timbers of the house creaking and groaning as they moved and rubbed together. Just as she would become accustomed to the pattern of sounds, a new one would arise and set her teeth on edge. Then she would listen for several minutes, lying tensed under the blankets, until she was sure the new noise was nothing sinister.

  Lying wide eyed while the wind pounded the walls, she reached up behind her head to where the belt holding her saxe was hanging over the head of the bed. She unhooked it and placed the weapon under her pillow, her hand resting on the hilt.

  Comforted by the feel of the heavy weapon, she finally nodded off.

  And woke.

  Her eyes shot open, but other than that, she showed no movement. Apart from a momentary hesitation, her breathing remained the same – deep, even and rhythmic. Will had trained her to wake at the slightest sensation that danger might be present, but to do so with the smallest possible outward signs. Hurriedly, she closed her eyes again, leaving only the smallest slit between her eyelids to see through.

  She sensed a presence in the room. Someone, or something, was standing by her bed. She was lying on her right side, facing away from the door, her right hand touching the hilt of her saxe under the pillow.

  Whatever or whoever was in the room was behind her, out of her field of vision. She didn’t know how she knew it was there. She could hear no breathing, no small movements. Outside, the wind still battered at the window and walls.

  But she could sense something there. Something close. Something mal
evolent.

  ‘You awake, girl. I know you awake. Don’t move. Don’t try to turn over. And leave whatever is under your pillow where it is.’

  The voice was a hoarse, croaking whisper. The speaker sounded foreign – Maddie could detect an accent and he had said ‘you awake’, rather than ‘you’re awake’. She lay rigid under the blankets, not daring to move. She wanted to whip over, drawing the saxe as she went, and strike out. But she couldn’t find the will to do it. Now she heard a low rustle of clothing as the speaker moved slightly. How did he get in? The front door and the kitchen door were bolted solidly. And her room was locked as well.

  She realised there was no future in trying to answer that question. He was here, and that was all there was to it.

  ‘You been asking questions, girl,’ the voice croaked. ‘That not healthy. Not healthy for you. Not healthy for that village boy you’ve been talking to.’

  Her heart lurched with fear – for herself, and for David. David was vulnerable and virtually unprotected. His parents were simple villagers. Probably brave enough, but not fighters.

  ‘You know what happen to people who talk about the Stealer. You don’t want that happening to your friend. Or to you. So keep you trap shut. Understand?’

  She said nothing, not knowing whether to admit she was awake or not. The silence became unbearable.

  ‘I said, understand?’ the intruder repeated. Obviously, he wanted a response. She tried to speak but her mouth was dry with fear. Finally, she managed to say, in a voice that was barely above a whisper:

  ‘I understand.’

  Again, she heard a slight sound of movement. Then to her relief, she realised that the man was moving away from her.

  ‘Make sure you do,’ that horrible voice continued. She heard the soft click of her door latch as he carefully lifted it. He was going, she thought, and relief flooded through her. The hinges squeaked as the door opened, then he spoke again.

  ‘Don’t look after me. And don’t try to follow me. I’ll know if you do. And the Stealer will come for you one dark night.’