The Lost Stories

  Will nodded his thanks and went to put his foot in the stirrup. Then he hesitated.

  “Do I need a permission phrase?” he asked.

  Bob laughed. “No. I told you, Cormac is retired. Once we retire them, we teach them they don’t need a permission word.”

  Will swung up into the saddle, albeit a little suspiciously. He sat for a second or two, waiting to see if Cormac would react. But the chestnut simply turned his head and looked curiously at him. Bob let go a wheezing cackle of laughter.

  “Don’t trust me, eh?” he said. “I told you. He’s retired. Now get going!”

  Will touched his heels lightly to Cormac’s side and the horse responded immediately, moving off at a trot. His gait was a little different from Tug’s, but it was smooth and even. He had a spring in his step too—as if he were glad to be back at work.

  “I’ll see you in five days,” Will called over his shoulder. Bob waved a hand in acknowledgment, then nodded approvingly as Will, with only the slightest touch, set Cormac into a smooth, easy canter.

  The horse’s tail came up as he ran. This is fun.

  “Glad you think so . . . ,” Will began, and then stopped, surprised that he was talking to his temporary mount. Maybe all Ranger horses responded this way.

  5

  THE NEXT FIVE DAYS PASSED IN A BLUR. IF HE HAD BEEN ASKED TO recount what happened or what he had done, Will would have been at a loss.

  Halt and Lady Pauline were both away from Redmont, attending to a diplomatic problem at one of the fief’s subsidiary castles. The mayor of one of Celtica’s largest towns had absconded with the town’s treasury and was claiming diplomatic immunity in Redmont Fief. The Celtic king had sent soldiers after him to bring him back. This was understandable, and while Baron Arald had no intention of protecting the thief, the Celtic king’s action was technically a breach of the treaty between Araluen and Celtica. Neither country had the right to send armed troops over the border. Baron Arald had sent Halt to escort the miscreant back to Celtica, and Lady Pauline to persuade the Celtic troops to keep their hands off the criminal until he was back in their jurisdiction.

  Halt could have convinced them himself, of course, but his methods were liable to be a little more direct than Pauline’s and Arald was hoping to avoid piling one diplomatic incident on top of another.

  With Lady Pauline thus engaged, it had fallen to Alyss to attend the biannual Diplomatic Service meeting at Castle Araluen. Will found a note to that effect on the table of the little cabin in the woods.

  But if Will had thought he might spend a lonely week in the cabin, worrying about Tug, he was quickly disabused of the notion. A report came in of a band of brigands preying on lone travelers in the northern part of the fief. Accordingly, Will set off in a borrowed wagon, disguised as a peddler of household goods. He traveled through the area where the bandits were known to be operating, selling his wares at remote farms and building up a sizable amount of money in the process. The bandits were watching him, as he knew they would be, and once they were satisfied that he was ripe for the plucking, they stopped him on a lonely stretch of road with heathland on either side.

  There were four of them, so Will had them seriously outnumbered.

  He gave them one warning, identifying himself as a King’s Ranger, but they chose to attack. Within seconds, three of them were on the ground, nursing arrow wounds to arms and legs. The fourth, his eyes wide with terror, tossed his sword away and fell to his knees, begging for mercy.

  Will allowed them to bandage their wounds, then tied their hands together. He strung them in a line behind the peddler’s cart to walk back to Castle Redmont for trial. One of them pleaded for gentler treatment.

  “Please, Ranger, we’re hurt bad. Can’t we ride in the cart?”

  Will glanced at him coldly. In his present mood, he had little sympathy for the bandits, who had left several of their former victims wounded and bleeding by the roadside.

  “I’m doing you a favor,” he said, and as the man frowned, about to ask a further question, he added, “I’m letting you enjoy the fresh air and open spaces. You’ll see little of either for the next ten years.”

  So the time passed and the fifth day found him cantering Cormac back to the farm where Bob trained horses for the Ranger Corps.

  The horse shook his head, enjoying the freedom of the road and the opportunity to stretch his legs. Ranger horses loved to run.

  I’ve enjoyed being back at work. I’d be happy to keep serving you.

  Will smiled. “You’ve been a good companion and I’m grateful,” he said, patting the chestnut’s neck affectionately. “But I’m hoping Tug will be on the way to healing.”

  Cormac tossed his head. I can understand that. But if you ever need me. . .

  “I’ll come calling,” Will said. As they rode out of the trees and followed the long track leading up to Bob’s cabin, Will eagerly scanned the paddocks on either side. At first he saw nothing, then his heart lifted as he spotted a familiar gray shape in the distance, running for the sheer joy of it in the crisp autumn sunshine.

  “Tug!” he shouted eagerly, and touched his heels to Cormac’s sides. The chestnut responded instantly and broke into a gallop. The gray horse heard the drumming hooves and swung to run toward them, cutting diagonally across the large paddock.

  Will reined in, waiting for him.

  The gait, the movement, the way the little horse tossed his head. It was all so familiar. Will actually laughed out loud at the sight of his horse as the shaggy gray came up to the fence that delineated the paddock.

  Then he frowned. It was so like Tug. Yet it wasn’t him. This horse was considerably younger. There was no sign of the white hairs that had begun to show around Tug’s muzzle over the last few years. And now that they were closer, Will could see a small diamond-shaped patch of darker hair on the little horse’s left front leg, close by the hoof. It wasn’t Tug. Yet, in so many ways, it was.

  The horse nickered a greeting, then shook himself, rattling his mane in exactly the way Tug did. Cormac returned the greeting. The gray looked expectantly at Will, but Will was too confused to speak. Finally, tossing his head, the gray horse turned and galloped off, going back the way he had come.

  You hurt his feelings.

  Will didn’t reply. He tapped his heels against Cormac’s sides and they cantered up the track to Bob’s cabin.

  Here, another surprise awaited them. Another chestnut was standing outside the cabin, almost identical to Cormac. But he was younger, Will realized, much younger. The two horses greeted each other like old friends and Will realized where he had seen Cormac before.

  “You were Crowley’s horse,” he said to Cormac. “But your name was Cropper.”

  As he said the name, the horse outside the cabin raised his head in recognition.

  “This is Cropper now,” said Crowley as he emerged from the cabin and walked toward them. “That’s the way we do it. When we retire a horse, we change his name, and we give the old name to the new horse.”

  Cormac moved eagerly toward the Ranger Commandant, and he fondled the horse’s muzzle affectionately. “Hullo, old friend,” he said softly. Then he glanced up at Will. “Step down, Will. We need to talk.”

  Will swung down from the saddle, a vague sense of unease growing within him.

  “Crowley?” he said. “What are you doing here? How’s Tug?”

  Crowley put a reassuring hand on the young Ranger’s shoulder.

  “Tug’s doing fine,” he said. “He’s a lot better than when you saw him last. In fact, here he comes now.”

  He pointed and Will turned to see Old Bob leading his horse out of the stable and toward the cabin. At first sight, he seemed totally recovered.

  “Tug!” he called, and the horse looked up and whinnied eagerly. Bob released the lead rein and made a gesture toward Will. Without further urging, Tug trotted toward his master and Will’s heart suddenly sank.

  “He’s limping,” he said. The limp had bec
ome evident as Tug increased his pace.

  Crowley nodded. “He is. Bob’s done all he can, but the muscle damage was too great to heal completely. I’m afraid he’ll always limp, Will.”

  Tug butted his head against Will’s chest in his familiar way, then he began nosing around his pockets, searching for the apple that he knew would be there. Will helped him find it and the little horse crunched it blissfully. But Will’s head was still whirling as he absorbed Crowley’s last statement.

  “He’ll always limp?” he said. “But how can I . . . ?” He couldn’t finish the question. Suddenly, he sensed what was coming. The talk of retired Ranger horses; the two chestnuts, virtually identical; and the young gray he’d seen in the paddock—all those facts came together to form one obvious, terrible conclusion.

  “We’re going to have to retire him,” he said dully. It wasn’t a question and he saw Crowley and Bob nodding in confirmation.

  “It’s the way we do things, Will,” Crowley told him. “Our horses can only serve us for fifteen or sixteen years. Then they begin to lose the speed and agility and stamina that we rely on so much. So this would have happened in the near future anyway. The injury has only brought the inevitable a little closer.”

  “But . . . this is Tug!” Will said, his eyes blinded by tears. “This is no ordinary horse! He’s Tug!” He came to a sudden decision and raised his head defiantly, angrily wiping the tears away with the back of his hand. “I don’t care if he limps. I don’t care if he’s not as fast or as agile as he used to be! He’s my horse and I’m keeping him!”

  He reached for Tug’s bridle, but Crowley caught his hand gently and stopped him.

  “That’s not possible,” he said. “It’s not the Ranger way.”

  “Then I’ll retire as well. If I can’t have Tug, I no longer want to be a Ranger!”

  They all started with surprise as Tug reared back, his ears flattened against his head.

  Don’t you dare say that! Not after all I’ve done for you!

  “Tug?” Will said, bewildered by the horse’s anger. But Tug shook his head now, rattling his mane.

  Quit if you want to! But don’t make me the reason for it!

  “But . . . I need you, Tug. I can’t imagine going on without you,” Will said.

  Old Bob and Crowley exchanged a glance. They were familiar with the uncanny bond that formed between a Ranger and his horse. Both of them knew that a strange form of communication grew up over the years. Crowley experienced it himself with Cropper. They withdrew to allow Will to talk to the horse without embarrassment or awkwardness. Tug butted him gently once more, the anger gone now.

  Don’t you see? I can’t serve you properly like this. I can’t keep you safe. That’s a job for the new Tug. But you have to give him a chance.

  “The new Tug?” Will said.

  Crowley, sensing the time was right, nodded to Bob. The old horse breeder turned away and walked back to the stable. When he had gone, Crowley answered the question.

  “Bob’s just one of our horse breeders, Will. We have many of them and they do an amazing job. They keep track of the bloodlines of all our horses and the breeding records from our herds. Tug will go into that breeding process now, just as his ancestors did. He’ll be well looked after and he’ll be safe. And he’ll ensure that in the future, there will be other horses like himself available to Rangers. Did you see that little gray in the front paddock when you rode up?”

  Will nodded. “I thought it was Tug for a few minutes.”

  “As well you might have. His sire was Tug’s grandfather. And his dam was a mare whose characteristics were almost identical to Tug’s mother. When Bob saw this one foaled, he set him aside specifically for you. Of course, we had no idea you’d be needing him quite so soon. Normally, we would have prepared you for it over the next year or two. But this came out of the blue. That’s why Bob sent for me to explain it. Sooner or later, we all have to go through it.”

  He looked sympathetically at the younger Ranger and his horse. Will had moved close to Tug. His left arm was around the horse’s neck and his right hand was stroking the soft muzzle.

  “Couldn’t I just keep him at Redmont anyway?” Will asked.

  Crowley smiled. “We all ask that. But think about it. He’s not a pet. And he’s needed here in the breeding program. He’s one of our best horses. On top of that, it wouldn’t be fair to your new horse. You wouldn’t bond properly. And it wouldn’t be fair to Tug either. He’d have to watch you going off on missions without him.”

  And you know I’m a worrywart.

  In spite of himself, Will couldn’t help smiling at that. “So what will your new name be?” he asked.

  Tug hesitated, his head to one side. I’ve always fancied myself as a Bellerophon.

  “Bellerophon?” Will said, surprised. It was an unexpected choice.

  Crowley grinned. “Not bad. We should mention it to Bob. And here he comes now.”

  Will turned and saw Bob approaching, leading the gray he had seen earlier. Now, however, the horse was saddled and bridled. Every inch of the horse was familiar, even the way he held himself as he walked. Except for the small patch of black hair on his leg and the lack of white hairs around his muzzle, he was identical to the Tug who had served Will for the past fifteen years.

  Now that’s a decidedly good-looking horse.

  “You would think so,” Will said. Then, as Bob handed him the reins, he stepped forward and scratched the young horse’s muzzle. The horse moved his head in appreciation, then nuzzled against Will’s pockets, searching for an apple. It was such a familiar action, such a Tug action, that Will was startled for a second or two.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I gave my last apple to . . .” He hesitated, then said, with a grin, “Bellerophon.”

  Bob reached into his own pocket and tossed an apple to him. “Thought you might have,” he said.

  Will held the apple out on the flat of his hand to the horse, who took it gently, his lips tickling the palm of Will’s hand, then crunched it happily.

  “Why don’t you two get to know each other?” Bob said, gesturing to the saddle. Will nodded. Suddenly he was eager to know just how much like Tug this new horse really was.

  “Good idea,” he said. He stepped his left foot into the stirrup and swung easily up onto the horse’s back. Crowley and Bob exchanged wicked grins.

  “Now,” Will said, “let’s see . . .”

  He got no further. The horse beneath him suddenly exploded into motion, bounding off all four feet, twisting and spinning in the air, heaving his hindquarters up as his forelegs came back to earth. Will shot into the air over his neck, turning a somersault, feeling several seconds of weightlessness, then crashing to the dusty earth so that the air was driven from his body. He lay groaning, trying desperately to refill his lungs. The horse stood by him, its head cocked curiously to one side.

  Bob and Crowley stood by, laughing helplessly, as Will lay there, propped on his elbows, gradually getting air back into his lungs.

  “This one ain’t retired, Will Treaty!” Bob told him cheerfully. “You need your code phrase for him, same as for old Tug here.”

  Will looked up, his mind flashing back to an identical incident many years ago. He realized old Tug, now Bellerophon, was watching him, shaking his head.

  “He bucks just like you, too,” Will said breathlessly.

  You’ll never learn, will you?

  As they cantered home later that morning, Will continued to be amazed at the resemblance between the two horses. It was as if Tug had suddenly and inexplicably been rejuvenated, and he realized now that Crowley and Bob had been right. In the past few years, Tug had become fractionally slower, a little less sure of foot. This new Tug was a reminder of how his horse had been in their very first days together.

  He thought about those times now. About how Tug had stormed to protect him when the wild boar had charged him. About the desperate race with the Bedullin stallion, Sandstorm, when Tug
showed him a blazing turn of speed that Will had never known about. As he thought about that day, the new Tug shook his head, rattling his mane.

  I would have beaten Sandstorm.

  Will looked at him with surprise. “How do you know about Sandstorm?” he asked. Again, the horse shook his mane.

  If it’s in your mind, I know it. Now, do you want to keep to this crawl or shall we pace it up a little?

  “You sound just like Tug,” Will told him.

  I am Tug.

  “Yes,” Will replied thoughtfully. “I believe you are.”

  Author’s note: The preceding story came about after I received an e-mail query from Laurie, a New Zealand reader. She pointed out that the practical working life for Ranger horses couldn’t be much more than sixteen or seventeen years and wanted to know what happened after that period. I couldn’t bear the thought of Will without Tug, so I devised the ingenious breeding program mentioned here.

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  AND ABOUT TIME TOO...

  WILL LOOKED DOWN AND CHECKED HIMSELF ONE LAST TIME. HIS jacket was neat and uncreased. The open collar of a spotless white silk shirt showed above it, and the silver oakleaf that indicated his rank was just visible in the V formed by his collar. His pants were free of any stains or marks. His boots were clean and freshly worked with oil. They weren’t shiny. A Ranger never shined his boots. Shiny boots could reflect flashes of light and make it easier for someone to spot a concealed Ranger. He buckled on his broad leather belt. Like the boots, the buckle itself was a dull, mat black and the hilts of his two knives were bound in plain leather. Only the blades would have caught the light had they been exposed. They were kept carefully honed and they were of a fine grade steel, harder than the swords carried by the Kingdom’s knights.

  He wished he had a mirror. This was an important day, after all. But mirrors were wildly expensive. Only someone as wealthy as Baron Arald could afford such a luxury. A Ranger’s pay didn’t stretch to that sort of thing.