Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup

  Gilan frowned. He liked the irrepressible young apprentice. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  ‘He had a bad time of it when we ran into those Wargals last week,’ Halt said. ‘He thinks he’s lost his nerve.’

  ‘And has he?’

  Halt shook his head decisively. ‘Of course not. He’s got more courage than most grown men. But when the Wargals charged us, he rushed his shot and missed.’

  Gilan shrugged. ‘No shame in that, is there? After all, he’s not yet sixteen. He didn’t run, I take it?’

  ‘No. Not at all. He stood his ground. Even got another shot away. Then Tug backed the Wargal off so I could finish it. He’s a good horse, that one.’

  ‘He has a good master,’ Gilan said and Halt nodded.

  ‘That’s true. Still, I think a few weeks away from all of these war preparations will be good for the boy. It might get his mind off his troubles if he spends some time with you and Horace.’

  ‘Horace?’ Gilan asked.

  ‘He’s the third member I’m suggesting. One of the Battleschool apprentices and a friend of Will’s.’ Halt thought for a few moments then nodded to himself. ‘Yes. A few weeks with people closer to his own age will do him good. After all, folk do say I can be a little grim from time to time.’

  ‘You, Halt? Grim? Who could say such a thing?’ Gilan said. Halt glanced at him suspiciously. Gilan was, all too obviously, just managing to keep a straight face.

  ‘You know, Gilan,’ he said, ‘sarcasm isn’t the lowest form of wit. It’s not even wit at all.’

  Even though it was after midnight, the lights were still burning in Baron Arald’s office when Halt and Gilan reached the castle. The Baron and Sir Rodney, Redmont’s Battlemaster, had a lot of planning to do, preparing for the march to the Plains of Uthal, where they would join the rest of the Kingdom’s army. When Halt explained Gilan’s need, Sir Rodney was quick to see where the Ranger’s thinking was headed.

  ‘Horace?’ he said to Halt. The small, bearded Ranger nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Yes, it’s not a bad idea at all,’ the Battlemaster continued, pacing the room as he thought it over. ‘He has the sort of status you need for the task – he’s a Battleschool member, even if he is only a trainee. We can spare him from the force leaving here at the end of the week and …’ At this he paused and looked meaningfully at Gilan. ‘You might even find he’s a useful person to have along.’

  The younger Ranger looked at him curiously and Sir Rodney elaborated: ‘He’s one of my best trainees – a real natural with a sword. He’s already better than most members of the Battleschool. But he does tend to be a bit formal and inflexible in his approach to life. Perhaps an assignment with two undisciplined Rangers might teach him to loosen up a little.’

  He smiled briefly to show that he meant no offence by the joke, then glanced at the sword Gilan wore at his hip. It was an unusual weapon for a Ranger. ‘You’re the one who studied with MacNeil, is that right?’

  Gilan nodded. ‘The Swordmaster. Yes, that was me.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ muttered Sir Rodney, regarding the tall young Ranger with new interest. ‘Well, you might see your way clear to giving Horace a few pointers while you’re on the road. I’d take it as a favour and you’ll find he’s a quick learner.’

  ‘I’d be glad to,’ Gilan replied. He thought that he’d like to see this apprentice warrior. He knew from his time as Halt’s apprentice that Sir Rodney wasn’t given to overstating praise for any of the students in the Battleschool.

  ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ Baron Arald said, anxious to get back to planning the thousand and one details of the march to Uthal. ‘What time will you be leaving, Gilan?’

  ‘As soon after sun-up as I can, sir,’ Gilan replied.

  ‘I’ll have Horace report to you before first light,’ Rodney told him. Gilan nodded, sensing that the meeting was over. The Baron’s next words confirmed it.

  ‘Now if you two will excuse us, we’ll get back to the relatively simple business of planning a war,’ he said.

  The sky was heavy with sullen rain clouds. Somewhere the sun may have been rising, but here there was no sign of it, just a dull, grey light that filtered through the overcast and gradually, reluctantly, filled the sky.

  As the little party crested the last ridge, leaving the massive shape of Castle Redmont behind them, the new day finally gave in to the clouds and it began to rain – a cold spring rain. It was light and misting, but persistent. At first, it ran off the riders’ treated woollen cloaks. But, eventually, it began to soak into the fibres. After twenty minutes or so, all three were hunched in their saddles, trying to retain as much body warmth as they could.

  Gilan turned to his two companions as they plodded along, eyes down, hunched over their horses’ necks. He smiled to himself, then addressed Horace, who was keeping a position slightly to the rear, alongside the pack pony Gilan was leading.

  ‘Well then, Horace,’ he said, ‘are we giving you enough adventure for the moment?’

  Horace wiped the misting rain from his face, and grimaced ruefully.

  ‘Less than I’d expected, sir,’ he replied. ‘But it’s still better than close order drill.’

  Gilan nodded and grinned at him.

  ‘I imagine it is at that,’ he said. Then he added kindly: ‘There’s no need to ride back there, you know. We Rangers don’t stand on ceremony too much. Come and join us.’

  He nudged Blaze with his knee and the bay horse stepped out to open a gap. Horace eagerly urged his horse forward, to ride level with the two Rangers.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said gratefully. Gilan cocked an eyebrow at Will.

  ‘Polite, isn’t he?’ he mused. ‘Obviously manners are well taught in the Battleschool these days. Nice to be called “sir” all the time.’

  Will grinned at the kindly meant jibe. Then the smile faded from his face as Gilan continued thoughtfully.

  ‘Not a bad idea to have a bit of respect shown. Perhaps you could call me sir as well,’ he said, turning his face away to study the treeline to one side, so that Will couldn’t see the faint trace of a grin that insisted on breaking through.

  Aghast, Will choked over his answer. He couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Sir?’ he said finally. ‘You really want me to call you sir, Gilan?’ Then, as Gilan frowned slightly at him, he amended hurriedly and in great confusion: ‘I mean, sir! You want me to call you sir … sir?’

  Gilan shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think “sir-sir” is suitable. Nor “Sir Gilan”. I think just the one sir would do nicely, don’t you?’

  Will couldn’t think of a polite way of phrasing what was in his mind, and gestured helplessly with his hands. Gilan continued.

  ‘After all, it’ll do nicely to keep us all remembering who’s in charge of this party, won’t it?’

  Finally, Will found his voice. ‘Well, I suppose it will, Gil … I mean, sir.’ He shook his head, surprised at this sudden demand for formality from his friend. He rode in silence for a few minutes, then heard an explosive sneezing sound from beside him as Horace tried, unsuccessfully, to smother his giggling. Will glared at him, then turned suspiciously to Gilan.

  The young Ranger was grinning all over his face as he eyed the apprentice. He shook his head in mock sorrow.

  ‘Joking, Will. Joking.’

  Will realised his leg was being pulled again, and this time with Horace’s full knowledge.

  ‘I kne-ew,’ he replied huffily dragging the word out into two syllables to show his disdain. Horace laughed out loud. This time, Gilan joined in.

  They travelled south all day, finally making camp in the first line of foothills on the road to Celtica. Around midafternoon, the rain had slowly begun to peter out, but the ground around them was still sodden.

  They searched under the thickest-foliaged trees for dry, dead wood, and gradually collected enough for a small camp fire. Gilan joined in with the two apprentices, sharing the work among the three of
them, and they ate their meal in an atmosphere of friendship and shared experience.

  Horace, however, was still a little in awe of the tall young Ranger. Will eventually realised that, by teasing him, Gilan was doing his best to set Horace at ease, making sure that he didn’t feel left out. Will found himself warming to Halt’s former apprentice even more than before. He reflected thoughtfully that he still had a lot to learn about managing people.

  He knew that he faced at least another four years’ training before he finished his apprenticeship. Then, he supposed, he’d be expected to carry out clandestine missions, gather intelligence about the Kingdom’s enemies and perhaps lead elements of the army, just as Halt did. The thought that one day he would have to depend on his own wits and skill was a daunting one. Will felt secure in the company of experienced Rangers like Halt or Gilan. Their knowledge and ability invested them with a reassuring aura of invincibility and he wondered if he would ever be able to take his place alongside them. Right now, he told himself glumly, he doubted it.

  He sighed. Sometimes, it seemed that life was determined to be confusing. Less than a year ago, he had been a nameless, unknown orphan in Castle Redmont’s Ward. Since then he had begun to learn the skills of a Ranger, and basked in the admiration and praise of everyone at Redmont Fief when he had helped the Baron, Sir Rodney and Halt defeat the terrifying beasts known as the Kalkara.

  He glanced across at Horace, the childhood enemy who had become his friend, and wondered if he felt the same bewildering conflict of emotions. The memory of their days in the Ward together reminded him of his other friends – George, Jenny and Alyss, now apprenticed to their own Craftmasters. He wished he’d had time to say goodbye to them before leaving for Celtica. Particularly Alyss. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of her. Alyss had kissed him after that night at the inn and he still remembered the soft touch of her lips.

  Yes, he thought, particularly Alyss.

  Across the camp fire, Gilan observed Will through half-closed eyes. It wasn’t easy being Halt’s apprentice, he knew. Halt was a near-legendary figure and that laid a heavy burden on anyone apprenticed to him. There was a lot to live up to. He decided that Will needed a little distraction.

  ‘Right!’ he said, springing lithely to his feet. ‘Lessons!’

  Will and Horace looked at each other.

  ‘Lessons?’ said Will, in a pleading tone of voice. After a day in the saddle, he was hoping more for his bedroll.

  ‘That’s right,’ Gilan said cheerfully. ‘Even though we’re on a mission, it’s up to me to keep up the instruction for you two.’

  Now it was Horace’s turn to be puzzled. ‘For me?’ he asked. ‘Why should I be taught any Ranger skills?’

  Gilan picked up his sword and scabbard from where they lay beside his saddle. He withdrew the slender, shining blade from its plain leather receptacle. There was a faint hiss as it came free and the blade seemed to dance in the shifting firelight.

  ‘Not Ranger skills, my boy. Combat skills. Heaven knows, we’ll need them as sharp as possible before too long. There’s a war coming, you know.’ He regarded the heavy-set boy before him with a critical eye. ‘Now, let’s see what you know about that toothpick you’re wearing.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ said Horace, sounding a little more pleased about this turn of events. He never minded a little sword practice and he knew it wasn’t a Ranger skill. He drew his own sword confidently and stood before Gilan, point politely lowered to the ground. Gilan stuck his own sword point-first into the soft earth, and held out his hand for Horace’s.

  ‘May I see that, please?’ he asked. Horace nodded and handed it to Gilan hilt-first.

  Gilan hefted it, tossed it lightly, then swung it experimentally a few times.

  ‘See this, Will? This is what you look for in a sword.’

  Will looked at the sword, unimpressed. It looked plain to him. The blade was simple and straight. The hilt was leather wrapped around the steel tang and the crosspiece was a chunky piece of brass. He shrugged.

  ‘It doesn’t look special,’ he said apologetically, not wanting to hurt Horace’s feelings.

  ‘It’s not how they look that counts,’ said Gilan. ‘It’s how they feel. This one, for example. It’s well balanced so you can swing it all day without getting overtired, and the blade is light but strong. I’ve seen blades twice this thick snapped in half by a good blow from a cudgel. Fancy ones, too,’ he added, with a smile, ‘with engravings and inlays and jewels.’

  ‘Sir Rodney says jewels in the hilt are just unnecessary weight,’ said Horace. Gilan nodded agreement.

  ‘What’s more, they tend to encourage people to attack you and rob you,’ he said. Then, all business again, he returned Horace’s sword and took up his own.

  ‘Very well, Horace, we’ve seen that the sword is good quality. Let’s see about its owner.’

  Horace hesitated, not sure what Gilan intended.

  ‘Sir?’ he said awkwardly. Gilan gestured to himself with his left hand.

  ‘Attack me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Have a swing. Take a whack. Lop my head off.’

  Still Horace stood uncertainly. Gilan’s sword wasn’t in the guard position. He held it negligently in his right hand, the point downwards. Horace made a helpless gesture.

  ‘Come on, Horace,’ Gilan said. ‘Let’s not wait all night. Let’s see what you can do.’

  Horace put his own sword point-first into the earth.

  ‘But you see, sir, I’m a trained warrior,’ he said. Gilan thought about this and nodded.

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘But you’ve been training for less than a year. I shouldn’t think you’ll chop too much off me.’

  Horace looked to Will for support. Will could only shrug. He assumed that Gilan knew what he was doing. But he hadn’t known him long, and, he’d never seen him so much as draw his sword, let alone practise with it. Gilan shook his head in mock despair.

  ‘Come on, Horace,’ he said. ‘I do have a vague idea what this is all about.’

  Reluctantly, Horace swung a half-hearted blow at Gilan. Obviously, he was worried that, if he should penetrate the Ranger’s guard, he was not sufficiently experienced to pull the blow and avoid injuring him. Gilan didn’t even raise his sword to protect himself. Instead, he swayed easily to one side and Horace’s blade passed harmlessly clear of him.

  ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Do it as if you mean it!’

  Horace took a deep breath and swung a full-blooded roundhouse stroke at Gilan.

  It was like poetry, Will thought. Like dancing. Like the movement of running water over smooth rocks. Gilan’s sword, seemingly propelled only by his fingers and wrist, swung in a flashing arc to intercept Horace’s blow. There was a ring of steel and Horace stopped, surprised. The parry had jarred his hand through to the elbow. Gilan raised his eyebrows at him.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Try again.’

  And Horace did. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings.

  Each time, Gilan’s sword flicked into position to block the stroke with a resounding clash. As they continued, Horace swung harder and faster. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his shirt was soaked. Now he had no thought of trying not to hurt Gilan. He cut and slashed freely, trying to break through that impenetrable defence.

  Finally, as Horace’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, Gilan changed from the blocking movement that had been so effective against Horace’s strongest blows. His sword clashed against Horace’s, then whipped around in a small, circular motion so that his blade was on top. Then, with a slithering clash, he ran his blade down Horace’s, forcing the apprentice’s sword point down to the ground. As the point touched the damp earth, Gilan swiftly put one booted foot on it to hold it there.

  ‘Right, that’ll do,’ he said calmly. Yet his eyes were riveted on Horace’s, making sure the boy knew that the practice session was over. Sometimes, Gilan knew, in the heat of the moment, the losing swordsman could try for just one more cut – at a time whe
n his opponent had assumed the fight was over.

  And then, all too often, it was.

  He saw now that Horace was aware. He stepped back lightly from him, moving quickly out of the reach of the sword.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Gilan approvingly. Horace, mortified, let his sword drop to the turf.

  ‘Not bad?’ he exclaimed. ‘It was terrible! I never once looked like …’ He hesitated. Somehow, it didn’t seem polite to admit that for the last three or four minutes, he’d been trying to hack Gilan’s head from his shoulders. He finally managed to compromise by saying: ‘I never once managed to break through your guard.’

  ‘Well,’ Gilan said modestly, ‘I have done this sort of thing before, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ panted Horace. ‘But you’re a Ranger. Everyone knows Rangers don’t use swords.’

  ‘Apparently, this one does,’ said Will, grinning. Horace, to his credit, smiled wearily in return.

  ‘You can say that again.’ He turned respectfully to Gilan. ‘May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship, sir? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Gilan shook his head in mock reproof. ‘There you go again with the “sir”,’ he said. Then, in answer: ‘My Swordmaster was an old man. A northerner named MacNeil.’

  ‘MacNeil!’ Horace whispered in awe. ‘You don’t mean the MacNeil? MacNeil of Bannock?’

  Gilan nodded. ‘He’s the one,’ he replied. ‘You’ve heard of him then?’

  Horace nodded reverently. ‘Who hasn’t heard of MacNeil?’

  And at that stage, Will, tired of not knowing what was going on, decided to speak up.

  ‘Well, I haven’t, for one,’ he said. ‘But I’ll make tea if anyone chooses to tell me about him.’

  ‘So tell me about this Neil person,’ said Will, as the three of them settled comfortably by the fire, steaming mugs of herb tea warming their cupped hands.

  ‘MacNeil,’ Horace corrected him. ‘He’s a legend.’

  ‘Oh, he’s real enough,’ said Gilan. ‘I should know. I practised under him for five years. I started when I was eleven, then, at fourteen, I was apprenticed to Halt. But he always gave me leave of absence to continue my work with the Swordmaster.’