Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup (14 page)

In the days following the boar hunt, Will noticed a change in the way he was treated. There was a certain deference, even respect, in the way people spoke to him and looked at him as he passed. It was most noticeable among the people of the village. Being simple folk, with rather limited boundaries to their day-to-day lives, they tended to glamorise and exaggerate any event that was in any way out of the ordinary.

By the end of the first week, the events of the hunt had been so blown out of proportion that they had Will single-handedly killing both boars as they charged out of the thicket. A couple of days after that, to hear the story related, you could almost believe that he had accomplished the feat with one arrow, firing it clean through the first boar and into the heart of the second.

‘I really didn't do too much at all,' he said to Halt one evening, as they sat by the fire in the warm little cottage they shared on the edge of the forest. ‘I mean, it's not as if
I thought it through and decided to do it. It just sort of happened. And after all, you killed the boar, not me.'

Halt merely nodded, staring fixedly at the leaping yellow flames in the grate.

‘People will think what they want to,' he said quietly. ‘Never take too much notice of it.'

Nevertheless, Will was troubled by the adulation. He felt people were making too big a thing out of it all. He would have enjoyed the respect if it had been based on what had actually happened. In his heart, he felt he had done something worthwhile, and perhaps even honourable. But he was being lionised for a totally fictional account of events and, being an essentially honest person, he couldn't really take any pride in that.

He also felt a little embarrassed because he was one of the few people who had noticed Horace's original, instinctively courageous action, placing himself between the charging boar and Will and Tug. Will had mentioned this last fact to Halt. He felt that perhaps the Ranger might have an opportunity to appraise Sir Rodney of Horace's unselfish action, but his teacher had merely nodded and said briefly:

‘Sir Rodney knows. He doesn't miss much. He's got a little more up top than the average bash and whacker.'

And with that, Will had to be content.

Around the castle, with the knights from the Battleschool and the various Craftmasters and apprentices, the attitudes were different. There, Will enjoyed a simple acceptance, and the recognition of the fact that he had done well. He noticed that people tended to know his name now, so that they greeted him as well as Halt when the two of
them had business in the castle grounds. The Baron himself was friendlier than ever. It was a source of pride to him to see one of his castle wards acquit himself well.

The one person Will would have liked to discuss it all with was Horace himself. But as their paths seldom crossed, the opportunity hadn't arisen. He wanted to make sure that the warrior apprentice knew that Will set no store by the ridiculous stories that had swept the village, and he hoped that his former wardmate knew he had done nothing to spread the rumours.

In the meantime, Will's lessons and training proceeded at an accelerated pace. In a month's time, Halt had told him, they would be leaving for the Gathering – an annual event in the Rangers' calendar.

This was the time when all fifty Rangers came together to exchange news, to discuss any problems that might have arisen throughout the Kingdom and to make plans. Of greater importance to Will, it was also the time when apprentices were assessed, to see if they were fit to progress to the next year of their training. It was bad luck for Will that he had been in training for only seven months. If he didn't pass the assessment at this year's Gathering, he would have to wait another year, until the next opportunity arose. As a result, he practised and practised from dawn till dusk each day. The idea of a Saturday holiday was a long forgotten luxury to him. He fired arrow after arrow into targets of different sizes, in different conditions, from standing, kneeling, sitting positions. He even fired from hidden positions in trees.

And he practised with his knives. Standing to throw, kneeling, sitting, diving to the left, diving to the right. He
practised throwing the larger of the two knives so that it struck its target hilt first. After all, as Halt said, sometimes you only needed to stun the person you were throwing at, so it was a good idea to know how to do it.

He practised his stealth skills, learning to stay stock-still even when he was sure that he had been discovered and learning that, all too often, people simply didn't notice him until he actually did move and gave the game away. He learned the trick that searchers would use, letting their gaze pass over a spot and then flicking back to it instantly to catch any slight movement. He learned about sweepers – the rear scouts who would follow silently behind a party on the move to catch out anyone who might have remained unseen, then broken cover when the party had gone past.

He worked with Tug, strengthening the bond and affection that had taken root so quickly between the two of them. He learned to use the little horse's extra senses of smell and hearing to give him warning of any danger and he learned the signals that the horse was trained to send to its rider.

So it was little wonder that, at the end of the day, Will had no inclination to walk up the winding path that led to Castle Redmont and find Horace so that he could discuss things with him. He accepted that, sooner or later, the chance would come. In the meantime, he could only hope that Horace was being given credit for his actions by Sir Rodney and the other members of the Battleschool.

Unfortunately for Horace, it seemed that nothing could be further than the truth.

Sir Rodney was puzzled by the muscular young apprentice. He seemed to have all the qualities that the Battleschool was looking for. He was brave. He followed orders immediately and he was still showing extraordinary skill in his weapons training. But his class work was below standard. Assignments were handed in late or sloppily finished. He seemed to have trouble paying attention to his instructors – as if he were distracted all the time. On top of that, it was suspected that he had a predilection for fighting. None of the staff had ever witnessed him fighting, but he was often seen to be sporting bruises and minor contusions, and he seemed to have made no close friends among his classmates. On the contrary, they took pains to steer clear of him. It all served to create a picture of an argumentative, anti-social, lazy recruit who had a certain amount of skill at arms.

All things considered, and with a great deal of reluctance, the Battlemaster was beginning to feel that he would have to expel Horace from Battleschool. All the evidence seemed to point in that direction. Yet his instincts told him he was wrong. That there was some other factor he wasn't aware of.

In point of fact, there were three other factors: Alda, Bryn and Jerome. And even as the Battlemaster was considering the future of his newest recruit, they had Horace surrounded once more.

It seemed that each time Horace managed to find a place where he could escape their attentions, the three older students tracked him down. Of course, this wasn't
difficult for them, as they had a network of spies and informants among the other younger boys who were afraid of them, both in and outside the Battleschool. This time, they had cornered Horace behind the armoury, in a quiet spot that he had discovered a few days before. He was hemmed in against the stone wall of the armoury building, the three bullies standing in a half circle before him. Each of them carried a thick cane and Alda had a piece of heavy sacking folded over one arm.

‘We've been looking for you, Baby,' said Alda. Horace said nothing. His eyes shifted from one to the other, as he wondered which of them would be the first to make a move.

‘Baby's made a fool of us,' Bryn said.

‘Made a fool of the entire Battleschool.' That was Jerome. Horace frowned, puzzled by their words. He had no idea what they were talking about. Alda's next statement made it clear.

‘Baby had to be rescued from the big, bad boar,' he said.

‘By a little, creeping apprentice sneaker,' Bryn added, the sneer heavy in his tone.

‘And that makes us all look bad.' Jerome shoved him against the shoulder as he spoke, pushing him back against the rough stone of the wall. His face was red and angry and Horace knew he was building himself up for something. His hands bunched into fists at his side. Jerome saw the action.

‘Don't threaten me, Baby! Time you learned a lesson.' He stepped forward threateningly. Horace turned to face him and, in the same instant, knew he had made a mistake. Jerome's move was a feint. The real attack came from Alda, who whipped a heavy hessian sack over
Horace's head before he could resist, pulling a drawcord tight so that he was contained from the waist up, blinded and helpless.

He felt several loops of the drawcord falling over his shoulders to fasten it, then the blows began.

He staggered blindly, helpless to defend himself as the three boys rained blows down on him from the heavy canes they had been carrying. He blundered into the wall and fell, unable to break his fall with his arms immobilised by his side. The blows continued, falling on his unprotected head, his arms and his legs as the three boys continued their mindless litany of hate.

‘Call for the sneaker to save you now, Baby.'

‘This is for making us all look like fools.'

‘Learn respect for your Battleschool, Baby.'

On and on it went as he writhed on the ground, trying in vain to escape the blows. It was the worst beating they had ever given him and they continued until, gradually, mercifully, he fell still, semi-conscious. They each hit him a few more times, then Alda dragged the sack clear. Horace drew in one giant shuddering breath of fresh air. He ached and hurt viciously in every part of his body. From a long distance away, he heard Bryn's voice.

‘Now let's teach the sneaker the same lesson.' The others laughed and he heard them moving away. He groaned softly, longing for the release of unconsciousness, wanting to let himself sink into its dark, welcoming arms so that the pain would go away, at least for a while.

Then the full import of Bryn's words struck him. They were going to give the same treatment to Will – for the ridiculous reason that they felt his action in saving Horace
had somehow belittled them and their Battleschool. With a gigantic effort, he pushed the welcoming folds of darkness back and struggled to his feet, moaning with the pain, chest heaving, head spinning, as he supported himself against the wall. He remembered his promise to Will:
If you ever need a friend, you can call on me.

It was time to make good on the promise.

Will was in the open meadow behind Halt's cottage, practising. He had four targets set up at different ranges and was alternating his shots at random between the four of them, never firing at the same one twice in a row. Halt had set the exercise for him before he had gone to the Baron's office to discuss a despatch that had come in from the King.

‘If you fire twice at the same target,' he had said, ‘you'll begin to rely on the first shot to determine your direction and elevation. That way, you'll never learn to shoot instinctively. You'll always need to fire a sighting shot first.'

Will knew his teacher was right. But that didn't make the exercise any easier. To add to the difficulty, Halt had stipulated that he should let no more than five seconds elapse between each shot.

Frowning in concentration, he let the last five arrows of a set go. One after the other, in rapid succession, they flashed across the meadow, thudding into the targets. Will,
his quiver empty for the tenth time that morning, stopped to survey the results. He nodded in satisfaction. Every arrow had hit a target, and most of them were clustered in the inner ring or the bullseye itself. It was shooting of an exceptionally high quality and it proved to him the value of constant practice. He wasn't to know it, of course, but there were already few archers in the Kingdom, outside of the Ranger Corps, who could have matched him. Even the archers in the King's army weren't trained to shoot with such individual speed and accuracy. They were trained to fire as a group, sending a mass of arrows against an attacking force. As a result, their training concentrated more on co-ordinated actions, so that all arrows were fired simultaneously.

He had just set the bow down, preparatory to recovering his arrows, when the sound of a footstep behind him made him turn. He was a little surprised to see three Battleschool apprentices watching him, their red surcoats marking them as second year trainees. He didn't recognise any of them, but he nodded a friendly greeting.

‘Good morning,' he said. ‘What brings you down here?'

It was unusual to find Battleschool apprentices this far from the castle. He noted the thick canes that they all carried and decided they must have set out for a walk. The closest of them, a handsome, blond-haired boy, smiled and said:

‘We're looking for the Ranger's apprentice.'

Will couldn't help smiling in return. After all, the Ranger cloak that he wore marked him unmistakably as an apprentice Ranger. But perhaps the Battleschool apprentice was only being polite.

‘Well, you've found him,' he said. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘We've brought a message from the Battleschool for you,' the boy replied.

Like all Battleschool trainees, he was tall and well muscled, as were his companions. They moved closer to him now and Will instinctively backed off a pace. They were a little too close, he felt. Closer than they needed to be to pass on a message.

‘It's about what happened at the boar hunt,' said one of the others. This one was red-haired, with a heavy dusting of freckles, and a nose that showed distinct signs of having been broken – probably in one of the training combats that Battleschool students were always practising. Will shrugged uncomfortably. There was something in the air he didn't like. The blond boy was smiling still. But neither the redhead nor their third companion, an olive-skinned boy who was the tallest of the three, looked as if they thought there was anything to smile about.

‘You know,' Will said, ‘people are talking a lot of nonsense about that. I didn't do much.'

‘We know,' the red-haired boy snapped angrily, and again Will took a pace back as they all moved a little closer. Halt's training was ringing alarm bells in his mind now.
Never let people get too close to you
, he'd been told.
If they try to, be on your guard, no matter who they are or how friendly you think they are.

‘But when you go swanking around telling everyone you saved a big, clumsy Battleschool apprentice, you make us look foolish,' the tall boy accused. Will looked at him, frowning.

‘I never said that!' he protested. ‘I …'

And at that moment, while he was distracted by Bryn, Alda made his move, stepping quickly forward with the sack held open to throw it over Will's head. It was the same tactic they had used so successfully with Horace, but Will was already on his guard and, as the other boy moved, he sensed the attack and reacted.

Unexpectedly, he dived forward towards Alda, rolling in a somersault that took him under the sack, then letting his legs sweep round, scything Alda's legs from under him so that the bigger boy was sent sprawling on the grass. But there were three of them and that was too many for him to keep track of. He'd evaded Alda and Bryn but as he rolled to his feet, completing the movement, Jerome brought his cane round in a ringing crack across the back of his shoulders.

With a cry of pain and shock, Will staggered forward, as Bryn now brought his cane round and hit him across the side. By then, Alda had regained his feet, furious with the way Will had evaded him, and he struck Will across the point of the shoulder.

The pain was excruciating and, with a sob of agony, Will dropped to his knees.

Instantly, the three Battleschool apprentices crowded forward, ringing him, trapping him between them, the heavy canes raised to continue the beating.

‘That's enough!'

The unexpected voice stopped them. Will, crouched on the ground, waiting for the beating to begin, arms over his head, looked up and saw Horace, bruised and battered, standing a few metres away. He held one of the wooden
Battleschool drill swords in his right hand. One eye was blackened and there was a trickle of blood running from his lip. But in his eyes there was a look of hatred and sheer determination that, for a moment, made the three older boys hesitate. Then they realised that there were three of them and Horace's sword was, after all, no more of a weapon than the canes they carried. Forgetting Will for the moment, they fanned out and moved to encircle Horace, the heavy canes raised to strike.

‘Baby followed us,' said Alda.

‘Baby wants another beating,' Jerome agreed.

‘And Baby's going to get it,' said Bryn, smiling confidently. But then a yell of fright was torn from his lips as a sudden, jarring force slammed against the cane, whipping it from his grasp and sending it spinning to land several metres away.

A similar yell to his right told him that the same thing had happened to Jerome.

Confused, Bryn looked around to where the two canes lay. With a sinking feeling, he saw that each one was transfixed by a black-shafted arrow.

‘I think one at a time is fairer, don't you?' said Halt.

Bryn and Jerome felt a surge of terror as they looked up to see the grim-faced Ranger standing in the shadows ten metres away, another arrow already nocked to the string of his massive longbow.

Only Alda showed any sign of rebellion. ‘This is Battleschool business, Ranger,' he said, trying to bluster his way through the situation. ‘You'd best stay out of it.'

Will, slowly regaining his feet, saw the dark anger that burned deep in Halt's eyes at the arrogant words. For a
moment, he almost felt sorry for Alda, then he felt the throbbing pain in his back and shoulders and any thoughts of sympathy were instantly blotted out.

‘Battleschool business, is it, sonny?' Halt said in a dangerously low voice. He moved forward, covering the ground between him and Alda in a few deceptively swift, gliding steps. Before Alda knew it, Halt was barely a metre away. Still, the apprentice remained defiant. The dark look on Halt's face was unsettling, but seen close to, Alda realised that he was a good head taller than the Ranger and his confidence flowed back. All these years he had been nervous of the mysterious man who now stood before him. He had never realised what a puny figure he really was.

Which was Alda's second mistake of the day. Halt was small. But puny was not a word that entered into it. In addition, Halt had spent a lifetime fighting far more dangerous adversaries than a second year Battleschool apprentice.

‘I seem to notice that there was a Ranger apprentice being attacked,' Halt was saying softly. ‘I think that makes it Rangers' business as well, don't you?'

Alda shrugged, confident now that, whatever the Ranger might do, he could more than handle it.

‘Make it your business if you like,' he said, a sneer entering his voice. ‘I really don't care one way or the other.'

Halt nodded several times as he digested that speech. Then he replied. ‘Well then, I think I
will
make it my business – but I won't be needing this.'

As he said it, he replaced the arrow in his quiver and lightly tossed the bow to one side, turning away as he did so. Inadvertently, Alda's eyes followed the action and
instantly he felt a searing pain as Halt stamped backwards with the edge of his boot, catching the apprentice's foot between arch and ankle and driving into it. As Alda doubled over to clasp his injured foot, the Ranger pivoted on his left heel and his right elbow slammed upwards into Alda's nose, jerking him upright again and sending him staggering back, eyes streaming with the pain. For a second or two, Alda's sight was blurred by the reflex tears and he felt a slight pricking sensation under his chin. As his eyes cleared, he found the Ranger's eyes were only a few centimetres from his own. There was no anger there. Instead, there was a look of utter contempt and disregard that was somehow far more frightening.

The pricking sensation became a little more pronounced and, as he tried to look down, Alda gave a gasp of fear. Halt's larger knife, razor edged and needle pointed, was just under his chin, pressing lightly into the soft flesh of his throat.

‘Don't
ever
talk to me like that again, boy,' the Ranger said, so softly that Alda had to strain to hear the words. ‘And don't ever lay a hand on my apprentice again. Understand?'

Alda, all his arrogance gone, his heart pounding in terror, could say nothing. The knife pricked a little harder against his throat and he felt a warm trickle of blood sliding down under his collar. Halt's eyes blazed suddenly, like the coals of a fire in a sudden draught.

‘Understand?' he repeated and Alda croaked a reply.

‘Yes … sir.'

Halt stepped back, re-sheathing the knife in one fluid movement. Alda sank to the ground, massaging his injured
ankle. He was sure there was damage to the tendons. Ignoring him, Halt turned to face the other two second year apprentices. Instinctively, they had moved closer together and were watching him fearfully, uncertain as to what he was going to do next. Halt pointed to Bryn.

‘You,' he said, his words edged with contempt, ‘pick up your cane.'

Fearfully, Bryn moved to where his cane lay on the ground, Halt's arrow still embedded halfway along its length. Without taking his eyes off the Ranger, fearing some trick, he stooped at the knees, his hand scrabbling on the grass until it touched the cane. Then he stood again, holding it uncertainly in his left hand.

‘Now give me back my arrow,' the Ranger ordered and the tall, swarthy boy struggled to remove the arrow, stepping close enough to hand it to Halt, tensed in every muscle as he waited for some unexpected move from the Ranger. Halt, however, merely took the arrow and replaced it in his quiver. Brynn stepped hurriedly back out of reach. Halt gave a small, contemptuous laugh. Then he turned to Horace.

‘I take it these are the three who gave you those bruises?' he asked. Horace said nothing for a moment, then realised that his continued silence was ridiculous. There was no reason why he should shield the three bullies any further. There never had been a reason.

‘Yes, sir,' he said decisively. Halt nodded, rubbing his chin.

‘I rather thought so,' he said. ‘Well then, I've heard rumours that you're pretty good with a sword. How about a practice bout with this hero in front of me?'

A slow grin spread over Horace's face as he understood what the Ranger was suggesting. He started forward. ‘I think I'd like that.'

Bryn backed away a pace. ‘Just a moment!' he cried. ‘You can't expect me to …'

He got no further. The Ranger's eyes glittered with that dangerous light once more and he took a half step forward, his hand dropping to the hilt of the saxe knife again.

‘You've got a cane. So has he. Now get on with it,' he ordered, his voice very low and dangerous.

Realising he was trapped, Bryn turned to face Horace. Now that it was a matter of one on one, he felt far less confident about dealing with the younger boy. Everyone had heard of Horace's almost uncanny natural swordsmanship.

Deciding that attack might be the best defence, Bryn stepped forward and aimed an overhead slash at Horace. Horace parried it easily. He parried Bryn's next two strokes with equal ease. Then, as he blocked Bryn's fourth stroke, he flicked his wooden blade down the length of the other boy's cane in the instant before the two weapons disengaged. There was no crosspiece to protect Bryn's hand from the movement and the hardwood drill sword slammed painfully into his fingers. With a cry of agony, he dropped the heavy stick, leaping back and wringing his injured hand painfully under his arm. Horace stood, ready to resume.

‘I didn't hear anybody call stop,' Halt said mildly.

‘But … he's disarmed me!' Bryn whined.

Halt smiled at him. ‘So he has. But I'm sure he'll let you pick up your cane and start again. Go ahead.'

Bryn looked from Halt to Horace and back again. He saw no pity in either face.

‘I don't want to,' he said in a very small voice. Horace found it hard to reconcile this cringing figure with the sneering bully who had been making his life hell for the past few months. Halt appeared to consider Bryn's statement.

‘We'll note your protest,' he said cheerfully. ‘Now continue, please.'