Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup (42 page)

From his command position at the centre of his army, Morgarath watched the apparent confusion in the King's forces. Horses were galloping back and forth, men were turning where they stood. Shouts and cries drifted across the plain to the army of Rain and Night.

Morgarath stood in his stirrups. In the far distance, he could see movement on the ridge to the north of the Kingdom's army. Men were forming up and moving forward. He strained his eyes to see more clearly. That was the direction from which he expected Horth to appear, but the rising dust kicked up by all the movement made it difficult to see details.

Although the bulk of Morgarath's forces were the Wargals whose minds and bodies had been enslaved to his own will, the Lord of Rain and Night was surrounded by a small coterie of men whom he had allowed to retain their own powers of thought and decision. Renegades, criminals and outcasts, they came from all over the country. Evil
always attracts its own and Morgarath's inner circle were, to a man, pitiless, black-hearted and depraved. All, however, were capable warriors and most were cold-blooded killers.

One of them now rode to Morgarath's side.

‘My lord!' he cried, a smile opening on his face, ‘the barbarians are behind Duncan's forces! They're attacking now!'

Morgarath smiled back at the young man. His eyes were renowned for their keenness. ‘You're sure?' he asked, in his thin, flat voice. The black-clad lieutenant nodded confidently.

‘I can make out their ridiculous horned helmets and their round shields, my lord. No other warriors carry them.'

This was the truth. While some of the Kingdom's forces did use round bucklers, the Skandians' shields were enormous affairs, made of hardwood studded with metal. They were over a metre in diameter and only the huge Skandians, heavily muscled from rowing their wolfships across the winter seas, could bear such heavy shields in a battle for any length of time.

‘Look, my lord!' the young man continued. ‘The enemy are turning to face them!'

And so they appeared to be. The front ranks of the army facing them were now milling in confusion and turning about. The shouting and noise rose in pitch. Morgarath looked to his right, and saw the small hill where the King's standard marked the enemy command post. Mounted figures were pointing, facing the north.

He smiled once more. Even without the forces from across the Fissure bridge, his plan would be successful. He
had Duncan's forces trapped between the hammer of the Skandians and the anvil of his own Wargals.

‘Advance,' he said softly. Then, as the herald beside him didn't hear the words, he turned, his face expressionless, and whipped the man across the face with his leather-covered steel riding crop.

‘Sound the advance,' he repeated, no more loudly than before. The Wargal, ignoring the agony of the whip cut, and the blood which poured down his forehead and into his eye, raised a horn to his lips and blew an ascending scale of four notes.

Along the lines of the Wargal army, company commanders stepped forward, one every hundred metres. They raised their curved swords, and called the first few sounds of the Wargal cadence. Like a mindless machine, the entire army took up the chant immediately – this one set at a slow jog pace – and began to move forward.

Morgarath allowed the first half dozen ranks to pass him, then he and his attendants urged their horses forward and moved with the army.

The Lord of Rain and Night felt his breath coming a little faster, his pulse beginning to accelerate. This was the moment he had planned and waited for over the past fifteen years. High in his windy, rainswept mountains, he had expanded his force of Wargals until they formed an army that no infantry could defeat. Without minds of their own, they were almost without fear. They were inexorable. They would suffer losses no other troops would bear and continue to advance.

They had only one weakness and that was facing cavalry. The high mountains were no place for horses and
he had been unable to condition their minds to stand against mounted soldiers. He knew that he would lose many of his own troops to Duncan's cavalry but he cared little about that. In a normal confrontation, the King's cavalry would be a decisive factor in their battle. Now, however, split between the Wargals and the attacking Skandians, their numbers would be insufficient to stop him. He accepted the fact that Duncan's cavalry would cause immense losses among his troops without a qualm. He cared nothing for his army, only for his own desires and plans.

The dust rose from the thousands of jogging feet. The chant surrounded him, a primal rhythm of hatred and implacable evil. He began to laugh. Softly at first, then the laughter became increasingly louder and wilder. This was his day. This was his moment. This was his destiny.

Black-hearted, thoroughly evil and pitiless, he was the Lord of Rain and Night. He was also, unmistakably, insane.

‘Faster!' he cried, sliding his huge broadsword from its scabbard and wielding it in gigantic circles over his head. The Wargals didn't need to hear the word. They were bound to him in an unbreakable linkage of minds. The cadence of the chant increased and the black army began to move faster and faster.

In front all was confusion. The enemy, first turning to face the Skandians, now saw the new threat developing at their rear. They hesitated, then, for some unaccountable reason, they responded to three horn blasts by drawing to either side, opening a gap in the heart of their line. Morgarath screamed his triumph. He would drive his army into the gap, separating the left and right wings of the
army. Once an army's front line was broken, it lost all cohesion and control and was more than halfway defeated. Now, in their panic, the enemy were presenting him with the perfect opportunity to strike deep into their hearts. They had even left the way open to their own command centre – the small group of horsemen standing under the royal standard on a hill.

‘To the right!' Morgarath screamed, pointing his sword towards King Duncan's eagle standard. As before, the Wargals heard the words and his thought in their minds. The army wheeled slightly, heading for the gap. And now, through the chanting, Morgarath heard a dull drumming sound. An unexpected sound.

Hoofbeats.

The sudden doubt in his mind communicated instantly to the minds of his army. The advance faltered for a moment. Then, cursing the Wargals, he drove them forward again. But the hoofbeats were still there and now, peering through the clouds of dust raised by the enemy army, he could see movement. He felt a sudden, overpowering surge of fear and again the Wargal army hesitated.

And this time, before he could mentally flail them forward, the curtains of dust seemed to part and a wedge of charging cavalry burst into sight, less than a hundred metres from his army's front line.

There was no time to form into the sort of defensive square that was infantry's only hope against a cavalry attack. The armoured wedge smashed into the extended front line of the Wargals, collapsing the formation and driving into the heart of Morgarath's army. And the further they penetrated, the wider the gap became, as
the wedge shape split and separated the Wargals, just as Morgarath had been planning to do to his enemy. Now Morgarath heard one long rising horn blast in the distance. Standing high in the stirrups, he cast his glance left and right, and saw, from either wing of Duncan's army, more cavalry deploying, driving in on his flanks, smashing his formations. Dimly, he realised that he had exposed his army to the worst possible situation that he could have contrived: caught in the open by the full force of Duncan's cavalry.

The Wargals were facing the only sort of force that could strike fear in their hearts. Morgarath felt the flicker of defeat in their dull mind waves. He tried to force them on mentally, but the barrier of fear was too strongly embedded with them. Screaming his fury, he directed them to retreat. Then he wheeled his horse and, with his remaining henchmen, galloped back through his army, clearing a path with his sword as he went.

At Three Step Pass, there was a hopeless tangle as thousands of the rearguard tried to force their way through the narrow gap in the rocks. There would be no escape for him there – but escape was the last thought on his mind. His only wish now was for revenge against the people who had brought his plans crashing into the dust. He drew his remaining troops into a defensive half circle, their backs to the sheer rocks that barred the way to the high plateau.

Seething in fury and frustration, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The Skandian attack had melted away as if it were never there. And then he realised that it never had been. The soldiers advancing down from the ridge wore Skandian helmets and carried Skandian
shields but it had been a ruse to draw him forward. The fact that they had the helmets and shields meant that, somewhere, Horth's forces had been defeated. That could only have been accomplished if someone had led an intercepting force throughout the impenetrable tangle of the Thorntree Forest.

Someone?

Deep in his mind, Morgarath knew who that someone was. He didn't know how he knew. Or why. He knew it had to be a Ranger and there was only one Ranger who would have done it.

Halt.

Dark, bitter hatred surged in his heart. Because of Halt, his fifteen-year dream was crumbling before his eyes. Because of Halt, fully half of his Wargal soldiers were lying broken in the dust of the battlefield.

The day was lost, he knew. But he would have his revenge on Halt. And he was beginning to see the way. He turned to one of his captains.

‘Prepare a flag of truce,' he said.

The Kingdom's main army advanced slowly across the littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.

In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the Kingdom. It was a rare honour for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.

Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully co-ordinated, almost choreographed, actions involving skilful warriors performing brave acts of
chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.

Instead, he had watched in some horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster's grim face told him that it was always this way.

Horace's throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.

Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.

Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a
bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath's power must be broken.

‘Nevertheless,' said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred metres from the Wargals' defensive half circle, ‘we'll give him the chance to surrender.' He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.

‘Sir!' said Gilan suddenly. ‘They have a flag of truce!'

The Kingdom's leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes – the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signalled to his own trumpeter.

‘I suppose we'd better hear what he has to say,' he said. ‘Give the reply.'

The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply – the same notes in reverse order.

‘It will be some kind of trick,' said Halt grimly. ‘Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he's making his escape. He'll …'

His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armour and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt's right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armour-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.

King Duncan saw the movement.

‘Halt,' he said sharply, ‘I've agreed to a truce. You'll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath.'

The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signalling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath's heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.

Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the Kingdom's army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and wellbeing. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty metres from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a grey cloak on a shaggy pony.

‘Duncan!' he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. ‘I claim my rights!'

‘You have no rights, Morgarath,' the King replied. ‘You're a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That's the only right I will grant you.'

‘I claim the right of trial by single combat!' Morgarath shouted back, ignoring the King's words. Then he continued contemptuously, ‘Or are you too cowardly to accept a challenge, Duncan? Will you let thousands more of your men die while you hide behind them? Or will you let fate decide the issue here?'

For a moment, Duncan was caught off guard. Morgarath waited, smiling quietly to himself. He could guess at the thoughts running through the minds of the King and his advisers. He had offered them a course of action that might spare the lives of thousands of their soldiers.

Arald moved his horse alongside the King's and said angrily: ‘He has no claim to a knight's privileges. He deserves hanging. Nothing more.' Some of the others muttered agreement.

‘And yet …' said Halt quietly, and they all turned to look at him. ‘This could solve the problem facing us. The Wargals are mind-bound to Morgarath's will. Now that we can't use cavalry, they'll continue to fight as long as he wills them to. And they'll kill thousands of our men in the process. But, if Morgarath were killed in single combat –'

Tyler interrupted, finishing the thought: ‘The Wargals would be without direction. Chances are they would simply stop fighting.'

Duncan frowned uncertainly. ‘We don't know that …' he began.

Sir David of Caraway interrupted. ‘Surely, sir, it's worth a try. Morgarath has outsmarted himself here, I think. He knows we can't resist the chance to end this on a single combat. He's thrown the dice today and lost. But he obviously plans to challenge you – to kill you as a final act of revenge.'

‘What's your point?' Duncan asked.

‘As Royal Battlemaster, I can respond to any challenge made to you, my lord.'

There was a brief murmur at this. Morgarath might be a dangerous opponent, but Sir David was the foremost
tournament knight of the Kingdom. Like his son, he had trained with the fabled swordmaster MacNeil, and his skill in single combat was legendary. He continued eagerly.

‘Morgarath is using the rules of knighthood to gain a chance to kill you, sir. Obviously, he's overlooked the fact that, as King, you can be represented by a champion. Give him the right to challenge. And then let me accept.'

Duncan considered the idea. He looked to his advisers and saw grudging agreement. Abruptly, he made up his mind.

‘All right,' he said finally. ‘I'll accept his right to challenge. But nobody, nobody, says anything in acceptance. Only me. Is that clear?'

His council nodded agreement. Once acceptance was made, it was binding. Duncan stood in his stirrups and called to the ominous black figure.

‘Morgarath,' Duncan called, ‘although we believe you have forfeited any rights you may have had as a knight, go ahead and make your challenge. As you say, let fate decide the issue.'

Now Morgarath allowed the smile to creep over his entire face, no longer trying to conceal it from those who watched him. He felt a quick surge of triumph in his chest, then a cold wash of hatred swept over him as he looked directly at the small, insignificant-looking figure behind the King.

‘Then, as is my right before God,' he said carefully, making sure he used the exact, ancient words of challenge, ‘and before all here present, I do so make my challenge to prove my cause right and just to …' He couldn't help
hesitating and savouring the moment for a second. ‘Halt the Ranger.'

There was a stunned silence. Then, as Halt urged Abelard forward to respond, Duncan's penetrating cry of ‘No!' stopped him. His eyes glittered fiercely.

‘I'll take my chance, my lord,' he said grimly. But Duncan threw out an arm to stop him moving forward.

‘Halt is not a knight. You cannot challenge him,' he called urgently. Morgarath shrugged.

‘Actually, Duncan, I can challenge anyone. And anyone can challenge me. As a knight, I don't have to accept any challenge, unless it is issued by another knight. But I can choose to do so. And I can choose whom I challenge.'

‘Halt is forbidden to accept!' Duncan said angrily.

Morgarath laughed thinly. ‘Still slinking and hiding then, Halt?' he sneered. ‘Like all Rangers. Did I mention that we have one of your Ranger brats as a prisoner?' He knew the Ranger Corps was a close-knit group and he hoped to infuriate Halt with the news that he had captured one of their trainees. ‘So small we nearly threw him back. But I've decided to keep him for torture instead. That will make one less sneaking, hiding spy in the future.'

Halt felt the blood draining from his face. There was only one person Morgarath could be talking about. In a fury, he urged Abelard forward.

‘You've got Will?' he asked, his voice quiet, but penetrating.

Morgarath felt that shock of triumph again. Even better than he thought! Obviously the Ranger brat was close to Halt. A sudden feeling of elation filled him. Could he
possibly be apprenticed to Halt himself? Suddenly, somehow, he knew this was the truth.

‘Yes, Will is with us,' he replied. ‘But not for long, of course.'

Halt felt a red surge of rage and hatred for the vulture-like figure before him. Hands reached out to stop him but he shoved his horse forward, facing Morgarath.

‘Then, Morgarath, yes, I …'

‘Halt! I command you to stop!' Duncan shouted, drowning him out.

But then all eyes were drawn to a sudden movement from the second rank of the army. A mounted figure burst clear, covering the short distance to Morgarath in a heartbeat. The Lord of Rain and Night reached for his sword, then realised the newcomer's own weapon was sheathed. Instead, his right arm drew back and he hurled his gauntlet into Morgarath's thin face.

‘Morgarath!' he yelled, his young voice cracking. ‘I challenge you to single combat!'

Then, wheeling his horse a few paces away, Horace waited for Morgarath's reply.