Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Character Profiles
Maps
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Have You Got What it Takes to be a Ranger?
Also by John Flanagan
About the Author
A Special Q & A with John Flanagan
Copyright
For Michael
CHARACTER PROFILES
WILL is an orphan, raised as a ward by the generosity of Baron Auld at Redmont Castle. He is about to turn fifteen, and faces Choosing Day, where he and his fellow ward mates will be apprenticed to a craftmaster. He dreams of being a Knight like the father he never knew, but although he is fast and agile, he is worried that he is too small to be a Battleschool apprentice. He clashes with Horace, a tall and muscular ward mate who takes delight in taunting Will about his small size.
BARON AULD is also known as the Lord of the Redmont fief. He is tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built, although his large bulk is partly attributed to his huge appetite. He is known for his strength, kindness and humour.
HALT is a senior Ranger, mysterious and often shrouded in his mottled, grey and green Ranger’s cloak. To many his ability to move almost unseen can be unnerving. Although small and slim, he projects an image of strength and power and he is known throughout the Kingdom for his courageous missions. His gruff exterior hides a softness.
HORACE is sure that he is destined to be a Knight, but his training at Battleschool is gruelling. He can be aggressive and quick to rise to anger, especially when tired. He is struggling to cope with the unwanted attention he is receiving from three school bullies but determined to resolve the matter himself. Unknown to him, he has also caught the attention of the Battleschool master who has recognised his extraordinary potential.
JENNY is a pretty blonde ward, determined to be taken in as an apprentice to Master Chubb, the rotund Head Chef. Cheerful and kind, she is well-liked by all.
ALYSS is tall, elegant and pretty with an air of self-confidence and poise that has already brought her to the attention of Lady Pauline, the head of the King’s Diplomatic Service. She regards Will as a good friend.
GILAN is Halt’s former apprentice and is the only Ranger who carries a sword. He is tall and humorous, in sharp contrast to his former master. For all his jokes and light-hearted manner, Gilan is serious about being a Ranger, and is the best unseen mover in the Ranger Corps.
MORGARATH is a black Lord, a former Baron of Gorlan who was driven away by the Rangers after his attempt to seize control of the Kingdom. Fifteen years later, he is restless, hungry for power and determined to take revenge.
WARGALS are rumoured to be a tribe of semi-intelligent beasts who live in the mountains. They are susceptible to influence and easily manipulated.
MORGARATH, LORD OF the Mountains of Rain and Night, former Baron of Gorlan in the Kingdom of Araluen, looked out over his bleak, rainswept domain and, for perhaps the thousandth time, cursed.
This was all that was left to him now – a jumble of rugged granite cliffs, tumbled boulders and icy mountains. Of sheer gorges and steep narrow passes. Of gravel and rock, with never a tree or a sign of green to break the monotony.
Even though it had been fifteen years since he had been driven back into this forbidding realm that had become his prison, he could still remember the pleasant green glades and thickly forested hills of his former fief. The streams filled with fish and the fields rich with crops and game. Gorlan had been a beautiful, living place. The Mountains of Rain and Night were dead and desolate.
A platoon of Wargals was drilling in the castle yard below him. Morgarath watched them for a few seconds, listening to the guttural, rhythmic chant that accompanied all their movements. They were stocky, misshapen beings, with features that were halfway human, but with a long, brutish muzzle and fangs like a bear or a large dog.
Avoiding all contact with humans, the Wargals had lived and bred in these remote mountains since ancient times. No one in living memory had ever set eyes upon one, but rumours and legends had persisted of a savage tribe of semi-intelligent beasts in the mountains. Morgarath, planning a revolt against the Kingdom of Araluen, had left Gorlan Fief to seek them out. If such creatures existed, they would give him an edge in the war that was to come.
It took him months but he eventually found them. Aside from their wordless chant, Wargals had no spoken language, relying on a primitive form of thought awareness for communication. But their minds were simple and their intellects basic. As a result, they had been totally susceptible to domination by a superior intelligence and willpower. Morgarath bent them to his will and they became the perfect army for him – ugly beyond nightmares, utterly pitiless and bound totally to his mental orders.
Now, looking at them, he remembered the brightly dressed knights in glittering armour who used to compete in tourneys at Castle Gorlan, their silk-gowned ladies cheering them on and applauding their skills. Mentally comparing them to these black-furred, misshapen creatures, he cursed again.
The Wargals, attuned to his thoughts, sensed his disturbance and stirred uncomfortably, pausing in what they were doing. Angrily, he directed them back to their drill and the chanting resumed.
Morgarath moved away from the unglazed window, closer to the fire that seemed utterly incapable of dispelling the damp and chill from this gloomy castle. Fifteen years, he thought to himself again. Fifteen years since he had rebelled against the newly crowned King Duncan, a youth in his twenties. He had planned it all carefully as the old king’s sickness progressed, banking on the indecision and confusion that would follow his death to split the other barons and give Morgarath his opportunity to seize the throne.
Secretly, he had trained his army of Wargals, massing them up here in the mountains, ready for the moment to strike. Then, in the days of confusion and grief following the king’s death, when the barons travelled to Castle Araluen for the funeral rites, leaving their armies leaderless, he had attacked, overrunning the south-eastern quarter of the Kingdom in a matter of days, routing the confused, leaderless forces that tried to oppose him.
Duncan, young and inexperienced, could never have stood against him. The Kingdom was his for the taking. The throne was his for the asking.
Then Lord Northolt, the old king’s supreme army commander, had rallied some of the younger barons into a loyal confederation, giving strength to Duncan’s resolve and stiffening the wavering courage of the others. The armies met at Hackham Heath, close by the Slipsunder River, and the battle swayed in the balance for five hours, with attack and counterattack and massive loss of life. The Slipsunder was a shallow river, but its treacherous reaches of quicksand and soft mud formed an impassable barrier, protecting Morgarath’s right flank.
But then one of those grey-cloaked meddlers known as Rangers led a force of heavy cavalry across a secret ford ten kilometres upstream. The armoured horsemen appeared at the crucial moment of the battle and fell upon the rear of Morgarath’s army.
The Wargals, trained in the tumbled rocks of the mountains, had one weakness. They feared horses and could never stand against such a surprise cavalry attack. They broke, retreating to the narrow confines of Three Step Pass, and back to the Mountains of Rain and Night. Morgarath, his rebellion defeated, went with them. And here he had been exiled these fifteen years. Waiting, plotting, hating the men who had done this to him.
Now, he thought, it was time for his revenge. His spies told him the Kingdom had grown slack and complacent and his presence here was all but forgotten. The name Morgarath was a name of legend nowadays, a name mothers used to hush fractious children, threatening that if they did not behave, the black lord Morgarath would come for them.
The time was ripe. Once again, he would lead his Wargals into an attack. But this time he would have allies. And this time, he would sow the ground with uncertainty and confusion beforehand. This time, none of those who conspired against him previously would be left alive to aid King Duncan.
For the Wargals were not the only ancient, terrifying creatures he had found in these sombre mountains. He had two other allies, even more fearsome – the dreadful beasts known as the Kalkara.
The time was ripe to unleash them.
‘TRY TO EAT something, Will. Tomorrow’s a big day, after all.’
Jenny, blonde, pretty and cheerful, gestured towards Will’s barely touched plate and smiled encouragingly at him. Will made an attempt to return the smile but it was a dismal failure. He picked at the plate before him, piled high with his favourite foods. Tonight, his stomach knotted tight with tension and anticipation, he could hardly bring himself to swallow a bite.
Tomorrow would be a big day, he knew. He knew it all too well, in fact. Tomorrow would be the biggest day in his life, because tomorrow was the Choosing Day and it would determine how he spent the rest of his life.
‘Nerves, I imagine,’ said George, setting down his loaded fork and seizing the lapels of his jacket in a judicious manner. He was a thin, gangly and studious boy, fascinated by rules and regulations and with a penchant for examining and debating both sides of any question – sometimes at great length. ‘Dreadful thing, nervousness. It can just freeze you up so you can’t think, can’t eat, can’t speak.’
‘I’m not nervous,’ Will said quickly, noticing that Horace had looked up, ready to form a sarcastic comment.
George nodded several times, considering Will’s statement. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘a little nervousness can actually improve performance. It can heighten your perceptions and sharpen your reactions. So, the fact that you are worried, if, in fact, you are, is not necessarily something to be worried about, of itself – so to speak.’
In spite of himself, a wry smile touched Will’s mouth. George would be a natural in the legal profession, he thought. He would almost certainly be the Scribemaster’s choice on the following morning. Perhaps, Will thought, that was at the heart of his own problem. He was the only one of the five wardmates who had any fears about the Choosing that would take place within twelve hours.
‘He ought to be nervous!’ Horace scoffed. ‘After all, which Craftmaster is going to want him as an apprentice?’
‘I’m sure we’re all nervous,’ Alyss said. She directed one of her rare smiles at Will. ‘We’d be stupid not to be.’
‘Well, I’m not!’ Horace said, then reddened as Alyss raised one eyebrow and Jenny giggled.
It was typical of Alyss, Will thought. He knew that the tall, graceful girl had already been promised a place as an apprentice by Lady Pauline, head of Castle Redmont’s Diplomatic Service. Her pretence that she was nervous about the following day, and her tact in refraining from pointing out Horace’s gaffe, showed that she was already a diplomat of some skill.
Jenny, of course, would gravitate immediately to the castle kitchens, domain of Master Chubb, Redmont’s Head Chef. He was a man renowned throughout the Kingdom for the banquets served in the castle’s massive dining hall. Jenny loved food and cooking and her easygoing nature and unfailing good humour would make her an invaluable staff member in the turmoil of the castle kitchens.
Battleschool would be Horace’s choice. Will glanced at his wardmate now, hungrily tucking into the roast turkey, ham and potatoes that he had heaped onto his plate. Horace was big for his age and a natural athlete. The chances that he would be refused were virtually nonexistent. Horace was exactly the type of recruit that Sir Rodney looked for in his warrior apprentices. Strong, athletic, fit. And, thought Will a trifle sourly, not too bright. Battleschool was the path to knighthood for boys like Horace – born commoners but with the physical abilities to serve as knights of the Kingdom.
Which left Will. What would his choice be? More importantly, as Horace had pointed out, what Craftmaster would accept him as an apprentice?
For Choosing Day was the pivotal point in the life of the castle wards. They were orphan children raised by the generosity of Baron Arald, the Lord of Redmont Fief. For the most part, their parents had died in the service of the fief, and the Baron saw it as his responsibility to care for and raise the children of his former subjects – and to give them an opportunity to improve their station in life wherever possible.
Choosing Day provided that opportunity.
Each year, castle wards turning fifteen could apply to be apprenticed to the masters of the various crafts that served the castle and its people. Ordinarily, craft apprentices were selected by dint of their parents’ occupations or influence with the Craftmasters. The castle wards usually had no such influence and this was their chance to win a future for themselves.
Those wards who weren’t chosen, or for whom no openings could be found, would be assigned to farming families in the nearby village, providing farm labour to raise the crops and animals that fed the castle inhabitants. It was rare for this to happen, Will knew. The Baron and his Craftmasters usually went out of their way to fit the wards into one craft or another. But it could happen and it was a fate he feared more than anything.
Horace caught his eye now and gave him a smug smile.
‘Still planning on applying for Battleschool, Will?’ he asked, through a mouthful of turkey and potatoes. ‘Better eat something then. You’ll need to build yourself up a little.’
He snorted with laughter and Will glowered at him. A few weeks previously, Horace had overheard Will confiding to Alyss that he desperately wanted to be selected for Battleschool, and he had made Will’s life a misery ever since, pointing out on every possible occasion that Will’s slight build was totally unsuited for the rigours of Battleschool training.
The fact that Horace was probably right only made matters worse. Where Horace was tall and muscular, Will was small and wiry. He was agile and fast and surprisingly strong but he simply didn’t have the size that he knew was required of Battleschool apprentices. He’d hoped against hope for the past few years that he would have what people called his ‘growing spurt’ before the Choosing Day came around. But it had never happened and now the day was nearly here.
As Will said nothing, Horace sensed that he had scored a verbal hit. This was a rarity in their turbulent relationship. Over the past few years, he and Will had clashed repeatedly. Being the stronger of the two, Horace usually got the better of Will, although very occasionally Will’s speed and agility allowed him to get in a surprise kick or a punch and then escape before Horace could catch him.
But while Horace generally had the best of their physical clashes, it was unusual for him to win any of their verbal encounters. Will’s wit was as agile as the rest of him and he almost always managed to have the last word. In fact, it was this tendency that often led to trouble between them: Will was yet to learn that having the last word was not always a good idea. Horace decided now to press his advantage.
‘You need muscles to get into Battleschool, Will. Real muscles,’ he said, glancing at the others around the table to see if anyone disagreed. The other wards, uncomfortable at the growing tension between the two boys, concentrated on their plates.
‘Particularly between the ears,’ Will replied and, unfortunately, Jenny couldn’t refrain from giggling. Horace’s face flushed and he started to rise from his seat. But Will was quicker and he was already at the door before Horace could disentangle himself from his chair. He contented himself with hurling a final insult after his retreating wardmate.
‘That’s right! Run away, Will No-Name! You’re a no-name and nobody will want you as an apprentice!’
In the anteroom outside, Will heard the parting sally and felt blood flush to his cheeks. It was the taunt he hated most, although he had tried never to let Horace know that, sensing that he would provide the bigger boy with a weapon if he did.
The truth was, nobody knew Will’s second name. Nobody knew who his parents had been. Unlike his yearmates, who had lived in the fief before their parents had died and whose family histories were known, Will had appeared, virtually out of nowhere, as a newborn baby. He had been found, wrapped in a small blanket and placed in a basket, on the steps of the Ward building fifteen years ago. A note had been attached to the blanket, reading simply:
That year, there had been only one other ward. Alyss’s father was a cavalry lieutenant who had died in the battle at Hackham Heath, when Morgarath’s Wargal army had been defeated and driven back to the mountains. Alyss’s mother, devastated by her loss, succumbed to a fever some weeks after giving birth. So there was plenty of room in the Ward for the unknown child, and Baron Arald was, at heart, a kindly man. Even though the circumstances were unusual, he had given permission for Will to be accepted as a ward of Castle Redmont. It seemed logical to assume that, if the note were true, Will’s father had died in the war against Morgarath, and since Baron Arald had taken a leading part in that war, he felt duty bound to honour the unknown father’s sacrifice.
So Will had become a Redmont ward, raised and educated by the Baron’s generosity. As time passed, the others had gradually joined him and Alyss until there were five in their year group. But while the others had memories of their parents or, in Alyss’s case, people who had known them and who could tell her about them, Will knew nothing of his past.
That was why he had invented the story that had sustained him throughout his childhood in the Ward. And, as the years passed and he added detail and colour to the story, he eventually came to believe it himself.
His father, he knew, had died a hero’s death. So it made sense to create a picture of him as a hero – a knight warrior in full armour, fighting against the Wargal hordes, cutting them down left and right until eventually he was overcome by sheer weight of numbers. Will had pictured the tall figure so often in his mind, seeing every detail of his armour and his equipment but never being able to visualise his face.
As a warrior, his father would expect him to follow in his footsteps. That was why selection for Battleschool was so important to Will. And that was why, the more unlikely it became that he would be selected, the more desperately he clung to the hope that he might.
He exited from the Ward building into the darkened castle yard. The sun was long down and the torches placed every twenty metres or so on the castle walls shed a flickering, uneven light. He hesitated a moment. He would not return to the Ward and face Horace’s continued taunts. To do so would only lead to another fight between them – a fight Will knew he would probably lose. George would probably try to analyse the situation for him, looking at both sides of the question and thoroughly confusing the issue. Alyss and Jenny might try to comfort him, he knew – Alyss particularly since they had grown up together. But at the moment he didn’t want their sympathy and he couldn’t face Horace’s taunts, so he headed for the one place where he knew he could find solitude.
The huge fig tree growing close by the castle’s central tower had often afforded him a haven. Heights held no fear for Will and he climbed smoothly into the tree, keeping going long after another might have stopped, until he was in the lighter branches at the very top – branches which swayed and dipped under his weight. In the past, he had often escaped from Horace up here. The bigger boy couldn’t match Will’s speed in the tree and he was unwilling to follow as high as this. Will found a convenient fork and wedged himself in it, his body giving slightly to the movement of the tree as the branches swayed in the evening breeze. Below, the foreshortened figures of the watch made their rounds of the castle yard.
He heard the door of the Ward building open and, looking down, saw Alyss emerge, looking around the yard for him in vain. The tall girl hesitated a few moments then, seeming to shrug, turned back inside. The elongated rectangle of light that the open door threw across the yard was cut off as she closed the door softly behind her. Strange, he thought, how seldom people tend to look up.
There was a rustle of soft feathers and a barn owl landed on the next branch, its head swivelling, its huge eyes catching every last ray of the faint light. It studied him without concern, seeming to know it had nothing to fear from him. It was a hunter. A silent flyer. A ruler of the night.
‘At least you know who you are,’ he said softly to the bird. It swivelled its head again, then launched itself off into the darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Gradually, as he sat there, the lights in the castle windows went out, one by one. The torches burnt down to smouldering husks and were replaced at midnight by the change of watch. Eventually, there was only one light left burning and that, he knew, was in the Baron’s study, where the Lord of Redmont was still presumably at work, poring over reports and papers. The study was virtually level with Will’s position in the tree and he could see the burly figure of the Baron seated at his desk. Finally Baron Arald rose, stretched and leaned forward to extinguish the lamp as he left the room, heading for his sleeping quarters on the floor above. Now the castle was asleep, except for the guards on the walls, who kept constant watch.
In less than nine hours, Will realised, he would face the Choosing. Silently, miserably, fearing the worst, he climbed down from the tree and made his way to his bed in the darkened boys’ dormitory in the Ward.
‘ALL RIGHT, CANDIDATES! This way! And look lively!’ The speaker, or more correctly the shouter, was Martin, secretary to Baron Arald. As his voice echoed around the anteroom, the five wards rose uncertainly from the long wooden benches where they had been seated. Suddenly nervous now that the day had finally arrived, they began to shuffle forward, each one reluctant to be the first through the great ironbound door that Martin now held open for them.
‘Come on, come on!’ Martin bellowed impatiently and Alyss finally elected to lead the way, as Will had guessed she would. The others followed the willowy blonde girl. Now that someone had decided to lead, the rest of them were content to follow.
Will looked around curiously as he entered the Baron’s study. He’d never been in this part of the castle before. This tower, containing the administrative section, and the Baron’s private apartments, was seldom visited by those of low rank – such as castle wards. The room was huge. The ceiling seemed to tower above him and the walls were constructed of massive stone blocks, fitted together with only the barest lines of mortar between them. On the eastern wall was a huge window space – open to the elements but with massive wooden shutters that could be closed in the event of bad weather. It was the same window he had seen through last night, he realised. Today, sunlight streamed in and fell on the huge oak table that Baron Arald used as a desk.
‘Come on now! Stand in line, stand in line!’ Martin seemed to be enjoying his moment of authority. The group shuffled slowly into line and he studied them, his mouth twisted in disapproval.
‘In size place! Tallest this end!’ He indicated the end where he wanted the tallest of the five to stand. Gradually, the group rearranged itself. Horace, of course, was the tallest. After him, Alyss took her position. Then George, half a head shorter than she and painfully thin. He stood in his usual stoop-shouldered posture. Will and Jenny hesitated. Jenny smiled at Will and gestured for him to go before her, even though she was possibly an inch taller than he was. That was typical of Jenny. She knew how Will agonised over the fact that he was the smallest of all the castle wards. As Will moved into the line, Martin’s voice stopped him.
‘Not you! The girl’s next.’
Jenny shrugged apologetically and moved into the place Martin had indicated. Will took the last place in the line, wishing Martin hadn’t made his lack of height so apparent.
‘Come on! Smarten up, smarten up! Let’s see you at attention there,’ Martin continued, then broke off as a deep voice interrupted him.
‘I don’t believe that’s totally necessary, Martin.’
It was Baron Arald, who had entered, unobserved, by way of a smaller door behind his massive desk. Now it was Martin who brought himself to what he considered to be a position of attention, with his skinny elbows held out from his sides, his heels forced together so that his unmistakably bowed legs were widely separated at the knees, and his head thrown back.
Baron Arald raised his eyes to heaven. Sometimes his secretary’s zeal on these occasions could be a little overwhelming. The Baron was a big man, broad in shoulder and waist and heavily muscled, as was necessary for a knight of the realm. It was well known, however, that Baron Arald was fond of his food and drink, so his considerable bulk was not totally attributable to muscle.
He had a short, neatly trimmed black beard that, like his hair, was beginning to show the traces of grey that went with his forty-two years. He had a strong jaw, a large nose and dark, piercing eyes under heavy brows. It was a powerful face, but not an unkind one, Will thought. There was a surprising hint of humour in those dark eyes. Will had noted it before, on the occasions when Arald had made his infrequent visits to the wards’ quarters to see how their lessons and personal development were progressing.
‘Sir!’ Martin said at top volume, causing the Baron to wince slightly. ‘The candidates are assembled!’
‘I can see that,’ Baron Arald replied patiently. ‘Perhaps you might be good enough to ask the Craftmasters to step in as well?’
‘Sir!’ Martin responded, making an attempt to click his heels together. As he was wearing shoes of a soft, pliable leather, the attempt was doomed to failure. He marched towards the main door of the study, all elbows and knees. Will was reminded of a rooster. As Martin laid his hand on the door handle, the Baron stopped him once more.
‘Martin?’ he said softly. As the secretary turned an inquiring look back at him, he continued in the same quiet tone, ‘Ask them. Don’t bellow at them. Craftmasters don’t like that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Martin, looking somewhat deflated. He opened the door and, making an obvious effort to speak in a lower tone, said, ‘Craftmasters. The Baron is ready now.’
The Craftschool heads entered the room in no particular order of precedence. As a group, they admired and respected each other and so rarely stood on strict ceremonial procedure. Sir Rodney, head of the Battleschool, came first. Tall and broad-shouldered like the Baron, he wore the standard battledress of chain mail shirt under a white surcoat emblazoned with his own crest, a scarlet wolfshead. He had earned that crest as a young man, fighting the wolfships of the Skandian sea raiders who constantly harried the Kingdom’s east coast. He wore a sword belt and sword, of course. No knight would be seen in public without one. He was around the Baron’s age, with blue eyes and a face that would have been remarkably handsome if it weren’t for the massively broken nose. He sported an enormous moustache but, unlike the Baron, he had no beard.
Next came Ulf, the Horsemaster, responsible for the care and training of the castle’s mighty battlehorses. He had keen brown eyes, strong, muscular forearms and heavy wrists. He wore a simple leather vest over his woollen shirt and leggings. Tall riding boots of soft leather reached up past his knees.
Lady Pauline followed Ulf. Slim, grey-haired and elegant, she had been a considerable beauty in her youth and still had the grace and style to turn men’s heads. Lady Pauline, who had been awarded the title in her own right for her work in foreign policy for the Kingdom, was head of the Diplomatic Service in Redmont. Baron Arald regarded her abilities highly and she was one of his close confidants and advisers. Arald often said that girls made the best recruits to the Diplomatic Service. They tended to be more subtle than boys, who gravitated naturally to Battleschool. And while boys constantly looked to physical means as the way of solving problems, girls could be depended on to use their wits.
It was perhaps only natural that Nigel, the Scribe-master, followed close behind Lady Pauline. They had been discussing matters of mutual interest while they waited for Martin to summon them. Nigel and Lady Pauline were close friends as well as professional colleagues. It was Nigel’s trained scribes who prepared the official documents and communiqués that were so often delivered by Lady Pauline’s diplomats. He also advised on the exact wording of such documents, having an extensive background in legal matters. Nigel was a small, wiry man with a quick, inquisitive face that reminded Will of a ferret. His hair was glossy black, his features were thin and his dark eyes never ceased roaming the room.
Master Chubb, the Head Chef, came in last of all. Inevitably, he was a fat, round-bellied man, wearing a cook’s white jacket and tall hat. He was known to have a terrible temper that could flare as quickly as oil spilt on a fire, and most of the wards treated him with considerable caution. Florid-faced and with red, rapidly receding hair, Master Chubb carried a wooden ladle with him wherever he went. It was an unofficial staff of office. It was also used quite often as an offensive weapon, landing with a resounding crack on the heads of careless, forgetful or slow-moving kitchen apprentices. Alone among the wards, Jennifer saw Chubb as something of a hero. It was her avowed intention to work for him and learn his skills, wooden ladle or no wooden ladle.
There were other Craftmasters, of course. The Armourer and the Blacksmith were two. But only those Craftmasters who currently had vacancies for new apprentices would be represented today.
‘The Craftmasters are assembled, sir!’ Martin said, his voice rising in volume. Martin seemed to equate volume and the importance of the occasion in direct proportion. Once again, the Baron raised his eyes to heaven.
‘So I see,’ he said quietly, then added, in a more formal tone, ‘Good morning, Lady Pauline. Good morning, gentlemen.’
They replied and the Baron turned to Martin once more. ‘Perhaps we might proceed?’
Martin nodded several times, consulted a sheaf of notes he held in one hand and marched to confront the line of candidates.
‘Right, the Baron’s waiting! The Baron’s waiting! Who’s first?’
Will, eyes down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, suddenly had the strange sensation that someone was watching him. He looked up and actually started with surprise as he met the dark, unfathomable gaze of Halt, the Ranger.
Will hadn’t seen him come into the room. He realised that the mysterious figure must have slipped in through a side door while everyone’s attention was on the Craftmasters as they made their entrance. Now he stood, behind the Baron’s chair and slightly to one side, dressed in his usual brown and grey clothes and wrapped in his long, mottled grey and green Ranger’s cloak. Halt was an unnerving person. He had a habit of coming up on you when you least expected it – and you never heard his approach. The superstitious villagers believed that Rangers practised a form of magic that made them invisible to ordinary people. Will wasn’t sure if he believed that – but he wasn’t sure he disbelieved it either. He wondered why Halt was here today. He wasn’t recognised as one of the Craftmasters and, as far as Will knew, he hadn’t attended a Choosing session prior to this one.
Abruptly, Halt’s gaze cut away from him and it was as if a light had been turned off. Will realised that Martin was talking once more. He noticed that the secretary had a habit of repeating statements, as if he were followed by his own personal echo.
‘Now then, who’s first? Who’s first?’
The Baron sighed audibly. ‘Why don’t we take the first in line?’ he suggested in a reasonable tone, and Martin nodded several times.
‘Of course, my lord. Of course. First in line, step forward and face the Baron.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Horace stepped forward out of the line and stood at attention. The Baron studied him for a few seconds.
‘Name?’ he said, and Horace answered, stumbling slightly over the correct method of address for the Baron.
‘Horace Altman, sir … my lord.’
‘And do you have a preference, Horace?’ the Baron asked, with the air of one who knows what the answer is going to be before hearing it.
‘Battleschool, sir!’ Horace said firmly. The Baron nodded. He’d expected as much. He glanced at Rodney, who was studying the boy thoughtfully, assessing his suitability.
‘Battlemaster?’ the Baron said. Normally he would address Rodney by his first name, not his title. But this was a formal occasion. By the same token, Rodney would usually address the Baron as ‘sir’. But on a day like today, ‘my lord’ was the proper form.
The big knight stepped forward, his chain mail and spurs chinking slightly as he moved closer to Horace. He eyed the boy up and down, then moved behind him. Horace’s head started to turn with him.
‘Still,’ Sir Rodney said, and the boy ceased his movement, staring straight ahead.
‘Looks strong enough, my lord, and I can always use new trainees.’ He rubbed one hand over his chin. ‘You ride, Horace Altman?’
A look of uncertainty crossed Horace’s face as he realised this might be a hurdle to his selection. ‘No, sir. I …’
He was about to add that castle wards had little chance to learn to ride but Sir Rodney interrupted him.
‘No matter. That can be taught.’ The big knight looked at the Baron and nodded. ‘Very well, my lord. I’ll take him for Battleschool, subject to the usual three-month probationary period.’
The Baron made a note on a sheet of paper before him and smiled briefly at the delighted, and very relieved, youth before him.
‘Congratulations, Horace. Report to Battleschool tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Horace replied, grinning widely. He turned to Sir Rodney and bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ the knight replied cryptically. ‘You don’t know what you’re in for.’
‘WHO’S NEXT THEN?’ Martin was calling as Horace, grinning broadly, stepped back into the line. Alyss stepped forward gracefully, annoying Martin, who had wanted to nominate her as the next candidate.
‘Alyss Mainwaring, my lord,’ she said in her quiet, level voice. Then, before she could be asked, she continued, ‘I request an appointment to the Diplomatic Service please, my lord.’
Arald smiled at the solemn-looking girl. She had an air of self-confidence and poise about her that would suit her well in the Service. He glanced at Lady Pauline.
‘My lady?’ he said.
She nodded her head several times. ‘I’ve already spoken to Alyss, my lord. I believe she will be an excellent candidate. Approved and accepted.’
Alyss made a small bow of her head in the direction of the woman who would be her mentor. Will thought how alike they were – both tall and elegant in their movements, both grave in manner. He felt a small surge of pleasure for his oldest companion, knowing how much she had wanted this selection. Alyss stepped back in line and Martin, not to be forestalled this time, was already pointing to George.
‘Right! You’re next! You’re next! Address the Baron.’
George stepped forward. His mouth opened and closed several times but nothing came out. The other wards watched in surprise. George, long regarded by them all as the official advocate for just about everything, was overcome with stage fright. He finally managed to say something in a low voice that nobody in the room could hear. Baron Arald leaned forward, one hand cupped behind his ear.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that?’ he said. George looked up at the Baron and, with an enormous effort, spoke in a just-audible voice.
‘G-George Carter, sir. Scribeschool, sir.’
Martin, ever a stickler for the proprieties, drew breath to berate him for the truncated nature of his address. Before he could do so, and to everyone’s evident relief, Baron Arald stepped in.
‘Very well, Martin. Let it go.’ Martin looked a little aggrieved but subsided. The Baron glanced at Nigel, his chief scribe and legal officer, with one eyebrow raised in question.
‘Acceptable, my lord,’ Nigel said, adding, ‘I’ve seen some of George’s work and he really does have a gift for calligraphy.’
The Baron looked doubtful. ‘He’s not the most forceful of speakers, though, is he, Scribemaster? That could be a problem if he has to offer legal counsel at any time in the future.’
Nigel shrugged the objection aside. ‘I promise you, my lord, with proper training that sort of thing represents no problem. Absolutely no problem at all, my lord.’
The Master Scribe folded his hands together into the wide sleeves of the monk-like habit he wore as he warmed to his theme.
‘I remember a boy who joined us some seven years back, rather like this one here, as a matter of fact. He had that same habit of mumbling to his shoes – but we soon showed him how to overcome it. Some of our most reluctant speakers have gone on to develop absolute eloquence, my lord, absolute eloquence.’
The Baron drew breath to comment but Nigel continued in his discourse.
‘It may even surprise you to hear that, as a boy, I myself suffered from a most terrible nervous stutter. Absolutely terrible, my lord. Could barely put two words together at a time.’
‘Hardly a problem now, I see,’ the Baron managed to put in dryly, and Nigel smiled, taking the point. He bowed to the Baron.
‘Exactly, my lord. We’ll soon help young George overcome his shyness. Nothing like the rough and tumble of Scribeschool for that. Absolutely.’
The Baron smiled in spite of himself. The Scribeschool was a studious place where voices were rarely, if ever, raised and where logical, reasoned debate reigned supreme. Personally, on his visits to the place, he had found it mind-numbing in the extreme. Anything less like a rough and tumble atmosphere he could not imagine.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he replied, then, to George, he said, ‘Very well, George, request granted. Report to Scribeschool tomorrow.’
George shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘Mumble-mumble-mumble,’ he said and the Baron leaned forward again, frowning as he tried to make out the low-pitched words.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
George finally looked up and managed to whisper, ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He hurriedly shuffled back to the relative anonymity of the line.
‘Oh,’ said the Baron, a little taken aback. ‘Think nothing of it. Now, next is …’
Jenny was already stepping forward. Blonde and pretty, she was also, it had to be admitted, a little on the chubby side. But the look suited her and at any of the castle’s social functions, she was a much sought-after dance partner with the boys in the castle, both her yearmates in the Ward and the sons of castle staff as well.