BOOK 5
THE SORCERER
IN THE NORTH
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Have You Got What It Takes to be a Ranger?
Map
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
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Sneak Preview
About the Author
Have You Read Them All?
Also by John Flanagan
Copyright
RANGER’S APPRENTICE: THE SORCERER IN THE NORTH
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 10101 6
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2011
Copyright © John Flanagan, 2006
Cover design by Tony Sahara
Cover illustration © Shane Rebenschield
First Published in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd in 2006
First Published in Great Britain by Corgi Yearling in 2009
The right of John Flanagan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN’S PUBLISHERS UK
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.randomhousechildrens.co.uk
www.totallyrandombooks.co.uk
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
To Lyn Smith, for your years of support and encouragement.
HAVE YOU READ THEM ALL?
THE RUINS OF GORLAN (BOOK 1)
Will’s training as an apprentice is gruelling, but his skills will be needed if he is to prevent the King’s assassination.
THE BURNING BRIDGE (BOOK 2)
Will faces his most dangerous mission yet: the King’s army has been deceived, and are headed for a brutal ambush.
THE ICEBOUND LAND (BOOK 3)
Will is trapped on a ship headed to the icebound land of Skandia. If he cannot escape, he faces a life of backbreaking slavery.
OAKLEAF BEARERS (BOOK 4)
Evanlyn has been taken captive by a mysterious horseman, and Will’s attempts to rescue her lead him to the territory of a fearsome new enemy.
THE SORCERER OF THE NORTH (BOOK 5)
Will is a Ranger at last, but his new land is under threat from the terrifying figure of the Night Warrior.
THE SIEGE OF MACINDAW (BOOK 6)
A renegade knight has captured Castle Macindaw, and someone Will loves is being held hostage.
ERAK’S RANSOM (BOOK 7)
The Skandian leader has been taken by a dangerous desert tribe. To save him, Will must face violent sandstorms, warring tribes and hidden danger.
THE KINGS OF CLONMEL (BOOK 8)
The surrounding kingdoms are falling prey to a religious cult. Only Clonmel is uncorrupted, but it too will fall without the Rangers’ help.
HALT’S PERIL (BOOK 9)
Will and Halt are determined to stop a renegade outlaw group, but their battle is deadly and Will faces the prospect of returning home alone.
THE EMPEROR OF NIHON-JA (BOOK 10)
Will must restore order to Nihon-Ja by facing the highly-trained Senshi warriors, who intend to overthrow the Emperor.
THE LOST STORIES (BOOK 11)
A collection of tales that reveal the unheard legends of the Rangers of Araluen.
THE ROYAL RANGER (BOOK 12)
Will is given an apprentice of his own, but can he turn his back on the dark path of revenge he is set upon?
ALSO BY JOHN FLANAGAN
HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES
TO BE A RANGER?
The Rangers are an elite Special Forces Corps in the medieval Kingdom of Araluen. They are the eyes and ears of the Kingdom, the intelligence gatherers, the scouts and the troubleshooters.
Rangers are expert archers and carry two knives – one for throwing, and one for hunting. They are also highly skilled at tracking, concealment and unseen movement. Their ability to become virtually invisible has led common folk to view them with fear, thinking the Rangers must use black magic.
Occasionally, a young man who is judged to have the qualities of honesty, courage, agility and intelligence will be invited to undertake a five-year apprenticeship – to develop his natural abilities and instruct him in the almost supernatural skills of a Ranger.
If he passes his first year, he is given a bronze medallion in the shape of an oakleaf.
If he graduates, the bronze will be exchanged for the silver oakleaf of an Oakleaf Bearer – a Ranger of the Kingdom of Araluen.
IN THE NORTH, he knew, the early winter gales, driving the rain before them, would send the sea crashing against the shore, causing white clouds of spray to burst high into the air.
Here, in the south-eastern corner of the Kingdom, the only signs of approaching winter were the gentle puffs of steam that marked the breath of his two horses. The sky was clear blue, almost painfully so, and the sun was warm on his shoulders. He could almost have dozed off in the saddle, leaving Tug to pick his way along the road, but the years he had spent training and conditioning in a hard and unforgiving discipline would never allow such an indulgence.
Will’s eyes moved constantly, searching left to right, right to left, close in and far ahead. An observer might never notice this constant movement, as his head remained still. Again, that was his training: to see without being seen; to notice without being noticed. He knew this part of the Kingdom was relatively untroubled. That was why he had been assigned to the Fief of Seacliff. After all, a brand new, just-commissioned Ranger was hardly going to be handed one of the Kingdom’s trouble spots. He smiled idly at the thought. The prospect of taking up his first solo posting was daunting enough without having to worry about invasion or insurrection. He would be content to find his feet here in this peaceful backwater.
The smile died on Will’s lips as his keen eyes saw something in the middle distance, almost concealed by the long grass beside the road.
His outward bearing gave no sign that he had noticed anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t stiffen in his seat or rise in the stirrups to look more closely, as the majority of people might have done. On the contrary, he appeared to slouch a little more in the saddle as he rode – seemingly disinterested in the world around him. But his eyes, hidden in the deep shadow under the hood of his cloak, probed urgently. Something had moved, he was sure. And now, in the long grass to one side of the road, he thought he could see a trace of black and white – colours that were totally out of place in the fading greens and new russets of autumn.
Nor was he the only one to sense something out of place. Tug’s ears twitched once and he tossed his head, shaking his mane and letting loose a rumbling neigh that Will felt in the barrel-like chest as much as heard.
‘I see it,’ he said quietly, letting the horse know that the warning was registered. Reassured by Will’s low voice, Tug quietened, though his ears were still pricked and alert. The pack horse, ambling contentedly beside and behind them, showed no interest. But it was a transport animal pure and simple, not a Ranger-trained horse like Tug.
The long grass shivered once more. It was only a faint movement but there was no wind to cause it – as the hanging clouds of steam from the horses’ breath clearly showed. Will shrugged his shoulders slightly, ensuring that his quiver was clear. His massive longbow lay across his knees, ready strung. Rangers didn’t travel with their bows slung across their shoulders. They carried them ready for instant use. Always.
His heart was beating slightly faster than normal. The movement in the grass was barely thirty metres away by now. He recalled Halt’s teaching: Don’t concentrate on the obvious. They may want you to see that so you miss something else.
He realised that his total attention had become focused on the long grass beside the road. Quickly, his eyes scanned left and right again, reaching out to the treeline some forty metres back from the road on either side. Perhaps there were men hiding in the shadows, ready to charge out while his attention was distracted by whatever it was that was lying in the grass at the road’s edge. Robbers, outlaws, mercenaries, who knew?
He saw nothing in the trees and, as he casually turned to adjust the pack horse’s lead rein, he saw nothing behind them either. Even more reassuring was the fact that Tug was sending no further signals. Had there been men in the trees, the small horse would have been giving him constant warning.
He touched Tug with his knee and the horse stopped, the pack horse continuing a few paces before it followed suit. His right hand went unerringly to the quiver, selected an arrow and laid it on the bowstring in less than a second. He shrugged back the hood so that his head was bare. The longbow, the small shaggy horse and the distinctive grey and green mottled cloak would identify him as a Ranger to any observer, he knew.
‘Who’s there?’ he called, raising the bow slightly, the arrow nocked and ready. He didn’t draw back yet. If there were anyone skulking in the grass, they’d know that a Ranger could draw, fire and hit his mark before they had gone two paces.
No answer. Tug stood still, trained to be rock steady in case his master had to shoot.
‘Show yourself,’ Will called. ‘You in the black and white. Show yourself.’
The stray thought crossed his mind that only a few moments ago he had been daydreaming about this being a peaceful backwater. Now he was facing a possible ambush by an unknown enemy.
‘Last chance,’ he called. ‘Show yourself or I’ll send an arrow in your direction.’
And then he heard it, possibly in response to his voice. A low whimpering sound: the sound of a dog in pain. Tug heard it too. His ears flicked back and forth and he snorted uncertainly.
A dog? Will thought. A wild dog, perhaps, lying in wait to attack? He discarded the idea almost as soon as it formed in his mind. A wild dog wouldn’t have made any sound to warn him. Besides, the sound he had heard had been one of pain, not a snarl or a warning growl of anger. It had been a whimper. He came to a decision.
In one fluid movement, he removed his left foot from the stirrup, crossed his right leg over the saddle pommel and dropped lightly to the ground. Dismounting in that fashion, he remained at all times facing the direction of possible danger, with both hands free to shoot. Had the need arisen, he could have loosed his first shot as soon as his feet touched the ground.
Tug snorted again. In moments of uncertainty like this, Tug preferred to have Will safely in the saddle, where the little horse’s quick reflexes and nimble feet could take him quickly out of danger.
‘It’s all right,’ Will told the horse briefly, and walked quietly forward, bow at the ready.
Ten metres. Eight. Five … he could see the black and white clearly now through the dry grass. And now, as he was closer, he saw something else in the black and white: the matted brown of dried blood and the rich red of fresh blood. The whimper came again and finally Will saw clearly what it was that had stopped them.
He turned and gave the ‘safe’ hand signal to Tug, and the horse responded by trotting forward to join him. Then, setting the bow aside, Will knelt beside the wounded dog lying in the grass.
‘What is it, boy?’ he said gently. The dog turned its head at the sound of the voice, then whimpered again as Will touched it gently, his eyes running over the long, bleeding gash in its side, stretching from behind the right shoulder back to the rear haunch. As the animal moved, more fresh blood welled out of the wound. Will could see one eye as the dog lay, apparently exhausted, on its side. It was filled with pain.
It was a border shepherd, he realised, one of the sheep dogs bred in the northern border region, and known for their intelligence and loyalty. The body was black, with a pure white ruff at the throat and chest and a white tip to the bushy tail. The legs were white and the black fur repeated again at the dog’s head, as if a cowl had been placed over it, so that the ears were black, while a white blaze ran up the muzzle and between the eyes.
The gash in the dog’s side didn’t appear to be too deep and the chances were that the ribcage had protected the dog’s vital organs. But it was fearfully long and the wide-gaping edges were even, as if they had been cut by a blade. And it had bled a lot. That, he realised, would be the biggest problem. The dog was weak. It had lost a lot of blood. Perhaps too much.
Will rose and moved to his saddle bags, untying the medical kit that all Rangers carried. Tug eyed him curiously, satisfied now that the dog represented no threat. Will shrugged and gestured to the medical kit.
‘It works for people,’ he said. ‘It should be all right for a dog.’
He returned to the injured animal, touching its head softly. The dog tried to raise its head but he gently held it down, crooning encouraging words to it as he opened the medical pack with his free hand.
‘Now let’s take a look at what they’ve done to you, boy,’ he said.
The fur around the wound was matted with blood and he cleaned it as best he could with water from his canteen. Then he opened a small container and carefully smeared the paste it contained along the edges of the wound. The salve was a painkiller that would numb the wound so that he could clean it and bandage it without causing more pain to the dog.
He allowed a few minutes for the salve to take effect, then began wiping the wound with a herbal preparation that would prevent infection setting in and help the wound heal. The painkiller was working well and his ministrations seemed to be causing no problem for the dog, so he used it liberally. As he worked, he saw that he had misnamed the dog by calling it ‘boy’. It was a female.
The border shepherd, sensing that he was helping, lay still. Occasionally, she whimpered again. But not in pain. The sound was more a sound of gratitude. Will sat back on his haunches, head to one side as he surveyed the cleaned wound. Fresh blood still seeped from the gash and he knew he would have to close it. Bandaging was hardly practical, however, with the thick fur of the dog and the awkward position of the wound. He shrugged, realising that he would have to stitch it.
‘Might as well get on with it while the salve’s still working,’ he told the bitch. She lay with her head on the ground, but one eye swivelled round to watch him as he worked.
The shepherd obviously felt the sensation of the needle as he quickly put in a dozen stitches of fine silk thread and drew the lips of the wound together. But there seemed to be no pain and, after an initial flinching reaction, she lay still and allowed him to continue.
Finished, Will rested one hand gently on the black and white head, feeling the softness of the thick fur. The wound seemed to be effectively closed, but it was obvious that the dog would be unable to walk.
‘Stay here,’ he said softly. ‘Stay.’
The dog lay obediently as he moved to the pack horse and began rearranging its load.
There were two long satchels, holding books and personal effects, on either side of the pack saddle. They left a depression between them and he found a spare cloak and several blankets to line the space until he had a soft, comfortable nest in which the dog could lie – with enough space for her to move a little but snug enough to hold her securely in place.
Crossing back to where she lay, he slid his arms under the warm body and gently lifted her, talking all the time in a low crooning voice. The salve was effective but it didn’t last long and he knew the wound would be hurting again soon. The dog whimpered once, then held her peace as he lifted her into position in the space he had prepared. Again, he fondled her head, scratching the ears gently. She moved her head slightly to lick his hand. The small movement seemed to exhaust her. He noted with interest that she had eyes of two different colours. Till this moment, he had seen only the left eye, the brown one, as the dog lay on her side. Now, as he moved her, he could see that the right eye was blue. It gave her a raffish, mischievous look, he thought, even in her current low condition.
‘Good girl,’ he told her. Then, as he turned back to Tug, he realised that the little horse was eyeing him curiously.
‘We’ve got a dog,’ he said. Tug shook his head and snorted.
Why? the horse’s action seemed to ask.
EARLY IN THE afternoon they reached the sea and Will knew he was near the end of his journey.
Castle Seacliff was set on a large, leaf-shaped island, separated from the mainland by a hundred metres of deep water. At low tide a narrow causeway allowed access to the island, but at high tide, as it was now, a ferry provided transport across. The difficult access had helped keep Seacliff secure for many years and was one of the reasons why the fief had become something of a backwater. In earlier times, of course, the raiding Skandians in their wolfships had made things quite lively. But it had been some years now since the sea wolves from the north had raided the coast of Araluen.
The island was perhaps twelve kilometres in length and eight across, and Will could not yet see the castle itself. He assumed it would be set somewhere in the high ground towards the middle – that was basic strategic thinking. For the moment, however, it was hidden from sight.
He had debated stopping for a meal at noon but now, so close to the end of his journey, he decided to press on. There would be an inn of some kind in the village that would huddle close to the castle walls. Or he might find a meal in the castle kitchens. He tugged the lead rein to bring the pack horse alongside and leaned over to inspect the wounded dog. Her eyes were closed and her nose rested on her front paws. He could see the black sides moving in and out as she breathed. There was a little more blood around the lips of the wound but the main flow had been staunched. Satisfied that she was comfortable, Will touched a heel to Tug’s side and they moved on down to the ferry, a large, flat-bottomed punt that was drawn up on the beach.
The operator, a heavily muscled man of about forty, was sprawled on the deck of his craft, sleeping in the warm autumn sunshine. He came awake, however, as some sixth sense registered the slight jingle of harness from the two horses. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, then came quickly to his feet.
‘I need to get across to the island,’ Will told him and the man saluted clumsily.
‘Yes indeed, sir. Of course. At your service, Ranger.’
There was a hint of nervousness in his voice. Will sighed inwardly. He was still unused to the thought that people were wary of Rangers – even one as fresh-faced as he was. He was a naturally friendly young man and he often longed for easy companionship with other people. But that was not the Rangers’ way. It served their purpose to remain aloof from ordinary people. There was an air of mystery about the Ranger Corps. Their legendary skill with their weapons, their ability to move about unseen and the secretive nature of their organisation all added to their mystique.
The boatman heaved on the thick cable that ran from the mainland to the island, passing through large pulleys set at either end of the punt. The punt, afloat at one end, moved easily from the beach until it rested wholly in the water. Will guessed that the pulley arrangements gave the operator a mechanical advantage that allowed him to move the large craft so easily.
There was a tariff board nailed to the railing and the operator saw him study it.
‘No charge for a Ranger, sir. Free passage for you.’
Will shook his head. Halt had impressed on him the need to pay his way. Be beholden to no one, he had said. Make sure you owe nobody any favours.
He calculated quickly. Half a royal per person, and the same for each horse. Plus four pennigs for other animals. Close enough to two royals all told. He swung down from the saddle, took a gold three-royal piece from his purse and handed it to the man.
‘I’ll pay,’ he said. ‘Two royals is close enough.’ The man looked at the coin, then looked at the rider and the two horses, puzzled. Will jerked his head towards the pack horse.
‘There’s another animal on the pack horse,’ he explained. The ferry operator nodded, and handed him a silver one-royal piece in change.
‘Right enough, sir,’ he said. He glanced curiously at the pack horse as Will led it onto the punt, taking in the dog in its snug retreat.
‘Good looking dog, that ’un,’ he said. ‘He’s yours, is he?’
‘I found her injured by the road,’ Will said. ‘Someone had cut her with a blade of some sort and left her to die.’
The boatman rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. ‘Jack Buttle has a shepherd like that one. And he’d be the kind to injure a dog and leave it that way. Has a nasty temper, Jack does, particularly when he’s in his drink.’
‘And what does this Jack Buttle do?’ Will asked.
The boatman shrugged. ‘He’s a herder by trade. But he does most things. Some say he does his real work at nights along the roads, looking for travellers who are about after dark. But no one’s proved it. He’s a might too handy with that spear of his for my liking. He’s a good man to stay away from.’
Will glanced at the pack horse again, thinking of the cruel wound in the dog’s side.
‘If Buttle’s the one who hurt that dog, he’ll do well to stay away from me,’ he said coldly.
The boatman studied him for a moment. The face was young and well-featured. But there was a hard light in the eyes, he saw. He realised that with Rangers, it never did to assume too much. This pleasant-looking lad wouldn’t be wearing the Ranger grey and green if he didn’t have steel in him. Rangers were deceptive folk and that was a fact. There were even some who held that they were skilled in the black arts of magic and sorcery and the boatman wasn’t altogether sure that those people didn’t have the right of it. Surreptitiously making a sign to ward off evil, he moved to the front of the punt, glad for an excuse to break off the conversation.
‘Best be getting us across then,’ he said. Will sensed the change in atmosphere. He glanced at Tug and raised his eyebrows. The horse didn’t deign to notice.
As the boatman heaved again on the thick hawser, the punt slid across the water towards the island, small waves burbling under the blunt prow and slapping against the low timber sides. Will noticed that the ferry operator’s home, a small planked hut with a thatched roof, was on the island side – presumably as a security measure. The prow of the ferry soon grated into the island’s coarse sand, the current slewing it sideways a little as the forward progress stopped. The operator unhitched the single rope rail across the front and gestured for Will to disembark. Will swung up astride Tug and the horses’ hooves clopped on the planks as they stepped carefully forward.
‘Thank you,’ he said as Tug stepped off onto the beach. The ferry operator saluted again.
‘At your service, Ranger,’ he said. He watched the slim, erect figure as he rode into the trees and was lost from sight.
It took another half hour to reach the castle. The road wound upwards towards the centre of the island, through well-spaced, windswept trees. There was plenty of light, unlike the thick forests around Castle Redmont, or the dark pine forests of Skandia that Will remembered.
The leaves had turned but so far most of them remained on the branches. All in all, it was pleasant country. As he rode, Will saw plenty of evidence of game – rabbits, of course, and wild turkey. Once he caught a quick flash of white when a deer showed him its hindquarters as it bounded away. Poaching would probably be rife here, he thought. Will had a basic sympathy for the villagers who sought occasionally to augment their unvaried diet with venison or game birds. Fortunately, poaching was a matter of local law and would be policed by the baron’s gamekeepers. As a matter of policy, though, Will would need to discover the identities of the local professionals. Poachers could be a prime source of information about goings-on. And information was a Ranger’s stock-in-trade.
The trees thinned eventually and he rode out into the sunlight again. The winding uphill road had brought him to a natural plateau, a wide plain perhaps a kilometre across. In the centre of the plain stood Castle Seacliff and its dependent village – a huddle of thatched cottages set close to the castle walls.
The castle itself, to one used to the impressive mass of Castle Redmont or the soaring beauty of the King’s Castle Araluen, was something of a disappointment. It was little more than a fort, Will realised, with the surrounding walls barely topping five metres in height. As he looked more closely, he could see that at least one section of the wall was constructed from timber – large tree trunks set vertically into the ground and bound together with iron brackets. It was an effective enough barrier, he thought, but it lacked the dramatic impact of Redmont’s massive ironstone walls. But there were solidly buttressed towers at each corner and a central keep, which would provide a haven of last resort in the event of an attack. Over the keep, he could see the stag’s head banner of Baron Ergell as it stirred on the light afternoon sea breeze.
‘We’re here,’ he told Tug and the horse shook its mane as it heard his voice.
He had reined in at the first sight of the castle. Now he touched Tug’s side with his heels and they started forward again. As ever, the pack horse moved off a little more slowly, dragging momentarily on the lead rope as they made their way through the open farm fields towards the castle. There was a smell of smoke in the air. The corn stooks had been bundled up and burnt after the harvest was brought in and they were still smouldering. In a week or two the farmers would plough the ashes back into the fields and the sequence would begin once more. The smell of smoke, the bare fields and the low-angled autumn afternoon sunlight all evoked memories in Will. Memories of growing up. Of harvests and harvest festivals. Of hazy summers, smoky autumns and snow-covered winters. And, in the last six years, of the deep affection that had grown between him and his mentor, the deceptively grim-faced Ranger called Halt.
There were a few workers in the fields and they stopped to stare at the cloaked figure as he rode towards the castle. He nodded to one or two of those who were closest to him and they nodded back, cautiously, raising their hands in salute. Simple farm people didn’t understand Rangers and, as a result, they didn’t wholly trust them either. Of course, Will knew, in times of war or danger, they would look to the Rangers for help and protection and leadership. But now, with no threatening danger, they would keep their distance from him.
The occupants of the castle would be a different matter. Baron Ergell and his Battlemaster – Will searched for the name for a few seconds, then recalled it was Norris – understood the role of the Ranger Corps and the value that its members brought to the Kingdom’s fifty fiefs. They didn’t fear Rangers, but that didn’t mean he would enjoy a close relationship with them either. Theirs would be a working partnership.
Remember, Halt had told him, our task is to assist the barons but our first loyalty is to the King. We are the direct representatives of the King’s will and sometimes that may not exactly coincide with local interests. We co-operate with the barons and we advise them. But we maintain our independence from them. Don’t allow yourself to become indebted to your baron, or to become too close to the people of the castle.
Of course, in a fief like Redmont, where Will had done his training, things were slightly different. Baron Arald, the Lord of Redmont, was a member of the King’s inner council. That allowed for a closer relationship between the Baron, his officers and Halt, the Ranger assigned to his fief. But in general, a Ranger’s life was a solitary one.
There were compensations, of course. Chief among them was the camaraderie that existed between members of the Corps itself. There were fifty Rangers on active service, one for each fief in the Kingdom, and they all knew each other by name. Indeed, Will was well acquainted with the man he was replacing at Seacliff. Bartell had been one of his examiners for his annual assessments as an apprentice, and it was his decision to retire which had led to Will’s being presented with his silver oakleaf, the symbol of a full-fledged Ranger. Bartell, getting on in years and unable to face the rigours of Ranger life – hard riding, sleeping rough and constant vigilance – had traded his own silver oakleaf for the gold of retirement. He had been re-assigned to the Corps headquarters at Castle Araluen, where he was working in the archives section, compiling the history of the Corps.
Will smiled briefly. He had grown to like Bartell, a well-read and amazingly knowledgeable man, in spite of the fact that their first few meetings had been occasions of distinct discomfort for Will. Bartell had been expert at devising tests for the apprentice that were calculated to make the young man’s life miserable. Will had since come to value the tough questions and difficult problems that Bartell had posed for him. They had all helped prepare him for the difficult life of a Ranger.
That life itself was the other chief compensation for the solitary nature of the Ranger’s day-to-day existence. There was a deep satisfaction and an irresistible allure to being part of an elite band that knew the inner workings and the political secrets of the whole Kingdom. Ranger apprentices were recruited for their physical skills – co-ordination, nimbleness, speed of hand and eye – but even more so for their natural curiosity. A Ranger sought always to know more, to ask more and to find out more about what went on around him. As a youngster, before Halt had recruited him, that restless curiosity, and the precociousness that stemmed from it, had caused Will more than his share of troubles.
He was entering the small village now and more people were observing him. Most of them wouldn’t make eye contact, and the few who did dropped their gaze when he nodded to them – pleasantly enough, he thought. They saluted, with a clumsy movement of hand to brow, and moved aside to let him pass – quite needlessly, in fact, as there was plenty of room in the broad village street. He made out the symbols for the usual trades that could be found in any village: blacksmith, carpenter, cobbler.
At the end of the single street was a larger building. It was the only two-storey structure in the village and it had a wide verandah at the front and the symbol of a tankard hanging above the door. The inn, he realised. It looked clean and well kept, the shutters of the upstairs bedroom windows freshly painted and the mud walls whitewashed. As he watched, one of the upstairs windows opened and a girl’s head appeared at the opening. She looked to be about nineteen or twenty, with dark, close-cropped hair and wide-set green eyes. She had a clear complexion and was remarkably pretty. What was more, alone among the people of the village, she continued to meet his gaze as he looked at her. In fact, she went so far as to smile at him and, when she did, the face transformed from pretty to breathtaking.
Will, unsettled by the reluctance of people to meet his gaze, was even more unsettled now by her undisguised interest in him. So you’re the new Ranger, he imagined her thinking. You look awfully young for the job, don’t you?
As he rode under the window, he realised uncomfortably that as he had raised his head to watch her, his mouth had gaped a little. He snapped it shut and nodded at the girl, stern and unsmiling. Her grin grew wider and it was he who broke the eye contact first.
He had planned to stop for a quick meal at the inn but the disconcerting presence of the girl made him change his mind. He recalled the written directions he had been given. His own cabin would be some three hundred metres beyond the village, on the road to the castle and sheltered by a small grove of trees. He could see the grove now and he touched his heels to Tug’s side, letting the little horse break into a trot as they left the village behind. He could sense twenty or thirty pairs of eyes boring curiously into his back as he rode. He wondered if the green eyes from the upper room of the inn were among them, then shrugged the thought aside.
The cabin was a typical Ranger’s house, built of logs with large flat river stones for roofing. There was a small verandah at the front of the house and a stable and saddling yard behind it. It nestled under the trees and he was surprised to see a curl of smoke from the chimney at one end of the building.
He swung down from Tug’s saddle, a little stiff after a day’s riding. There was no need to tether Tug but he looped the pack horse’s reins around one of the verandah posts. He checked the dog, saw that she was asleep and decided she could stay where she was for a few minutes more.
If there had been any doubts that this was to be his house, they were dispelled by the carved outline of an oak leaf in the lintel over the door. He stood for a moment, scratching Tug’s ears as the horse nuzzled gently against him.
‘Well, boy,’ he said, ‘looks like we’re home.’
WILL PUSHED OPEN the door and went inside the cabin. It was virtually identical to the one that had been his home for much of the last few years. The room he entered took up about half the interior space and served as a combined sitting and dining area. There was a pine table with four plain chairs to his left, against a window, and two comfortable-looking wooden armchairs and a two-place settle at the opposite end, grouped around the cheerful fire crackling in the grate. He looked around the room, wondering who had laid the fire, but there was no sign of anyone present.
The kitchen was a small room adjoining the dining area. Copper pots and pans, obviously freshly cleaned and polished, hung on the wall beside the small wood-fuelled cooking range. There were fresh wildflowers in a small vase under the window – the last of the season, he thought. The homey touch reminded him once more of Halt, and the thought brought a lump of loneliness to Will’s throat. The grim-faced Ranger had always contrived to have flowers in his cabin whenever possible.
Will moved to inspect the two small bedrooms – simply furnished and opening off the living area. As he expected, there was nobody in those rooms either. He had exhausted all possibilities in the little cabin – unless the person who had laid the fire and arranged the flowers was hiding in the stables at the back, which he doubted.
The cabin had been cleaned recently, he realised. Bartell had been gone a month or more, yet when he ran his finger along the top of the fireplace mantle there was not a trace of dust. And the stone flagging in front of the grate had been recently swept as well. There was no sign of ash or debris from a fire.
‘Obviously we have a friendly spirit living nearby,’ he said to himself. Then, remembering the animals waiting patiently outside, he moved to the door again. He glanced at the sun’s position and estimated there was still over an hour of daylight left. Time to unpack before he made his presence known at the castle.
The dog was awake when he looked at her, her varicoloured eyes showing keen interest in the world around her. That was a good thing, he realised. It was an indication of a strong will to live that would stand her in good stead in her current weakened condition. He gently lifted her from her nest on the pack horse and carried her inside the house. She lay relatively contentedly on the flagstones close to the fire, soaking up the warmth into her black coat. Returning to the pack horse, Will dug out an old horse blanket and took it back in to arrange a softer bed for the dog. When he laid it out for her, she rose painfully and limped the few steps to lie on it, settling herself with a grateful sigh. He fetched a bowl of water from the pump that had been built into the kitchen bench – no need to draw water from an outside well here, he realised – and left it beside her. The thick tail thumped softly on the floor once or twice in recognition of his care.
Satisfied, Will went back to the horses. He loosened the girth on Tug’s saddle. There was no point unsaddling yet as he still needed to make his official call at the castle. Then he began to unload the small pile of personal belongings that he had brought with him.
That done, he unsaddled the pack horse and led it to the stable, where he rubbed it down and put it in one of the two stalls. He noticed that the manger in the stall was filled with fresh hay and the water bucket was filled too. He inspected the water. No sign of dust on the surface. No trace of green in the bucket. He hefted the bucket from the other stall and took it outside to Tug, letting his horse drink his fill. Tug shook his mane in gratitude.
Will began to organise his belongings in the cabin, setting his bedroll on the bed in the larger of the two bedrooms – although ‘larger’ was a relative term, as they were both very compact – and hanging his spare clothes in the curtained-off closet there as well.
There was a sideboard in the living room and he placed the oilskin roll that contained his books there, planning to arrange them later. Beside the doorway, he found pegs to hold his weapons, and he hung the bow and quiver on two of them for the time being. His saxe knife and throwing knife, in their distinctive double scabbard, he continued to wear. A Ranger only took them off when he was ready to sleep, and even then, they stayed close to hand.
Will glanced around. In truth, he’d brought little enough with him, but at least now the cabin had a trace of personality to it – as if it belonged to someone. His thoughts were interrupted by a warning neigh from Tug, outside. Simultaneously, the dog by the fire raised her head, turning painfully to look towards the door. Will spoke calmingly to her. Tug’s call had not been a danger alert, merely a notification that someone was approaching. A second or so later, Will heard a light footstep on the verandah and a woman’s figure was framed in the open doorway. She hesitated and tapped on the doorframe.
‘Come in,’ Will said. And she stepped into the room, smiling hesitantly, as if unsure of her welcome. As she moved away from the backlight, he could make her out more clearly. She was around forty years old, obviously one of the women from the village by her dress – a simple woollen garment, without the sort of embellishment favoured by the more wealthy inhabitants who would live in the castle, and overlaid by a clean white apron. She was tall and quite well built, with a rounded, motherly sort of figure. The dark hair was close cropped and beginning to show streaks of grey. Her complexion was excellent and her smile was warm and devoid of guile. There was something about her that was familiar, thought Will, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
She made a perfunctory curtsey. ‘My name is Edwina, sir. I brought you this.’
‘This’ was a small covered pot and as she removed the cover Will was conscious of a delicious aroma filling the room – a stew of meat and vegetables. Involuntarily, his mouth watered. Yet, mindful of Halt’s warnings, he contrived to keep his face stern and uninterested.
‘I see,’ he said noncommittally. Edwina set the pot down on the table and reached into her apron to produce an envelope, which she held out to him.
‘This stew will heat up nicely later for your supper, sir,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’ll be needing to see Baron Ergell first, though?’
‘Possibly,’ Will replied, not sure whether he should discuss his planned movements with this woman. He realised she was holding the envelope out to him and he took it from her. He was surprised to see that the seal was an oakleaf imprint, accompanied by characters from the coded numbering system that were the equivalent to 26 – Bartell’s number in the Corps, he remembered.
‘Ranger Bartell left it for whoever would be sent to replace him,’ she told him, gesturing for him to open the letter. ‘I kept the house and did cooking for him while he was here.’
Realisation dawned on Will as he opened the letter. At the time of writing, Bartell had no idea who would be replacing him, so it was headed simply ‘Ranger’. Briefly, he scanned the message.
Edwina Temple is a thoroughly trustworthy and reliable woman who has worked for me over the past eight years. I can recommend her highly to whoever replaces me. She is discreet, sober and an excellent cook and housekeeper. Edwina and her husband, Clive, run the village inn in Seacliff. You would do me and yourself a favour by retaining her services when you take over.
Bartell, Ranger 26.
Will looked up from the letter and smiled at the woman. The prospect of having the cooking and cleaning done for him was a welcome one, he realised. Then he hesitated. There was the question of payment and he had no idea how much that might be.
‘Well, Edwina,’ he began, ‘Bartell speaks very highly of you.’
The woman made a curtsey again. ‘We got on well, sir. Ranger Bartell was a true gentleman. Served him for eight years, I did.’
‘Yes … well …’
The woman, seeing his obvious youth and guessing that this was his first posting, added carefully, ‘As to payment, sir, there’s no need for you to concern yourself. Payment comes from the castle.’
Will frowned. He wasn’t sure that he should allow the castle to pay for his upkeep. He had his own stipend from the Ranger Corps. Edwina sensed the reason for his uncertainty and continued quickly.
‘It’s all right, sir. Ranger Bartell told me that the castle has the responsibility for providing accommodation and provisions to the Ranger on duty. My services are covered by that arrangement.’
It was true, he realised. The castle in a fief did have the Ranger’s services as one of its expenses and the costs were deducted from the tax assessment made by the crown each year. He smiled at her, finally reaching a decision.
‘In that case, I’ll be glad to avail myself of your services, Edwina,’ he said. ‘I assume you’re the one who kept the house clean and lit the fire earlier?’
She nodded. ‘We’ve been expecting you this past week, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ve come by each day to keep things tidy – and the fire stops things getting damp at this time of year.’
Will nodded his appreciation. ‘Well, I’m grateful. My name is Will, by the way.’
‘Welcome to Seacliff, Ranger Will,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘My daughter Delia saw you riding through the town. Very stern you looked, she said. Very much the Ranger.’
Will made the connection at that point. He’d felt that the woman was somehow familiar. Now he saw those eyes, green like her daughter’s, and the smile, so wide and welcoming. ‘I think I saw her,’ he said.
Edwina, the question of her continuing employment settled, was looking with interest at his few belongings. Her eye settled on the mandola leaning against the sideboard.
‘You play the lute, then, do you?’ she asked. Will shook his head.
‘A lute has ten strings,’ he explained. ‘This is a mandola – sort of a large mandolin with eight strings, tuned in pairs.’ He saw the blank look that overcame most people when he tried to explain the difference between a lute and the mandola and gave up. ‘I play a little,’ he finished.
The dog, still asleep, chose that moment to let out a long sigh. Edwina noticed her for the first time and moved over for a closer look. ‘And you’ve a dog, I see, as well.’
‘She’s hurt,’ Will told her. ‘I found her on the road.’
Edwina stooped and laid a gentle hand on the dog’s head. The dog’s eyes opened and looked at her. The tail stirred slightly.
‘Good dogs, these border shepherds,’ she said and Will nodded.
‘Some say they’re the most intelligent of dogs,’ he said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘The ferry master told me she might have belonged to a man named Buttle. Do you know of him?’
The woman’s face darkened instantly at the name. ‘I know of him,’ she said. ‘Most folks know of him round here – and most would rather not. He’s a bad man to have around is John Buttle. Were this his dog I’d be in no hurry to hand her back.’
Will smiled at her. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘But I’m beginning to think I should make this man’s acquaintance.’
Before she could help herself Edwina replied, ‘You’d be best to stay away from that one, sir.’ Then she covered her mouth in consternation. It was the lad’s youth that had led her to say it, awakening her maternal instincts. But she realised she was talking to a Ranger and they were a breed who needed no advice from housekeepers on the subject of who to stay away from. Will, understanding the reasoning, smiled at her.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he told her. ‘But it seems that it’s time someone spoke seriously to this person. Now,’ he said, closing the subject of Buttle, ‘there are other people I should be talking to first – Baron Ergell chief among them.’
He ushered Edwina out, glancing once at the dog to make sure she would be all right in his absence. After taking his bow and quiver from their pegs, he closed the door softly. Edwina watched him as he tightened the saddle girth before remounting Tug. More used to being around Rangers than most people, she liked what she saw in this one. Then, as he swung the grey and green cloak around his shoulders, and pulled the cowl over his head, she saw him change from a cheerful, outgoing young man into a grim and anonymous figure. She noted the massive longbow held easily in his left hand as he swung into the saddle, saw the feathered ends of his arrows protruding from the quiver. A Ranger carries the lives of two dozen men with him, the old saying went. Edwina thought then that John Buttle might need to watch his step around this one.
BARON ERGELL’S CHAMBERLAIN ushered Will into the Baron’s study with a gesture that was halfway between a bow and a flourish.
‘The new Ranger, my lord,’ he announced, as if he had personally produced him for the Baron’s pleasure, ‘Will Treaty.’
Ergell rose from behind the massive desk that was the dominant piece of furniture in the room. He was an exceptionally tall and thin man and for a moment, seeing the long, pale hair and the black clothes, Will had the shocking sensation that he was looking at a reincarnation of the evil Lord Morgarath, who had threatened the peace of the Kingdom during Will’s youth. Then he realised that the hair was grey, not dead white as Morgarath’s had been, and Ergell, although tall, stood nowhere near Morgarath’s height. The moment passed and Will realised he was staring at the Baron, who stood waiting with his hand outstretched to greet him. Hastily, Will moved forward.
‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he said. Ergell pumped his hand eagerly. He was aged around sixty but still moved easily. Will handed him the parchment containing his official orders of appointment. By rights, the guard at the drawbridge should have taken it and had it delivered to Ergell for inspection before allowing Will access to the keep. But the sergeant in charge had simply looked at the Ranger’s cloak and longbow and waved him inside. Slack, Will thought. Decidedly slack.
‘Welcome to Seacliff, Ranger Treaty,’ the Baron said. ‘It’s a privilege to have one so distinguished in our service.’
Will frowned slightly. Rangers didn’t serve the Barons they were attached to and Ergell should know that. Perhaps, he thought, the Baron was trying to assume authority by the simple expedient of implying that it existed.