Halt had seen it before.
It came in moments of hopelessness, when there was nothing to do but give up. You tried to fight it. You dreamt of miracles that would save you. You constructed your own future in your mind and made it reality.
When it didn't work, everything came crashing down.
Halt knew the feeling. He knew what it was like, standing on the edge of a mental precipice, wanting to jump but holding back, too human to let go. He knew the emptiness and the pain. He knew how it changed you.
But he'd never been on the flip-side before.
Now he sat astride Abelard, on the other side of an impossibly large plain, galloping across at top speed. He had long since passed the charging Araluen battlehorses, but even the superior speed and stamina of Abelard couldn't get him to his apprentice in time.
There was a row of soaring cliffs that plunged down to the sea on the other side of the plain. Will was cornered by fifty Temujai warriors, fighting in vain to stay alive as the space between him and the cliff lessened. The Temujai kept coming as more backup arrived. Fifty became seventy. They were toying with him.
Halt could feel his backside bruising as he bounced in Abelard's saddle. If only he relaxed a bit, released the tension in his body- he was no good to Will bruised and battered. Abelard was torn between his master's comfort and Will's safety.
"Keep going!" Halt gritted. He could feel his heart clenching with every passing second. God- Will could be dead by now.
Will wasn't dead, but he was dangerously close. A Temuje had wounded him severely across the stomach, and blood had soaked his cloak through. He could feel the life ebbing from him.
Little did he know that this was the pivotal moment. If he gave in to his wound, he would die peacefully. If he fought, the strain would knock him into a coma that would likely kill him as well.
Halt would have told him to give in. Better painlessly that with fanfare. But Halt was not there yet, and Will was a Ranger.
So he fought.
The Temujai watched in grudging admiration as the boy held off three warriors with his knife, all the while spilling blood. Finally, he collapsed, unable to keep fighting. But he was still alive.
He thought of Alyss and Horace, the love of his life and his best friend. He thought of Evanlyn and everything they'd been through. He thought of Gilan, the staying influence on his life.
He thought of Halt.
Halt was fighter, he knew. He had to keep going, for Halt. He had to stay alive until his mentor reached him.
And the strain became too much. Something in the great works, something in Will, snapped.
Halt burst from the trees separating the Temujai from the wide plain he'd just crossed. He met the warriors with a deadly hail of arrows, taking out half their number. The remaining levelled their spears at him, confident that forty-five Temujai could route one Ranger. But the manic fury in Halt's eyes said otherwise. The senior Ranger was, as a Skandian would put it, going berserk. He was charged with a killing rage, fueled by the sight of Will's limp figure slumped on the ground, bloody and battered.
The Temujai saw the look in Halt's eyes and turned tail. There is nothing so frightening as someone who is not afraid of death.
Halt threw himself from Abelard's saddle before the horse had even stopped and pulled Will into his arms. He rocked back and forth, holding his apprentice gently, tears dampening the boy's hair.
Will couldn't die. Halt had sworn to keep him safe. The boy was as good as his son. He would not die.
Sir Rodney, Horace, and Gilan arrived shortly after, accompanied by thirty or so Araluen soldiers. They caught sight of Will wrapped in Halt's cloak, bleeding and unresponsive. They saw Halt's anguish and stopped dead in their tracks.
Horace ran forward, eyes wild. "He isn't-!"
Halt shook his head, pain and anger etched in the lines of his face. "Not yet. Not as dead as those Temujai will be." The pure hate in Halt's voice was frightening.
"What do we do?" asked Sir Rodney, riding up. "What's wrong with Will?"
"He's in a coma," said Halt, taking a shaky breath. "We Rangers call it battle sickness."
Gilan, standing nearby, blanched. "Oh, God," he said.
"What's battle sickness?" asked Horace worriedly.
Halt looked down at Will. "It comes when a Ranger forcefully pulls himself out of death. It's something very few people can do, and if almost always results in… this." He gestured towards his apprentice. "Will may be done with the physical battle, but he's waging a mental war in that head of his."
Gilan jogged over. "We have to get him help." He made to pick up Will's body, but Halt stopped him.
"I've got it," the Ranger said gruffly. Then, seemingly effortlessly, he slid his arms under Will and hoisted him up, carrying him to Abelard. Tug followed behind as Halt took a seat on Abelard with Will.
The two horses took off at full speed. Gilan, Horace, and Sir Rodney watched.
"That's the most emotion I've seen Halt show," said Sir Rodney finally.
Gilan shrugged. "It's only natural. To Halt, Will is more than an apprentice. He's Halt's son."