The King's Company
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Ranger's Apprentice
Hey everyone! So, I thought it was time for me to start a new chapter story. This one is back when Halt was around 27. Except it's an AU, sort of a 'what if', world. It's based around the idea that Halt never came to Araluen. Instead, he hid from Ferris living in an isolated house on the coast of hibernia. After Pritchard left, he hung up his ranger gear and decided not to go to Gallica, as he had originally planned.
Consequently, when Morgarath rebelled, Araluen was defeated. Morgarath became king. Duncan became an exile. The Ranger corps was never revitalised- in fact, it disbanded. Daniel didn't die protecting Halt; he scraped through the war.
That's the basic idea. I should probably warn you that the characters might seem OOC, although hopefully not too badly, because experiences make people who they are and they've had different experiences. I do think Bitten by Fate is the peak of my fanfiction days (200 reviews, my god) but I am really looking forward to getting into this one! Though, I'm starting with a much less defined vision of where it's going to go than I did with previous fanfictions. That is, I pretty much have no idea at all. I'll stop rambling now and present you with chapter one!
They were the kind of people that he'd take one look at and instantly assess as trouble. He didn't mean this in any bad sense. Certainly, Halt was not averse to a little bit of trouble, as long as no one was hurt in the course of said trouble (or rather, no one that Halt liked was hurt) and it didn't compromise his settlement.
His settlement was at a place that the locals called 'Warlock Cottage'. The name came from back in the old days- though they weren't that many years ago- when Pritchard was around and training Halt up to be a ranger. Or as the locals suspected, a sorceror, a wizard, a warlock. This was ridiculous, Halt thought. Yet even he had to admit there was a certain mysteriousness to the place. That was probably why he liked it so much.
It was up in the hills, a run-down little cottage as seen from the outside. The back wall was slanted, the porch had missing boards, the roof had a patchwork effect of multicoloured tiles. Perhaps once it had been a townhouse, but the community had moved down to the port and the forest had grown around it. Halt liked it. He liked the isolation and the tangle of vines that was his front gardern.
On bitter nights and morning frosts, there was a curl of smoke that appeared in the chimney. The townsfolk would see it spiralling above the forest and observe: 'there's someone at home at Warlock Cottage.' Indeed, at those times Halt was at home, with his feet propped up on the kitchen table and a mug of coffee in his hand.
He had a pantry that was always stocked, a range of comfy chairs around the hearth and a second fireplace in the bedroom. He had a rug covering the mismatching floorboard and he kept his pots and pans glistening clean. Nearby, a river ran down to the ocean from the hilltops- there was a small waterfall and a pool of fresh drinking water beneath.
During the day, the 'warlock' was never home. He had a horse in the run-down stable to match the run-down house (but it had clean straw and plenty of room) and he spent a lot of time riding through the forest. Halt knew the forest well by now. He'd trekked along the hilltops and ridges from one side of Clonmel to the other. He went camping on summer nights. He kept fit. Climbed trees.
He wore drab forest colours, to blend in if he needed to. He never wore his ranger cloak. It was useful, but he felt it wouldn't be right. After all, he wasn't an araluen ranger, he was an escapee prince. By the same token, the oakleaf Pritchard had given him was hidden at the bottom of his wadrobe. His archery was reserved for hunting. His knife skills were only useful for knocking some sense into the drunks at the local pub. There was even a sign the bartender put up. It read: one too many ousgeahs and you're at the warlock's mercy'.
It was routine, it was settled, it was boring. So Halt wasn't averse to trouble. He kept an eye on the goings on of the town. The innkeeper gave him a free breakfast there- he made excellent coffee (there you are sir warlock, with honey, just the way you like it). Halt always sat at the table in the corner, where he had his back to the wall. The tonwspeople knew this was the warlock's seat. There was always one chair at that table, and an ominous air, as though the warlock's presence forbade anyone from disturbing his routine.
Halt sipped his coffee and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast. He watched the couple making lovey-dovey faces at each other, oblivious to anyone else in the world. A travelling musician came down from his room for breakfast. There was a stir of interest. He'd played the night before and the inn had been alight with music and laughter. Except of course, for one stony faced inhabitant that sat alone in his corner.
"Enjoy your meal, sir Warlock?" The innkeeper asked anxiously, wringing his hands. It was the same thing every visit. Sometimes Halt wondered if the townspeople even knew his name- or rather, his undercover name for it was too risky to go by Halt. Too many people would make the connection.
"Yes," he said shortly.
"Well, that's good then," the innkeeper said. He twisted his fingers in a knot. There was an awkward pause.
Halt stood, pushed his chair back and nodded at his empty plate. Startled into action, the innkeeped grabbed the plate and trotted back to the safety of his counter with crisp orders for one of his staff to wash the dishes. The man reminded Halt of a praying mantis- all thin and knobbly with limbs flying out in all directions, and hands that jerked when he felt threatened.
He nodded to the other guests as he made his way to the door. He received polite nods back. No smiles. People rarely smiled at Halt. Perhaps that was because he never smiled at them. Sometimes they made this ghastly shape with their lips, and sometimes they grinned so hard, with such nervous energy, it must've hurt.
Halt strolled along the docks. The smell of fish rippled in the air, a smell that a forester like Halt tried to block his nose against, and the seafarers breathed in deep gulps. The wharfs were a bustle of activity, welcoming in new ships and sending out the old. Halt leaned on the railing- a thick rope tethered between poles- and stared out at the rolling ocean.
There was a little girl and her father dangling their legs over the side of the quay, rods in their hands. A ship's captain supervised the offloading of more stinky fish. The resdient warlock watched all this and more. He carried on, past where children climbed down the rocks to get to the strip of sand below, past the fishing vessels and the the damaged ship that had come into bay a week before. Halt walked up to the lighthouse. From here, he could see the layout of the town to his right- the crooked shipmasters homes by the docks, the regular townspeople that had settled at the base of the hill, and the richer clustered on the far right part way up the hill, where the trees had been cleared away, in what was considered the snobbish part of town, or not a apart of town at all.
To his left, was the long coastline of rocks and boulders, where women gathered periwinkles and dived for muscles on calmer days. Behind him the forested hills that he considered home and in front, away from the busy docks, was the white froth of waves, the swooping gulls and the tip of a ship on the horizen.
"Good morning Hugh." Halt glanced around at the master of the lighthouse, pleased that someone at least remember the name he'd had such trouble coming up with.
"Craig." He nodded a greeting. Craig ran the local lighthouse. He was an old man with eyes that wandered, and white hair that was in disarray. He always had a sombre expression. Perhaps it came from the lonely life he led, sitting by himself watching the sea, seperated from the rest of the townspeople and considered an oddity. That might also be why he was the only one not afraid of the warlock.
"How do you do," Craig said in his usual scratchy voice, tilting the brim of his hat.
"Fine," Halt said. "Same as ever. What about you?"
"Fine." Craig repeated the same words. "Same as ever." His head bobbed up and down, his old face as saddened as if he'd just attended a funeral. He joined Halt in watching the ship in the distance become closer and closer.
"Funny one that," Craig said as it came closer. Halt glanced at him, noting that the lighthouse keeper didn't look amused, concerned or even vaguelly interested.
"It looks a bit different than usual," Halt agreed. "It's not a fishing boat." It wasn't from Clonmel either. He'd memorised what those ships looked like. "Is it from another of the kingdoms, do you think?"
Craig peered from under the brim of his hat. He was an expert on boats and for all his odd quirks, no one would dispute that. "It's Araluen build," he said. "The shape of the mast see. Yes, it's from araluen. Good ship too."
"Traders," Halt mused to himself, and Craig nodded.
"Aye, traders."
"I might go have a look."
Criag tipped his hat at him again and shuffled back to his lighthouse. Halt made his way back down to the town. He kept one eye on the ocean, tracking the ships movement. He wasn't the only one. The baron's daughter was waiting to see if they bought silk or fineries, and the innkeepers wife wanted to know if they had pottery or if the traded in food, and the street beggers thought to try their luck at asking for the leftover rations that were no longer needed. More people began to emerge as they heard the word on the street.
So there was quite a party that greeted the ship when it anchored at the docks. The crew busied themselves lowering the ladder, while the townspeople trotted along the wharf to get a better view. Halt didn't, he waited unobtrusively by the railing.
The ship's captain spoke to the dock master, discussing arrangements. The crew began unloading crates and barrels, lowering them down the sides with rope. They had men on deck doing the lowering, and men below to catch the goods and fend off the crowd.
"Back with you!" one of them cried in a distinct araluen accent. Halt hadn't heard that accent since he sat in on his father's councils, and now it sounded strange, almost comic like, to his ear. Another man descended the ladder, this one dressed in a woollen coat and clothes almost as drab as Halt's. He pulled his coat around him when he touched the ground. Not fast enough to hide the sword at his belt. There was no stir of interest in the crowd- they must not have seen it.
Halt's eyes narrowed. The sword was enough to spark interest. He wanted to get closer, to mingle with the crowd, but he knew they would flinch in his presence. That would make him stand out. So he leaned on the railing and tried to look mildly curious, as any townsperson would. The beggers flocked around the trader with the sword. Crimson rushed to his cheeks and his arms lifted, as if to fend them off, though he didn't lay a hand on them. He might have been disturbed to see how young some of them were, as Halt was.
"Is it food you want?" the armed trader asked. "Hold on, I can get you some." Another trader had already started climbing down the ladder and he had to retreat as the first trader swarmed up again. Halt couldn't see what was happening on deck from his position. Two more traders descended. Halt watched carefully, but their cloaks covered if they had swords or not. The first returned with bread and salted meat that he tore up and gave to the beggers. They scampered away, satisfied with the pickings.
Four more traders came down the ladder. The last of these had a little girl with him- she couldn't have been more than five. He helped her down the ladder, lifting her into his arms. They both had the same blond hair and green eyes, so they were probably father and daughter, and they moved to stand with the other traders, looking around as if they'd never been more lost in their lives.
They were joined by two more, both of whom warranted some interest for different reasons. The tall blond woman was beautiful, and dressed in a tunic and tights which was uncommon around these parts. She had a serene, calm expression as she walked up and thanked the shipmaster. Following her lead, the blond man with the girl in his arms straightened his shoulders and paid the shipmaster.
Interesting, Halt thought. They weren't a part of the crew, as he had suspected. The last member of the odd party was the one that doubled the 'trouble' warnings that were going off in Halt's mind. The man had the same drab, woollen clothes as the others. He also had a cloak that was mottled with greens and browns and greys, and a longbow was slung over his shoulders. Halt knew that he must have a double knife scabbard.
This had great significance for Halt. Less so for the other hibernians, who had never heard of rangers. If it hadn't been for Pritchard, Halt would have dismissed the man as a simple forester, a yeoman, a peasant. He remembered what Pritchard had told him about the ranger corps: 'we're falling apart. There are few of us left that are true rangers. Nest year there will be even less." He spoke of Lord Morgarath and his monetary rewards for anyone that gave him the whereabouts of a ranger. He spoke of executions and of the new ranger corps- one entirely loyal to Morgarath, of corrupt and lazy nobles.
By now, Halt assumed the araluen rangers would be entirely Morgrath's nobles. He had to admit, when this ranger came closer he didn't look like a noble- he looked lean and tough and he moved with the finesse of one in excellent shape. And when the ranger glanced over, spotted the silent observer, his eyes were bright and spirited.
Halt moved his gaze back to the ocean. He felt the ranger studying him, and did his best to look like a casual townsperson.
"What now?" one of the araluens asked. The reply was murmured. Halt couldn't make out what it was. He had an assumption though. After all, there was only one inn for travellers to stay. It was an inn where Halt got a free meal, an inn that made excellent coffee, and Halt decided it would be a good evening for dinner there. He watched them as the ranger put his arm around the woman, and the little girl played with her father's beard, and the whole group of them began exploring the docks.
They were the kind of people that he'd take one look at and instantly assess as trouble. But Halt wasn't averse to a little trouble.