I've actually been thinking about this for quite a while now and decided to write it up. Set right at the beginning of The Early Years. Basically, Halt never meets Crowley and joins up with Morgarath. So ya, here we go.
DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING, EVERYTHING BELONGS TO JOHN FLANAGAN!
Halt slouched in his saddle miserably, wishing the rain wasn't so blasted persistent. It drowned out all sense of warmth and comfort, replacing it with cold wetness.
Crashing sent his head flying up. In the nearby inn was a window illuminated by firelight. In it, he could see shadows of three people, one smaller and slimmer than the other two. He could just make out a young girl screaming through the crashes. Then, a new shadow joined in. A fist was shaken and the two bigger shadows went after him. In the process they stepped out of the window frame and Halt could see no more. Shrugging, he urged his horse on. A bar fight, most likely.
Two large men stopped Halt, pointing swords at his horse's large chest. He reared up, kicking his hooves.
"Easy boy," Halt murmured to him. The horse fell back to the ground, though it still pranced warily.
"What do you want?" Halt called down to the two men sharply.
"Where are you headed?" one shot back. He was a large burly man with a large beard and a bit of a potbelly showing his fondness of food and, judging from the smell pouring off him, strong beer.
"To meet with your ruler - King Oswald I think his name was," Halt answered.
"We'll be escorting you," the second. This man was slimmer than his companion however not in the stick-like way. Where the other man had both fat and muscle, this man had muscle and just that.
The bigger man whistled a third man came out from a nearby alleyway leading three horses. He was skinny in the extreme and kept his eyes lowered.
"I'm pretty sure I can read a map," Halt said as they surrounded him, the big man to the front of Halt and the well-muscled man to the back. The third man scuttled away.
"Shut it," the front man growled.
"Very polite, aren't we," Halt muttered under his breath.
"I said, shut it," the man shouted, turning around in his saddle.
"Ok, ok," Halt said, raising his hands. He didn't want to start any unnecessary fights as he was new to the country. Besides that, he wanted to know how well these men could use the swords he'd seen hanging from their belts. He liked going into fights knowing if it would be a skirmish or a battle.
As they were heading out of the village an old man came up to them, desperation glowing in his grey eyes.
"There's bandits, good sir, bandits attacking my farm! Could you please spare a few minutes to take care of them sir?" he pleaded.
"Pathetic peasant," one man laughed, urging his horse forwards, nearly bowling over the poor farmer.
Halt narrowed his eyes at this behavior, disgusted.
"Oi, pick on someone your own size," he challenged, his horse trotting forwards.
"So the shrimp rebels?" one man laughed. Halt bristled. While he knew that he was not as big as a normal man, he didn't think that he qualified for being a 'shrimp.'
Not giving the two men any chance to react, Halt drew his saxe knife, slashing at the man closest to him. He could feel the sharp blade cutting through skin and muscle and suppressed a grimace of discomfort. He'd never had to actually use his knives on a person before - only ever small animals - and, though he knew he was doing the right thing, couldn't help that small part of him the was repulsed at hurting a living, thinking being.
However that was quickly forgotten as the muscled man, shocked into hesitation, jumped into action. He drew his sword - a quick and easy movement, just that small action showing his skill - and urged his horse forwards, riding one-handed.
Halt drew his throwing knife and crossed his two blades into an 'X' as the sword came crashing down, the weight and strength of the attack causing his arms to give a few inches.
By now the first man he'd attacked had gotten enough time to have recovered and join in the attack, albeit weaker and less effective than he'd normally have been.
Halt couldn't spin around in his saddle to face his new attacker so instead went for another tactic: having his horse attack him.
Halt ordered his horse to kick at the man behind him, a move practiced to perfection over countless practice sessions with his mentor Pritchard.
The man, previously only injured with a deep cut to his bicep, now flew from his saddle into a wall of a nearby building, slamming into it headfirst. Halt now only had to deal with one attacker, as he was either dead or unconscious.
Halt went on the offensive now, slashing and cutting with his saxe knife, occasionally deflecting the sword being wielded by the man before him with his throwing knife.
When is was finally over, Halt heaved a sigh of relief and wiped his knives off on the ground, slumping out of his saddle. The killing blow had been a low one, distracting his attacker with a side cut with his saxe, thrusting his throwing knife up his ribs.
His first fight ever and he'd only just managed to come out of it unharmed and won it with a dirty trick.
Halt suppressed a sigh and turned the the farmer whom had been standing and staring at the fight.
"Shall we go see to those bandits?" he asked.
"Y-yes," the farmer stuttered, wide-eyed. Halt mounted his horse, allowing the farmer to lead the way. Halt shifted when he kept shooting fearful glances towards him, but accepted it. He did just attack two men, after all.
The bandits (three of them) were easy to take care of. A fight with just one of them, ending in an unconscious body slouched on the ground had convinced them to give up stealing pretty quickly.
So when he returned to the road he'd been traveling on previously, he was taken by surprise when five sets of hands and three swords lept out at him from behind a building.
"What the bloody hell?" Halt shouted, fighting to get away. His horse shied and pranced away. Halt, unbalanced by the grabbing hands and flashing swords, was thrown off his nervous horse, landing on the dusty ground with a 'woof' of air leaving his lungs.
He was jerked upwards unceremoniously by the arms, still winded, and tied up.
"You're under arrest under charge of treason," one attacker said. Halt's eyes narrowed as he saw who it was. The large man he'd fought against earlier stood before him, fingering his sword pommel.
Slung across the back of a horse not his own, Halt wondered how his life had gone from being the Crown Prince of Clonmel to being accused of an act of treason he'd never committed.
Halt was led into the throne room, held by two soldiers armed to the teeth. More soldiers guarded the entryways and were placed around the large room, and four more were standing guard by the throne in the center of the room, two on each side. Clearly, the man seated upon the throne was important.
Said man was tall and skinny with frightfully pale skin and straight, white-blond hair reaching just past his shoulders. He was suited up in black clothing which served to further accent his paleness and had a huge broadsword leaned up against the arm of the throne. His eyes were black, endless pools of nothingness and they bored holes in Halt when they were turned upon him.
"I admire your fighting abilities," the pale man declared.
"So I'm brought here on accusation of treason - which I never did commit - and you state that I fight well? Is this a joke?" Halt asked sarcastically. "Who are you anyways?"
"Ah, a foreigner. Those are always fun. Hibernian, are you? You have the accent for it," the man informed him.
"Yes, Hibernian," Halt ground out.
"I am Lord Morgarath of Gorlan Fief. You are…?" Morgarath left the question hanging.
"Halt Arratay," he answered.
"Halt Arratay," Morgarath repeated, trying the name out. Halt resisted the urge to smirk. 'Arratay' was in fact, not his last name but the Galician word for 'halt.' Essentially, Morgarath was saying 'Halt Halt.'
"As I said, I like how you fight. Admire your skill, if you will. Would you like to work for me?" He paused then went on, not waiting for an answer. "Now of course you did kill one of my soldiers, but that can be excused. I assume you didn't attack him because you felt like it?"
"Of course I didn't. I always have a reason," Halt stated.
"Sensible."
"And what's your cause? What shall I be working for, should I agree to your offer?" Halt asked.
"The current king of Araluen is corrupt and power-greedy," Morgarath hissed. Halt could practically hear little puddles of contempt 'plopping' into the stone below, it was dripping off his words to much. "I want to help the people and rid him of this world for he will surely be the downfall of this kingdom."
"How poetic," Halt muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "sure, why not?"
Morgarath got up, striding over to Halt. He clasped his hand and shook it.
"Welcome to the rebellion, Halt."
Also, after the fight Halt was a bit out of character. Basically it was his first real fight ever, first kill or be killed moment, you know? I feel like that's put a person into shock pretty quickly, even someone as awesome and epic as Halt. Plus he's younger than he was in the main books which must constitute for something.
Question of the chapter: Why do you think Halt was so eager to join Morgarath and put down the "corrupted" king? Is there some ulterior motive, or is he just trying to find a purpose in this new land?