Author's Note: I'd originally intended this as a one-shot, but there was overwhelming popular support for more, so... I hope y'all like it.
Code of Honor II
i.
Horace sat on the edge of the camp, chin in hands. Behind him, Duncan's army was busy with the details of mopping up after winning the war. There were lots of things to do. Horace's job was neither hard or interesting but Baron Arald had put a heavy hand on Horace's shoulder and said this was the direction Halt had gone. The ranger hadn't been seen since before the battle ended the day before and Horace was the only one of them that could easily be spared
The apprentice knight hoped Halt had found Will and that was why he hadn't put in an appearance at the command tent. Horace wasn't exactly clear how it happened that Morgarath was dead and Halt wasn't—at least not yet—but Halt was a ranger and capable of anything. Except fighting like a knight, and by Horace's half-trained standards he'd not done such a bad job of that either.
But he'd watched Morgarath land blow after blow and even allowing for the shielding of armor, no one could have escaped unscathed.
That was why Horace was staring off into the broken country overlooking the marshes—hoping to spot a steeldust pony that would blend into the landscape until the last minute—while the sun slowly moved from the east to the west.
Light glinted off something in the waving grasses, and Horace sat up straight. He saw the flash again, and tracked it several yards forward. He got to his feet and hurried down to find out what he'd seen.
At the edge of the marsh, Abelard plodded up a faint path with his rider slumped over the saddlebow. The ranger pony seemed as dejected as his rider. Without the familiar drape of his mottled cloak, Halt looked small. He'd shed the borrowed armor and the linen gambeson worn underneath was stained with dried blood. A rough bandage had been made from the colorful remains of the surcoat. The suit of armor was roughly lashed together and tied behind the saddle, bouncing and jostling on Abelard's flanks. The quiver of long black arrows was empty. The pair was alone.
Halt raised his head. "Horace?"
"Halt!" said the boy, leaping forward, wanting to help.
"I saw them," said Halt. "On a ship. Will... and the girl. Too... slow." Hampered by the armor and his wounds, he'd not gotten close enough to rescue his apprentice from the Skandian mercenaries. Having unburdened himself of the most important part of what he'd seen, he slumped forward again.
Horace took the reins, urging the pony to pick up the pace and jogging alongside. "I could have fought Morgarath for you," he said. He'd felt useless ever since he'd had to watch Will and Evanlyn carried off on the other side of the burning bridge. Listening to the parlay, he'd wanted nothing more than to ride forward and slap the former baron across his smirk. The idea of such a man challenging the king... or Halt... or anyone Horace knew... burned like gall.
"What makes you think you'd have done any better?" But there was no bite to the words. Halt was too exhausted even for sarcasm.
"Well," said Horace. "I'm taller."
ii.
In the surgeon's tent, the surgeon unwound the bandage on Halt's shoulder and side and peeled off the gambeson, carefully removing trailing threads from the wounds. Fresh blood appeared, bright red against the clotted brown. Her assistants already exhausted, she barked orders at Horace, pressing him into service. "Basin of hot water and a clean sponge."
Halt hissed, a sharp intake of breath, as the full extent of the damage was revealed and the pain changed from a throbbing ache to roaring fire demanding attention with every touch.
The surgeon sighed. "This is going to take awhile."
iii.
"Is he awake?" asked Arald, trying to keep his usually booming voice a low whisper. Late afternoon shadows slanted through the camp and the scent of cookfires mingled with the tang of metal and polish. His tent—and bed—had been commandeered by Horace for Halt to rest after the surgeon finished stitching the ranger back together.
Horace, self-appointed guard at the tent flap, was still pale and queasy from watching the needle go in and out of flesh. He shook his head. "She dosed him with painkillers and he passed out soon after she started."
The baron nodded. "Sleep is best. Did... he...?" He gestured with one hand, helplessly. "Find anything?"
That was one of the things Horace liked about the baron of Redmont. He cared about his wards. He knew their names and where they were placed. Every little success made him proud as a peacock, and Will had given him more reasons for preening than most. But even if Will hadn't been a local hero, Arald would have asked about him. He'd asked about Horace, after all.
"Alive," said Horace. "On a Skandian ship. Evanlyn too."
"Well," said Arald. He sighed. "That's something, at least." Then he frowned. "Evanlyn? That was the girl you met in Celtica?"
Horace nodded. He was glad that Will and Evanlyn were together. It was heart-breakingly lonely to loose everything familiar and be thrust without warning or way of retreat into a new environment. The situation was bad enough as an orphan in the Redmont ward. Being carried off as a slave must be ten times worse. A friend could keep your spirits up. "She's plucky," he said.
Arald didn't quite smile but he slapped Horace on the shoulder with traces of his usual hearty enthusiasm. "That's something."
Horace didn't think his description had made the girl out to be anything special but adults were funny sometimes.
iv.
Rodney stopped by the tent a little later. He carried Halt's gear slung over one shoulder. The battlemaster had also found the ranger's reserve supply of arrows and the quiver bristled with black fletching once more. "Good work," Rodney told his apprentice.
"What are those for?" asked Horace.
"I thought Halt might like having his things close at hand," said Rodney vaguely. "You'll stay with him, of course, for now."
"Sure," said Horace. "I don't mind." Will told stories of how irritated Halt had been to be housebound while his knee mended after the fight with the kalkarra. The ranger preferred to be out and about. Since Will wasn't here to run errands, it made sense for someone to assist Halt and Horace supposed it made sense for that someone to be him.
Rodney unfolded a camp stool and took a seat next to the apprentice knight. He instructed his pupil in the nuances of the war camp, going over in detail things Horace might not have noticed since he'd spent the day watching the fens instead of shadowing the battlemaster. Sir Rodney presented the information in his calm, mellow, voice; unhurried and keeping his tones low so as not to disturb his sleeping friend. He drilled Horace, making sure the boy was paying attention.
"You know where the horses are?"
Horace frowned. The last question didn't quite fit with the rest of the conversation. He knew where Halt's horse was, of course. He'd made sure to tie Abelard next to Tug on the horselines and the two ponies had looked for all the world like they were having a conversation of their own. But why did Sir Rodney care? "Yes, sir," he said.
"Good," said Rodney, and reaffirmed his approval of Horace.
v.
The sun sank low on the western horizon, enormous and pink in a sky of crimson and flame. Alone at the front flap of the tent, Horace heard the first stirring from inside. He jumped up and found Halt's eyes open. The ranger tried to push himself up on one elbow.
"Where's Will?"
Horace wondered if Halt was delirious with fever and if it would be wiser and kinder to lie or if he should repeat the ranger's words on the path back to him. Honesty won out. "On a Skandian wolfship, Halt."
"What is Gilan thinking?" demanded Halt. "He could have caught up to them if he'd left right away and commandeered a Gallican sloop."
"Sir Rodney says Crowley is handing out assignments like they're going out of style." It was one of the many things that had come up in the battlemaster's coverage of the camp. Horace had a moment of confusion as he realized he probably should have given the ranger commandant a courtesy title, but he couldn't think of what it ought to be. "Gilan was sent south after one of Morgarath's lieutenants."
Halt made a frustrated noise. "Where's he sending me?"
"Home. I think."
"Thoughtful."
All afternoon, Horace had been thinking about his friends on the wolfship. People were carried off in Skandian raids and you never saw them again. Surely that wasn't the end. There had to be a way to get some of them back. But Will was just a kid and Evanlyn was just a maid. Nobody would care about their fate except their friends and what could they do? If anyone would know, it would be Halt. But what if they'd missed their one chance now?
The ranger caught Horace's eye and studied the young man's face, reading several things there that Horace didn't want to say. Horace scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt and tried to think of what to do next.
"Are you hungry?" asked Horace. "I can get you something."
"Broth, probably," grumbled the ranger. "It's the surgeon's cure for all ills. Sure. And some coffee."
Horace nodded. It was true. He'd heard the lectures on how patients of all kinds would benefit from the nourishing properties of a good broth and one suffering from gut wounds in particular should avoid solids.
Halt indicated the saddlebag and quiver Horace had carefully set beside the cot. "Who brought those?"
"Sir Rodney thought you might want them," explained the boy.
When Horace returned with the food Halt's gear had been shifted out of sight.
vi.
Night fell. The interior of the tent was lit by a lamp hung from the centerpost. It threw flickering shadows over the group gathered by Halt's bedside. Horace had backed into a corner, watching. The king of Araluen crossed his arms and looked down at the ranger. "What were you thinking?"
Halt matched him glare for glare. "If you must know, when I wasn't thinking what a pleasure it would be to rub Morgarath's face in the dirt I was thinking 'I've really done it this time'."
"You could have avoided the latter if you'd just listened to me," said Duncan.
"And have you out there on the field instead?"
From the group of friends and advisers who had trailed in the king's wake, someone muttered, "If you'd been listening, instead of doing your own thing, you'd have known it would have been Sir David or I out on the field."
"Which bothers you more?" asked Halt. "That Morgarath challenged me or that I won?"
The baron threw up his hands.
"Halt—" said Duncan. "I..." He uncrossed his arms and then recrossed them, restless. He'd not remonstrated with Halt before the duel; the thing had been done and witnessed and they were bound by traditions older than any of them. He hadn't wanted to have his last memory of his friend be of a quarrel. And now Halt wasn't going to listen to reasons why that had been a stupid thing to do. "Why couldn't you at least have let me knight you?"
"Because I'm a ranger," said Halt. He winced, having inadvertently pulled at the stitches while talking. "It wouldn't have helped and it's not like anyone will try that again—very embarrassing for a knight to be beaten at his own game."
There was a bit of guilty shuffling in the corner nearest Horace. The young knight was shocked. Arald and Sir David glared at their companions who had considered trying to make themselves look good by beating Araluen's newest champion.
"Thank you," said Duncan. He'd say it again in an official ceremony; he'd try again later to remind Halt that one ought to listen to one's king; but for now, he was grateful and Halt needed to know that too.
"For what?" grumbled Halt. For all that he'd said he'd fight Morgarath on the king's behalf, he'd been primarily motivated by the thought of Will being held prisoner by the dissenting baron. Secondary motivation was saving his own skin. But that was how heroism worked: sometimes you did things for the right reason and other times reasons were attributed to you and you let them stand because they sounded better than the truth.
vii.
The fires outside had burned down to embers. Outside, Horace could hear singing. The army was still celebrating the victory. Of the group inside the tent earlier, only Crowley remained. Horace was overlooked in the corner and he sat very still and tried to neither move nor fall asleep. "We still have to clear the plateau," said Crowley. "You'll come with me."
"Oh?" said Halt. He didn't sound cooperative. The Mountains of Rain and Night were an unpleasant local, even when one wasn't hampered by injuries.
"At least until people forget that you took down the Dark Lord."
"Or I could go rescue Will, like I promised him."
The commandant shook his head. "Duncan needs us here."
"And what about the girl? Are we just going to pretend she doesn't even exist?" asked Halt.
Crowley's shoulders slumped.
"Tell me someone's been sent with authority to negotiate a ransom. A knight. A courier. It doesn't have to be me." Halt made it sound like he was offering the grandest concession in the world. When his friend didn't respond, Halt's eyes narrowed. "Why not? Owe a courier a favor for once!"
"We're not even sure..." Crowley sounded like he'd had this argument before and didn't really want to have it again.
"We are sure," snapped Halt.
"The king has given me orders," said Crowley. "Direct orders. If she's alive, there'll be a ransom note and then things will fall into place."
Halt's reply was both skeptical and profane.
"You can spend some of that indignation clearing out the remnants of Morgarath's little project," said Crowley, getting to his feet. "We have to wait, even if we don't like it. Goodnight, Halt."
The tent flap fell shut behind the ranger commandant and silence descended inside. Horace frowned over the conversation. Who was going to ransom a couple of kids? Evanlyn was a lady's maid, but why—? Something didn't add up.
"You're still here," said Halt, turning to look in the corner.
"Yes," said Horace, snapping to attention. "Sir Rodney said I was supposed to stay with you."
"Did he now," said the ranger, a speculative note in what was half grumble, half question. "Hand me my boots."
Horace fumbled. He was trained to obey a direct command, but in this case he had two conflicting directives. The surgeon expected Halt to rest. Halt clearly had something else in mind. "Halt? Are you going after Will anyway?"
Halt lifted an eyebrow in challenge. "If I am?"
Sir Rodney's lesson made more sense now. "I know where the sentries are stationed."
viii.
Horace blew out the lamp and went to fetch the horses.
Halt watched the knight's apprentice go. The youth was in the unique position of being aided and abetted by his knight master—possibly his baron as well. The ranger's decision was not so easy. The Corps were independent and answered to their commandant and the king. It was a position of trust on both sides.
Sitting in the dark, quiver leaning against his boot, Halt fingered the silver oakleaf he wore on a chain around his neck. It'd meant something to him when he took the oath of a ranger. Duncan was a good king, not given to irrational decisions. Ranger and king had accorded each other a mutual respect. Now Halt contemplated throwing all that away, albeit for the best of reasons.
Should he leave the oakleaf? Would he have a right to wear it after deliberately ignoring the assignment from Crowley? Rangers had a long leash, but Halt always tugged at the bounds of what was allowed. He'd be ripping free...
Or he could keep it. He was doing this for the king, after all. To leave the bit of jewelry behind would be to say that he no longer trusted Duncan's judgment and no longer wanted to be part of the Ranger Corps. Nothing could be further from the truth. If he had time, he could argue the point until Duncan gave in.
Halt replaced the silver oakleaf under the collar of his tunic. He'd heard the tap of hooves on packed earth in front of the pavilion. It was time to go.
Duncan would forgive him. Eventually.
ix.
"Arald!" barked the king, looking at the circle of trusted advisers gathered around the table inside the command tent. He'd already made the ranger's commandant's face as red as his hair with a few biting remarks on the infamous Corps discipline. Duncan had not been amused by the news that Halt was missing. From his remarks it was clear Duncan saw the ranger's disappearance as a betrayal of his oath of loyalty. First there had been insubordination by accepting Morgarath's challenge—and now flight. "You're being awfully quiet. What do you have to say about this?"
"With all due respect, milord," said the baron. "But who else do you really want going to rescue your daughter?"
Duncan took a step back. He shook his head. "My daughter is..."
"The girl I remember watching follow her father around from the time she could crawl is a capable and intelligent young woman. She has your stubbornness, Duncan, and your grit and courage. Trust her to take the measure of the situation—and survive! She's in the company of one ranger, and the best we've got is on the trail." Arald faced his king and spoke bluntly. "Have a little faith, your majesty."
(02-18-2016) Author's Note: Dragonsfire (and others wondering), I do have notes for a version of Icebound Lands in this continuity but no guesses as to when it'll all come together.
