* * *
Will was having a bad day. He had gone out to practice with the small hunting bow in the hopes of finding dinner (being careful to keep an eye out for the mysterious rider Evanlyn had seen earlier), but he was so tired he could hardly draw the bow properly. The last two nights had not been the least bit restful. Will was loathe to admit this to Evanlyn, but whenever he even thought about going to sleep he was reminded of the warmweed and how his addiction had seemed to be nothing more than a dream. He was terrified of waking up one day and finding himself back in the slave barracks of Hallasholm, alone and defenseless against the bitter, insidious cold. Not to mention that when he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, he was plagued by awful nightmares – Morgarath bearing down on him, the Skandians cursing and yelling as they shoved him aboard the wolfships, Evanlyn was calling for him but he couldn't find her, no, no! – which only served to haunt him further. And of course, the ever-present sense of shame and self-loathing that he wore like a cloak did little to help matters. Even though Evanlyn was doing her best to reassure him that everything would work out, it was futile. He knew that once word of what had happened got to Crowley or King Duncan, he would be expelled from the Ranger Corps. He would lose everything he had worked so hard for over the last year. Worst of all, he thought glumly, Halt will never forgive me.
Will felt sick.
* * *
Evanlyn sighed. For the last few days – ever since he had woken up from the warmweed, in fact – Will had seemed so… miserable. Like he's got nothing left to live for, she thought glumly. She had tried repeatedly to cheer him up, but all in vain. However, if there was one thing Evanlyn was, it was determined and right now she was determined to get Will to brighten up. Or at least, she amended, to tell her why he was so depressed all the time.
Her train of thought was cut off as the door opened. Evanlyn whirled around to see Will entering the hut. She immediately rushed to greet him, taking in his pale face and the gaunt shadows underneath his eyes. He looked like he was about to collapse.
"Will!" she cried as she approached him, "I'm so glad you're back. It was getting dark out and I was starting to worry… Are you alright?"
Evanlyn frowned. Will was swaying where he stood. Sighing, she took his elbow and led him to a chair.
"Sit," she said briskly. "I'll go make dinner."
She went to fetch their meager stores of food and didn't mention that it was technically his turn to cook.
The atmosphere in the cabin was considerably lighter after a relatively filling dinner of rabbit meat and cornmeal. Now, Will and Evanlyn were settling down in their bedrolls and preparing to go to sleep.
Too bad sleep was taking its own sweet time in coming.
Evanlyn had lain in her bedroll for what felt like hours, listening to Will tossing and turning beside her. She wondered why he was still awake now; he had seemed asleep on his feet at dinner. At last, after an interminable amount of time had passed, and judging by his restless movements that Will was as sleepless as she, Evanlyn sat up.
"Will," she whispered hoarsely, voice small in the cabin's looming dark, "are you awake?"
Slowly, Will rolled over to face her, though it was hard to see anything in the shadows. "Yes," he admitted. "I can't – I don't want to go to sleep."
Something in his voice piqued Evanlyn's curiosity. "Why?"
Will hesitated before answering. "Because… well, it's silly really. It's because the warmweed – when I was taking the warmweed, it was as if I was sleeping all the time. I knew nothing about anything going on around me, or even whether it was day or night. And when I woke up, I was in a completely different place with no idea what had happened or how I'd gotten there. My mind was all muddled and I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. So… so what if I go to sleep only to wake up and find out that you – that this is all a dream?"
In the dim light cast by the moon and the embers from the fire, Will looked like a little boy: lost, scared and alone. Quietly, Evanlyn got up and dragged her bedroll closer to where he lay. Lying down again, she reached out and touched his hand briefly.
"Don't worry, Will. I'm not a dream."
* * *
Astride his battle horse Kicker, Horace shifted in his saddle. He shrugged his shoulders, feeling his muscles tense, then relax. Chainmail was all very well in combat, he thought, but it was definitely not made for hours spent in the saddle. Bored, he looked around, taking in the incessant emptiness of the land around him. It felt as if the tree-lined path they rode on was shut off from the rest of the world, existing in its own bubble.
"Why is it so deserted?" he asked, the question tumbling unbidden from his lips. "I know we must be near the Teutlandt border but it's just so… empty."
The taciturn Ranger opened his mouth but never got a chance to reply, for in that moment a group of bandits sprung out of the trees, shouting violently in Gallic. They were a ragtag bunch, Horace saw, dressed in a motley assortment of luxurious garments that were much the worse for wear. The bald man who looked to be their leader sported a tarnished brocade tunic, and brandished a small battleaxe in each hand. His partners were similarly dressed and the sunlight filtering through the leaves lit upon clubs and swords, which, for all their tarnish, would still have no problem fulfilling their intended purpose. For a moment, there was a surprised silence as the bandits realized they had completely failed to cow their prey. Off to the side, Horace saw a small smile flicker darkly across Halt's face. He noticed that the Ranger's bow had been ready in his hands for many minutes before the bandits had appeared, and wondered for an instant if Halt hadn't known this was coming. Then, Halt started speaking, and Horace had no time to wonder.
"Attention mes seigneurs!" he called to the bandits. Stunned by his calm demeanour, the men unwittingly paid heed. "Je vous donnerai un chance pour arreter avant le numero trois!"
The bandits – about seven in all, tall and muscled men – looked at each other and then burst out laughing.
"Eh bien, le p'tit m'sieur pense qu'il faut avoir peur de lui!"
Horace was less amused. He nudged Kicker closer to Halt's Abelard. "Halt," he said, trying to be heard over the raucous laughter, "what's going on? What did you tell them?"
"Simple," Halt responded grimly. "If they're not gone by the count of three, they'll be sorry."
And so saying, he held up one gloved hand and began to count. "Un… deux… trois!"
An arrow flew through the air and hit a bandit squarely in the chest. The bandits' gloating was cut off abruptly. The puny rider had fired faster than they thought possible! Roaring, they charged toward Halt and Horace.
Horace's sword was already sailing clear of its scabbard. He saw the bandits bearing down on him and instinct took over. He swung his sword round and brought it down hilt first on the head of a bandit. The man dropped like a stone and Horace wheeled to face his next attacker.
Meanwhile, three other bandits were charging Halt, but it was obvious from their slight hesitance and unwieldy posture that they were little more than amateurs. Halt dispatched them with such unerring speed and accuracy that Horace almost pitied them. Then, he thought about how this fighting was taking up time he could be using to search for Will and any trace of compassion he might have felt was instantly dispelled. Horace watched with dark satisfaction as the first man was propelled through the air by a knife before he could raise his sword, and the remaining two were caught by Abelard as the horse lashed out with his hooves, sending the men soaring headlong into the trees.
Now, only two bandits remained. Horace ran one through with his sword, hardly thinking. Seeing his partner so easily dispatched, the other bandit turned to flee. Unfortunately, his escape was cut short when Halt dismounted and seized him by the collar before he could take a step.
"Halt," said Horace uncertainly, "what are you doing?"
The bandit was gibbering in fear, subjected to the full brunt of Halt's ruthless gaze. Horace noticed Halt's free hand was clenched into a fist.
"Let this be a lesson to you and your kind," the Ranger growled in a tone Horace hoped never to hear again. "Don't waste my time."
Without warning, Halt drew back his fist and punched the bandit full in the face. Hard. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Halt shook out his hand, his eyes revealing nothing.
"Let's go."
