A/N: Hey everybody! I hope you're all doing well. Here's chapter six. Again, I apologize for the wait, school is still kicking my backside and life in general hasn't been any less busy. But I did make this chapter about 1,000 words longer than usual in an attempt to try to make up for it XD. Anyway, I really hope proves to be an enjoyable diversion. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. Your support means the world.
jaymzNshed: Yup, your guess is correct! I hope this chapter helps answer a few of those questions… although it might also raise up a few more… *nervous/ guilty chuckle* XD Thanks for the complement, and the review! It made my day to read.
OakleafHeron: Thanks for the constructive criticism, and for pointing out those errors. I appreciate the help. I made sure to fix all those little errors. Also thanks for the compliment and the support, I really appreciate that too.
Reader rangrr: Thanks so much for the compliment and the review it was really encouraging :).
anonym: Yeah, things are definitely going to be pretty hard for Halt from here on out. Thanks for the review, it means a lot!
Ranger-Corpses: That's actually a really good idea you have there. Tell me how it works out and maybe I'll try it when I read and review stories. Yup, halt remembers, and I'll be sure to tell Gilan that you, at least, approve of his methods XD (and tell Will not to fall) XD Thanks so much for the review!
helloyesimhere: Thanks so much for the encouragement and compliment, It means a lot!
TrustTheCloak: I'm really glad to hear that! :) Yeah, Halt's not in for the best or easiest of times—especially when it comes to the people he knows/knew before. Thanks so very much for the review and the support! I really appreciate it.
Dragonslover98: Yes, that boy is actually Evanlyn. So, that'll be a question that will get answered more as the story progresses but, for the most part, the answer to that is no, they won't remember just by seeing Halt, and yes, he'd have to reverse what the stone did in order to set everything right again. Thanks so much for the review! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.
Chapter 6
~x~X~x~
Around a few years after The Battle of Hackham Heath
~x~X~x~
Fifteen-year-old Gilan watched the bandit's camp from his position—hidden under some brush on a small rise that overlooked the encampment. It contained only two men, but one of those men had a bounty on his head: not just for thievery, but also murder. He'd killed a child in cold blood and, just recently, he had beaten and nearly killed an old woman when she wouldn't show him where her valuables were.
In short, the people of Cordom fief would be much better off, safer, and happier, if the man were to suddenly leave the picture. The fief would probably look better too on top of that, he thought as his eyes roved over the man's features. A faint smile touched his lips at the thought.
It had only been a few weeks more than a month since… since he'd… he shook his head, not allowing himself to think of it.
Regardless, it had only taken him that time to fully realize the horrible state that the kingdom was in. Knights swore to protect the weak and helpless as part of their code. It was part of what they were trained for. But when they focused all their attention on the ongoing war with Morgarath, it was the common people who suffered.
There were men ranging from petty thieves to outright murderers, all of them more than willing to exploit the kingdom's distraction. Long ago, before Morgarath's rebellion, it was people like the Rangers who really kept issues like this in check. But Gilan had heard from his fa— …he'd heard before that there were only about 10 or 11 Rangers left. They tried their best, but there were about 28 fiefs for them to watch and they were also the King's eyes, ears, and tacticians for the war. They were spread far too thin.
Consequently, the only way the King and Barons could think of compensating for this problem was by putting prices on the heads of any criminal that became noteworthy. Wolf's Heads, people called them, on the count that anyone could capture or kill them and receive a profit or reward from the local Baron, Battlemaster, Watch, or Garrison Commander for it. This was why he had followed the man and his partner when he had seen them; he'd recognized their faces from a bounty notice he seen in a village.
Gilan carefully and slowly lowered his chest and head so that he was lying fully face down as he tried to wait out, and breathe through, an uncomfortable pain in his stomach that had flared up suddenly. Compared to other pain he had felt, it definitely wasn't the worst by any means—but it did hurt and he felt a little lightheaded. Not a good thing for what he was planning.
He had rationed his meager food supply well over the past weeks. He still had a fair amount left: enough to last another week, or even two if he were careful. But it would run out soon, he knew. He had a small amount of money with which to buy more, but common sense, as well as some inexplicable inner voice, told him that he needed to think in the long term. How could he use the skills he had in order to be able to provide for himself?
His first thought had been of joining the ranks of the outlaws and turning to thievery himself, but he really hadn't considered that thought for long or seriously. That had been nothing more than a fleeting rebellious and, admittedly, a slightly vindictive and humorous notion. It was one that he had absolutely no intention of ever carrying out.
He had, much more seriously, considered the idea of hiring himself out to a garrison or village watch. Though he didn't much like the idea, he still had yet to discard it fully—he might still need that option when winter came. Alternatively, he knew that he could disguise himself as a freelance knight. After all, he'd been fairly close to getting knighted when… when he'd left.
But he would need armor and a battle horse to make such a rouse believable, and he had neither. Another amused smile sprang to his lips as he thought of attempting it as he was, riding his shaggy little horse and dressed as a forester. He'd really fool the Barons that way.
The smile faded. The idea of being a knight poked too much at everything that still hurt him, everything he'd lost. Even if he had armor and a battle horse, he didn't think that he could do it. Not now, while everything was still far too fresh.
He caught himself before he reached a hand towards his back: a nasty habit he'd recently developed and really needed to break. The wounds there had healed; he didn't need to touch the newly formed, still very tender and angry, red scars to know it. He pushed those thoughts aside. That didn't matter in the moment.
What mattered was that he had found a way to use his skills without joining a garrison, watch, or even by masquerading as a knight. He'd found a way that he could use his skills and also help all the people that the war had caused the knights and Rangers to have to overlook. It felt right somehow.
The hunger pain in his stomach ended and he looked up slowly, resting on his elbows as he watched the camp. The two men hadn't moved. They still sat languidly around their little fire, seeming not to have a care in the world. Overconfident, Gilan thought with a grin. He could get in easily—and they were just two men. He could probably take them.
Never be too hasty. Don't rush into things, some inner voice warned him.
Ever since he'd turned twelve, he'd always fancied that he had two distinct inner voices. One sounded like his own and the other he'd always imagined had a Hibernian accent.
It was good that he hadn't rushed into things, he realized then as he looked closer. The leader—the one with the bounty on his head—had a longbow lying on the ground behind him that Gilan had missed seeing earlier. If he had just rushed in, he could have been shot. He would need a plan if he was to capture these men without getting himself killed in the process. He chewed absently on his thumbnail as he tried to think of one. He wished there was a way to ambush each man separately. Tactically, he could see no other way he could succeed with what he had now. He waited.
A perfect opportunity presented itself when the bandit's partner went off into the woods to relieve himself. Gilan moved in then, circling down silently from his observation point, and arriving just in time to intercept the first bandit on his way back into the camp. His plan was to knock the partner out and then sneak up on the leader before he had a chance to use his bow—simple, but effective.
The plan would have worked perfectly too, if the partner hadn't have cried out as Gilan knocked him senseless with his sword hilt. Cursing softly, Gilan heard the leader coming to find out what had happened. The man spotted him instantly, just seconds before Gilan found decent cover. Gilan ducked behind a tree just as an arrow hissed through the place he'd just been. Another arrow hissed on its way and slammed into the trunk, then another.
Gilan glanced at his sword, knowing it could hardly be useful in a situation like this. His heart pounded as he tried to think of what to do.
Four seconds. He had counted four seconds in between each of the bandit's shots.
He glanced down then to where the second bandit lay sprawled. The man had tried to draw his saxe when Gilan knocked him senseless. The weapon was lying next to its owner's crumpled form. Another large tree was just to the downed man's other side.
He had an idea. But he needed to know if it truly took the bandit leader four seconds to loose a shaft, or if he could shoot faster if he chose. He knew only one way to find out. Heart hammering, he took a breath, gathering himself. He made a small quick move out from behind the trunk, as if he intended to break cover, before throwing himself quickly back where he'd been. The bandit fell for Gilan's feint, as Gilan had hoped he would. As soon as he heard the thud of another arrow, he moved. He darted out from behind cover, stooped then rolled into the cover of the next tree.
2…3…4, he counted in his head. Then another arrow flashed through the open space he'd just been in. He nodded to himself. Logic told him that, if the man could shoot any faster, he would have.
He gripped the saxe he'd taken from the ground. It felt familiar in his hand—he knew its balance. He held it in the way he instinctively knew he should to throw it. He must have practiced throwing knives somewhere before, though in the heat of the moment he couldn't quite remember when. He'd played with and practiced with many different weapons as a boy and in Battleschool after all.
"Come out and face me!" the bandit snarled, following up his threat with another shot—another smack, another arrow, another four seconds. Gilan mentally prepared himself, hoping that the man was angry enough to waste another arrow to keep him pinned down. He was. Slam! Gilan moved. He leaped out from cover, counting the seconds even as he drew back, sighted, and threw. The motion felt familiar, though clumsy. He knew the throw wasn't good even before it landed. He had aimed for the man's chest, but instead, the knife had hit him hilt-first in the shoulder.
Still, it had the desired effect. The impact was heavy enough to cause the man to release his grip on his bow with one hand. Gilan closed the distance between them in seconds, his sword out and at the ready. The man drew his own short sword fumblingly and the two dueled. But it only took seconds for the bandit to realize that he was outmatched, and only a couple seconds more for him to join his partner in unconsciousness.
Gilan soon had them both firmly tied. It was only then that he felt his heartbeat slowly returning back to normal. He was still alive, unharmed, and he had caught the bandits. When he turned them in, he would receive the money for the price on their heads, and the people of Cordom fief would be that much safer. He found himself grinning widely. He could do this. He could support himself by himself.
A thought struck him and he rooted through the bandit's packs. At the bottom of one was the goods they had just recently stolen from the old woman. He'd deliver it to the soldiers at the nearest garrison along with the bandits.
Something else caught his eye. In with the bandit's clothing, he caught sight of a rather nicely made hooded surcoat. It was a dull forest green and he was quite taken with it. The bandits wouldn't be needing it where they were going, he thought as he fingered it. He placed it in his own satchel. He was about to walk away when he saw the bandit's longbow. He took a few steps towards it then shook his head. He didn't know how to use it. Bows took years to master.
But it seemed to whisper at him as he turned to walk away, like catching sight of the face of an old yet almost forgotten friend.
If he learned to use it, it would make hunting easier—a far better system for a person who moved around constantly than the snares he was currently using. Not only that, but it would be handy to be able to use a ranged weapon; the events of today had taught him that well enough. He picked it up. It felt right in his hands, maybe… he couldn't even draw it back much at all, and that was with using all the strength of his arms—no, that wasn't right.
He released the tension, took a different stance and then tried again, this time using his back muscles as well as his arm muscles, leaning into the bow instead of just pulling back with his right arm. That made a difference and felt more right—though he still couldn't draw it back more than halfway. He grimaced as trying twinged his back. He released the tension again, promising that he'd practice that, and throwing that saxe knife. He was sure that, with time, he could get that right too. He took the saxe, its scabbard, and the head bandit's sheave of arrows.
The bandits were starting to wake then, and struggle slightly when they realized they were tied. Gilan stood directly in front of them with his sword drawn and held casually in his right hand. That caught their attention.
"I'm taking you to the garrison," Gilan told them with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I rather hope you'll try to escape along the way."
Though he looked hardly more than a boy, there was something in his eyes that made them quail. Not only that, but he had already defeated them both in combat, quite soundly. They decided there and then that there would be no escape attempt.
~x~X~x~
Present Day
~x~X~x~
Horace and Gilan watched from their concealed position on a rise overlooking the small village. Well, Horace thought, Gilan was actually doing most the watching. The village was only about twelve houses, and there was precious little going on outside after all—only a few milling people. And, in only a few moments of looking at the quaint and quiet scene, Horace felt he had gotten the gist of everything. But obviously, Gilan did not think the same for he stayed in his position, silently observing. He sat there, completely still, the only thing moving were his eyes as they flicked or moved slowly from one spot to another.
Horace tried to stay as still and unmoving as the woodsman, but was fidgeting before five minutes were even up. It was a little unnerving how Gilan could do that. After what seemed to Horace to be several hours, Gilan finally seemed satisfied. Horace let out a soft breath of relief. Earlier that morning, when he had asked Gilan if he could help him with his notice—rather than just sitting idly and waiting for him to finish—this hadn't exactly been what he'd had in mind. He'd pictured something more along the lines of chivalrous combat to save a village—swift action. This was all a little underwhelming. He sighed again. Gilan raised an eyebrow at him and Horace reddened and shrugged slightly.
"I guess I'm just not used to staying still for so long."
"You don't say," Gilan replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
The tall warrior rose to his feet and began moving down the hill towards the village, Horace following after him. He really didn't understand how the pastoral scene could have held the tall warrior's attention so readily. As far as Horace saw, there was absolutely nothing of interest. He'd seen a group of three farmers moving a large cart towards the stables of a shop that looked to belong to the village blacksmith. One stayed outside, looking up and down the streets while the other two unloaded the wagon. Four women and a couple of men had walked down the street, going about their business. Two tall men had emerged from one of the largest houses and headed down towards what looked to be a tavern, a few people nodding respectfully as they passed by. There had been a couple of children playing in the street, and an old man leading a milk cow. Then those three farmers back again with their cart heading for the blacksmith's stables. It really hadn't been all that riveting. He shook his head to himself and then a question came to mind.
"Do you usually wait that long?" Horace asked, curiously.
"Longer," Gilan said, smiling at Horace's surprised expression. "Sometimes it can take days to find out everything that could be important."
Silence fell between them for several moments as they turned onto the main village road, until Horace's curiosity got the better of him again.
"So, exactly how do you usually do this?" he could not help but ask. They had discussed a little of the process earlier, mostly when it came to negotiating terms, but Horace still wasn't sure what they were going to do first.
"I approach the village head man first to ensure that this," he gestured to the scroll that contained the plea for help, "is really what he wants, and assure that I can indeed take care of it."
Horace nodded. It made sense. "Where's the village elder's home?"
Gilan pointed to the one house that looked larger and more important than the others. "But he isn't there. He went to the village tavern about ten minutes ago," he said, indicating the opposite end of the street. He began heading in that direction.
By now Horace didn't feel the need to ask how Gilan knew that, or rather, how he was so certain. His friend had already shown he had a knack for knowing things, just little pieces of this and that which most people didn't notice he seemed to be able to put together. Horace simply nodded his understanding and instead asked a different question.
"Shouldn't you wait for him to finish and come back to his house?"
But Gilan shook his head. "No. It'll be more effective this way."
The two of them made their way towards the tavern, stopping for a moment when they reached the door. Gilan gave Horace a quick questioning look, silently asking if he remembered what they had discussed earlier that morning. Horace nodded once; he did remember. Gilan nodded back and then opened the door, stepping confidently through it.
Horace watched as he took in the room at a glance and then headed straight for a table near the middle, Horace following in his wake. He glanced surreptitiously at the faces of all the villagers in the tavern as his eyes adjusted. Most all of them were watching with slightly curious and wary expressions on their faces. There were also a few faces that even seemed openly hostile.
It made sense that the people here wouldn't be too friendly and trusting of strangers, considering their notice, but Horace couldn't help but shudder slightly at those dark expressions: he knew well what they could lead to. Unpleasant memories of Battleschool flicked to the fore of his mind and he glanced at Gilan, looking for something… worry perhaps. Gilan, however, seemed to pay them no mind at all. He simply stopped at the table he'd selected—one that was occupied by a tall and fit looking elderly man, the head man apparently, and a younger man whom Horace was certain was the elder's son.
"May I?" Gilan asked, gesturing to a seat across from them and then sitting down in it before the two could even regain their composure enough to answer.
Horace took up a position slightly behind and to the right of where Gilan sat, standing ready, his scabbarded sword within easy reach, as Gilan had instructed. Horace kept his eyes flicking to all the people in the room, sweeping for potential threats, for the same reason.
The elder and his son seemed a little startled by this turn of events. The village elder's eyes roved a little warily and uncertainly over Gilan, though he did manage to keep his composure. The son looked to his father with obvious concern and looked at Horace and Gilan with that unguarded hostility he'd seen on the faces of a few others. Horace felt a slight hum of tension come into his body as he noticed this. He just managed to check himself from letting his hand reach instinctively for his sword.
"Is there something I can do for you?" the village elder asked finally.
Gilan grinned at that. "Actually, I believe that it's the other way around," he said, taking the scroll that contained the plea for help and placing it on the table between them. "I'm here about your notice."
Horace noticed that the elder's eyes cleared with understanding as they roved over Gilan once more—understanding mixed with the barest touch of approval or, perhaps, respect. Gilan had, after all, managed to pick him out of the crowd and seemed to know exactly what he was about. The son, however, was an entirely different story. His expression was now something along the lines of contempt.
"You're too late. We don't have need of your services anymore," he said, pushing the scroll back to Gilan and crossing his arms. "We've already dealt with the problem ourselves." He pointedly ignored his father's slightly disapproving look.
"Oh?" Gilan asked, his eyebrows raised in question. "You mean you've already driven them off?"
"Don't see how it's any of your business, but no, we didn't have to. We found a better way to keep our stores safe, without wasting what little we have on a common mercenary."
Though intent on the unexpected turn of the conversation, Horace looked away from the son to scan the room again, as he had been doing. Most of the people there now had all of their attention fixed on the small table, watching silently as the scene unfolded.
"You mean you've hidden them," Gilan guessed, a guess that proved itself correct as the son startled slightly in surprise and the watchers in the room seemed to suck in their breaths.
The son quickly tried to regain his composure, putting on a confident air. "We have. It's a good plan; we hide what food we can. That way, when they come, we give them "all" of what we have—they'll only see what we didn't hide so they'll believe us."
"You could certainly try that," Gilan nodded slowly, "but men like the ones you're facing usually wise up to those kinds of tricks pretty quickly. And, once you've aroused their suspicions, don't you think that they'll eventually find out that you've hidden all the extra grain and goods in the blacksmith's stables?" he asked meaningfully.
That caused an absolute uproar. Many villagers rose to their feet in angry shock and the headman and his son seemed struck speechless. The son's expression soon took on the anger that was shared by most in the room, but the headman seemed more reserved, or upset, Horace couldn't tell.
"If I can figure it out, so can they," Gilan said calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the reaction of the villagers around him. His eyes stayed focused on the village elder as he added, "And tell the man at the back of the room that if he makes another move towards me, I'll put an arrow through him."
Horace who had been watching the man Gilan had named, picking him out as a potential threat, glanced back at Gilan to see that sometime during the uproar he had taken his bow from off his shoulder and it was now in his hands, an arrow on the string—though he hadn't yet drawn it. Gilan was fast, dangerously fast, Horace realized. The frozen tension in the room carried on for a moment before Gilan broke it.
"None of you have anything to fear from me when it comes to your provisions. I have no interest in your stores or supplies… your bandits on the other hand…" he shook his head. "And they'll be even angrier when they figure out that you tried to trick them."
A lot of the anger in the room started shifting more towards fear.
"Besides that," Horace said, surprising himself by speaking up and stepping forward, "even if you did manage to hide the supplies from them successfully this time, what's to keep them from coming back and trying again later?"
Gilan seemed a little surprised at the intrusion but nodded approvingly at Horace's simple, but unarguable, logic.
The son started forward in anger but the headman stopped him with a warning touch to his arm.
"No, he's right; they both are. If we want everyone to be safe, we have to stop these men for good. Tricking them isn't a good long term solution—even if it would work…" he paused before adding, looking meaningfully at Gilan, "which I'm having doubts about now. I think our best option is to go with our first decision." He tapped the notice meaningfully. "Very well." He nodded at Gilan and Horace, "You can consider yourselves hired." It had become apparent to Horace that the elder already approved of them both.
The son didn't seem too happy about this, probably because it had been his idea to try and hide the stores, Horace guessed. But, eventually, he too saw the sense in what had been said. His shoulders slumped slightly and he nodded. The room finally seemed to settle completely after that, and Horace found himself relaxing a little. The elder gestured for Horace to pull up a seat as well. Horace glanced at Gilan who nodded before moving to take the offered seat.
"Good. Now that's settled, first things first: what will you need from us?" the elder asked, signaling for the tavern owner to bring them some drinks.
"Information," Gilan replied promptly, without the slightest hesitation, "any and all information you can tell me about these brigands of yours. Even things that seem inconsequential could be useful."
Horace, having made himself comfortable, couldn't quite manage to ignore the bowls of warm soup that were being eaten at the next table over. As if on cue with his thoughts, his stomach grumbled loudly.
Gilan smiled at that and then added, "And perhaps a bowl of soup for my friend here."
The elder nodded, grinning in turn. "Can't have him dying on us before you even face the bandits."
~x~X~x~
Will flailed as he plummeted, desperately to catch himself, to stop his fall, anything. At the last minute, he managed to catch hold of a branch that jutted out below the one he'd previously been perched on. It was narrow and it bent dangerously as it bore his weight, but held firm. For a horrifying moment, he dangled helplessly over the heads of the slavers below.
His heart beat wildly in his chest as he desperately tried to keep his hold on the narrow branch. Sycamore trees were smooth for the most part and covered in what felt to be a thin layer of powder. It made the branches slick and he was slipping. It wasn't just the thought of the fall that terrified him—the ground was a long way down, after all—but also the thought of men that awaited him if the fall didn't kill him. As if in response to his fear, the shouting from below intensified, changing in pitch from startled surprise to anger. The sound made his heart leap in his throat even as it galvanized him into action.
Chest heaving and muscles straining, he managed to pull himself upwards so that his upper body was resting on that lower branch. He reached up. Grasping desperately and up at the larger bough that he had first fallen from. He pulled himself up onto that one too, and then scrambled along its length until he reached the trunk of the tree. He could hear the leader shouting clearly for his men to pursue him. No sooner were the words shouted, then Will realized that he was trapped. He couldn't climb down, nor could he just wait here. If the men were determined enough, they'd eventually try to climb up after him. So he did the only thing he could think of; he started to climb even higher. Just as he did so, he felt the tree shake slightly as one of the men obviously tried to climb up after him.
Heart pounding, Will climbed upwards with all the agility of a squirrel until he reached the highest branches and could go no further. The glow from the firelight was now far below him and did not reach high enough to illuminate the branches around him. He chanced a glance downwards to see if the men were close to catching him, but the canopy grew too thick for him to see anything other than vague moving shapes below.
Desperately, his eyes scanned in the direction opposite of their camp and saw another tree growing close to the one he occupied. Heights generally held no terror for Will, but he felt the muscles in his chest constrict slightly as he decided what to do. He licked his lips, hesitating for only a moment before his eyes locked on a particular branch in the other tree that he could just make out in the dark. Quickly, he climbed a little lower to a sturdier branch. Before he could give himself the chance to reconsider, he jumped.
His hands connected with and then clasped around the oak bough he'd aimed for. He hung for a moment before scrabbling up and into the tree, already looking for another tree close enough to jump to and leaped again. He was able to do this a couple more times before he reached a spot where there were no other trees near enough for him to jump to. Panicked, he looked back, expecting to see all the slavers hot on his tail, and saw… nothing. They obviously hadn't seen him jump for the oak and their shouting had drowned out the sound of his leap. Taking advantage of this, he scrambled down from the tree and ran as fast as his legs would carry him away from the camp of men.
Terror gave him a speed he did not even know he possessed as he sprinted for his life, for his freedom and for the freedom of his village. He felt his heart leap into his mouth a few times when he thought heard the sound of pursuit behind him, and when a few shadows and tree branches seemed to reach out and grab him. Eventually, he made it to his secret spot and crawled through the underbrush and into his hollow oak.
He knew he'd probably stand a better chance of not being found if he stayed hidden, held completely still. He listened—but there was nothing aside from the usual sounds of the night. Nevertheless, he stayed still, waiting until the sun started to brush the horizon, making the woods glow pale blue through the trees. He crept out from the tree and the underbrush. Keeping his senses on high alert, he moved, carefully at first, and then as quickly as he could, towards Bawtry.
The town was still starting to wake by the time he made it near. Will wove down the streets, heading purposely towards the home of the leader of the village watch. He skidded to a stop and then rapped impatiently on the door. If anyone in the village could do something about the slavers, it was Captain Frederick and his men. There was no response, so Will knocked again, not even caring that he might make the head of the watch angry by rousing him so early. He was in the middle of a knock when the door swung open to reveal Frederick's wife. She looked him up and down and opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he beat her to it.
"Can I speak to the captain, please?" Will asked breathlessly, practically dancing from foot to foot with excitement and nerves. "It's an emergency!"
The woman took in his expression and stance and then nodded, thankfully not asking questions. "He's meeting with the elder right now, but you can wait in the hall for him to finish. It'll only be about a minute, can it wait that long?"
Will nodded acceptance of that. Considering his standing in the village, he'd almost expected to be brushed off or forced to wait longer than a few minutes. He followed after the woman who led him into a small hallway. At the end was a closed door that led to the captain's office. The woman turned and then left him there to wait. Will fidgeted impatiently outside the door. Each second seemed to drag on as long as a minute or more.
Soon he couldn't stand to wait any longer and he pressed his ear against the door to try and hear what was going on the other side—so he could tell if they were nearing being finished or not. Already he was debating with himself as to what he'd do if the conversation showed signs of dragging on any longer. Banging on the door or barging in would likely land him in serious trouble—but the whole village could get in trouble if he didn't. However, all those thoughts fled from his mind as he heard what it was that was being said on the other side of the door.
"Well, Fredrick," The village elder was saying, "I think you're right. The whole village would benefit from a small spring fair. It'll do a lot to brighten the mood after the hard winter—as well as bring us all together."
"That's what I thought," the captain of the watch said pleasantly. "If it's alright with you, might I suggest two days after a week from today as the start date?"
"I don't see why not," the elder replied. There came a slight scraping sound as he rose from his chair—probably signifying the end of the meeting. "Thanks for the idea, and for bringing it to my attention. Perhaps we can even make it a yearly thing."
"A good idea," Fredrick said approvingly.
Will's mind, however, had frozen at the mention of this spring festival. Though it sounded innocent, something about it wasn't sitting well with him, was ringing alarm bells in his mind. But he didn't know what it was. He frowned, thinking. And then it came to him. He remembered something the slavers had said the night before: that they had a man on the inside who was going to find some pretext to gather all the villagers in one spot. Bawtry had never before had a spring festival—and Will could only think of one reason to suddenly start having one now. It was as the elder had just said: "bring everyone together". An ugly suspicion began forming in Will's mind. Captain Fredrick, head of the village watch, was quite possibly working with the slavers. Will took a step back from the door in shock, just seconds before it swung open to reveal the village elder on his way out. The man only offered Will a small nod of acknowledgment as he passed him. Before Will could even think to do anything, Fredrick saw him.
"What are you doing here… boy?" Fredrick asked, settling on the last word when he couldn't remember Will's name.
Will nearly flinched at the question as he tried to decide what to do, fumbling for some excuse, any excuse, to be here. Now that he knew about Fredrick, the last thing he could do was tell the man that he knew about the slavers, about their plan, and had guessed too the true purpose of Fredrick's 'spring festival'. His hesitation lasted only for a moment as an excuse came quickly to mind.
"Well, Captain Fredrick sir, Famer Dorian sent me because that fox he's been after raided the chicken coup again—took five hens!" Will lied, hoping that the man couldn't hear the sound of his racing heartbeat, couldn't see right through him. "He says it's an emergency and for you to come as soon as you can!"
The whole village knew well of farmer Dorian's yearly battle with the accursed fox who'd been raiding his chicken coup for the past three years—and couldn't catch. He had sent Will to pester the watch captain before about it. Frederick's response now was the same as it had been the last times Dorian had sent Will to him.
His eyebrows drew downward in irritation.
"I already told you, boy, to tell Dorian that my men and I can't afford to go chasing after every fox that plagues every farm. If we did that, then we might not be around when we're needed for something that's actually important!"
"I tried to tell him that," Will said, warming to his theme now, "but he wouldn't listen."
Fredrick rubbed at his temples and then relented slightly. "Tell him that, if the problem gets any worse, and one of my men finds themselves with some free time, I might send them over," he sighed in annoyance, signifying the end to that discussion.
"Thank you," Will said, taking that as his cue to leave.
Once he was back on the street, he breathed out a sigh of relief—certain that the man had bought his lie, and didn't suspect that he guessed he was working with the slavers. But his moment of relief didn't last long. He soon realized that he was quite possibly in a worse situation than he'd been in before. Bawtry was still in imminent danger. What was worse was that the person in charge of protecting it, was in on it all. Will knew of an impending attack, but now had no idea who he could go to get help, had no idea what he could do to stop it all.
~x~X~x~
Halt closed the distance between himself and the mounted knight quickly, stopping only when he was about six meters away. He stood out in the open, his bow at full draw.
"Let the boy go," he said, loud enough to draw the knight's attention. The man startled in surprise, his posture stiffening. Halt couldn't see much of the man's face through the lowered visor of his helm, and so couldn't make out his expression. He could, however, make out the snarl that the man emitted as well as the telltale flexing of the fingers on the hand that was not currently occupied with holding the young boy.
"Don't try it," Halt warned, milliseconds before the man drew the dagger at his side. In a blur of motion, Halt shot the weapon from his hand before he even got the chance to throw it.
"I said, let the boy go," Halt repeated calmly, stepping forward a few paces.
He saw the knight hesitate, as if he were weighing his options. He was dressed in full armor and Halt's arrowhead was a simple leaf-shaped broadhead. But the knight knew now the extent of Halt's speed and accuracy, and likely knew also that there was a good chance Halt could shoot him through the eye slits of his visor if he chose. His only possible defense against that would be the shield currently strapped to his horse's saddle. Slowly, he moved to slide the boy roughly off his saddle, dropping him like a sack of potatoes to land ungracefully near his horse's hoofs. The youngster rose hastily to his feet and made his way quickly behind Halt.
"Now, drop your sword, shield, and helm," Halt ordered, not missing a beat. His bow was still at full draw, his body not showing the slightest strain at holding back the eighty pounds of the draw weight. Again the knight hesitated before he complied, dropping his sword shield and helm to the forest floor before him.
"Turn around and ride away," Halt said.
"You'll pay for this!" the man snarled. And, now that his helm was off, Halt could clearly see the anger and hatred darkening his expression. "That boy," he stressed the title, "belongs to my lord Deparnieux!"
"I don't care if he belongs to the king himself," Halt replied, steel coming into his voice. "I believe I told you to ride away."
He was beginning to feel the strain of holding the draw and he was getting sick of this standoff and of the conversation. As he was thinking this, he became aware of an odd humming sound growing behind him, a sound that he couldn't place—but he knew that taking his eyes off of the knight would be a mistake.
"You have no right poking your nose into business that doesn't concern you! This is far from over," the knight screamed. "Lord Depan—" something wised past Halt's ear and struck the knight in the head mid-sentence. The man let out a pained gurgle and then slumped from his horse, unconscious.
Halt turned, a little surprised to see the boy still standing at his side, a sling held loosely in his right hand. Halt raised an eyebrow, but there was the barest trace of a smile on his face none the less: it had been a very good shot. He studied the youngster more carefully. He was small, probably only about 15 or so and dressed in simple travel-worn clothes. He could also tell, under the dust that coated him, that his cheeks were a little hollow, expression a little strained, wary, haunted. It had probably been a while since he'd eaten a good meal, or felt completely safe. But there was courage and determination in his expression and his stance. Halt found himself nodding approval internally.
"Thanks," Halt told him nodding slightly. "I was afraid I was going to have to shoot the silly idiot."
The boy smiled wearily up at him, green eyes bright against the dirt coating his face. "He was getting a little annoying, wasn't he?" he replied before adding, "and I think that I should be the one thanking you—for helping me get away from him."
Halt, however, had frozen slightly as he spoke—not because of what had been said, but rather how it had been said. The boy wasn't a boy after all, Halt realized, but rather a girl dressed as one—it was her soft voice that gave her away. However that wasn't the only thing that had caught his attention; despite the fact that she had spoken to him in Gallic, her accent was noticeably Araluen.
"You're Araluen?" He asked, switching languages. And when she nodded, looking a little surprised, he added, "What's your name then?"
She seemed almost to think for a moment before she answered, "Evanlyn, Evanlyn Wheeler."
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all have an amazing week! Feedback is always appreciated. Let me know if you see anywhere that I can improve, have questions or suggestions. Until next time!
