A/N: Here's chapter 4. This one, especially the second half, was really fun to write, so I hope it's just as fun/enjoyable to read. I'm going out of town this week and school starts back up for me right when I get back (I'll be a full-time college student now, no more dual credits cause I'm done with high school! yay!) so expect updates to be a little sporadic after this chapter, because school always has this nasty way of eating up all my free/writing time...which is really kinda depressing. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. I really appreciate it.

TrustTheCloak: That's awesome that you work with horses. I hope I didn't distract you too badly from your job XD. I agree that Halt and Crowley without each other is terrible, they're best bros after all. Don't worry though, they will be getting together again. Thanks so much for the review! :)

WhisperRanger26: Don't worry, Horace has a plan to get some food... it might not be a very good plan, but he does have one. To answer your question, Guillaume is pretty much just a young Gallican knight. I made him have a lot of similarities to the others though because he was the catalyst for Halt's memories. As for Gilan though, this chapter might help explain where he is. Thanks so much for the review! It made my day!

Dragonslover98: I'm sorry about that; thanks so much for catching that! I promise to answer all those questions as soon as I can. Well, I did say in the beginning that only the person who was holding the stone when it went off would remember the change, but Halt was hitting it out of Morgarath's hand when it was going off, just barely touching it... XD Thanks for the review! I really appreciate it.

Chapter 4: Malaise Part I

~x~X~x~

(Around The Time of The Tournament at Gorlan)

~x~X~x~

Crowley rode with a heavy heart, unable to take in, let alone appreciate, the beauty of the forests and fields that made up the outer edge of Gorlan Fief. He distinctly remembered that, only about a week ago or so ago, he had managed to talk himself out of a similar mood—a mood that had been caused by reflecting on the sorry state of the kingdom and the Ranger Corps. In fact, he had blithely told his horse Cropper that he'd learned that there was neither use nor sense in moping about things. He'd meant it at the time, and had even stopped moping then… but that had been before the incident at the tavern. His hands clenched tightly around the reins.

He'd stopped there for a drink and some food and had had an unpleasant run-in with some of Morgarath's men. He couldn't suppress a wince as he thought it, the pain was still too fresh in his mind. The three men had had far too much to drink and had been harassing a woman. He had stepped in to stop them, only to lose the momentum of the fight when he'd accidentally stumbled into one of the tavern's roof supports. The soldiers had cornered him, tossed his bow out of reach, and tied him to the post, threatening to cut off his nose for spoiling their fun.

They probably would have done so had Crowley not jerked his head to the side at the last minute. As it was, the knife slash had still cut his face badly from the bridge of his nose near his left eye all the way across his nose and down to the right side of his face near his mouth and lower cheek. The men were so drunk and angry that they probably would have tried again, after their initial failure, had not the woman he'd first tried to protect cut him free from the post so he could fight back. She'd managed to get behind it with a table knife while the men had been focused on hurting him.

And Crowley had indeed fought back, despite the pain and the mess of blood that had been streaming freely down his face. He'd still had his saxe and the soldiers' swords were far less wieldy in the enclosed space. Crowley had dealt with all three of them. In the end, they had run for it, and Crowley had been too injured to try and pursue them. He'd spent the past week bedridden, under the care of the grateful woman he'd saved, his face covered in bandages.

Even now that the bandages and the stitches had come off, it still hurt. He knew that it was going to scar—and scar badly. He brought his hand up to his face as he thought it, his fingers tracing the rough edges of the ugly wound before he let his arm drop despondently.

I think it makes you look more distinguished, Cropper tried, obviously sensing his master's mood.

But Crowley wasn't having it at the moment. He just felt… empty.

"Now's not the time," he told his horse, his words a little bitter.

Too early? If a horse could ever be said to look innocent, then Cropper was managing it.

Despite himself, Crowley felt the touch of a smile break across his face, "far too early."

I thought you'd promised not to mope anymore.

"In case you haven't noticed, the kingdom is in just as much of a sorry state as it was before—and, on top of it all, Morgarath and his men have carved a permanent reminder of it on my face."

His eyes darkened as he thought of Morgarath and what had happened the day before when he'd gone to Gorlan Castle to report the tavern incident. He had gotten nothing but insults and condescension from the Baron—that and: "I certainly want to help you," purred in a way that could only ever have been meant to mock, "but you don't seem to have any proof that it was indeed my men, and I don't see them with you. For all I know, you simply cut yourself trying to shave. Therefore, I'm afraid that I'm unable to do anything. My hands are tied."

Crowley's teeth clenched as he thought it. He was on the very edge of losing his temper. Honestly, though, he didn't know what else he could have expected from the man that he was certain—even if he couldn't prove it—was behind the weakening of the Ranger Corps: getting the true Rangers banished or executed because of trumped-up charges of crimes and treason. His mentor Pritchard had been killed that way… and Crowley hadn't gotten the news of his mentor's arrest until it was too late for him to do anything about it, too late to try and save him. He felt a lump growing in his throat as he thought of Pritchard and his fate.

Crowley was also certain that Morgarath was behind the plot to discredit Prince Duncan and leave him languishing in the borderlands. He was positive that Morgarath wanted the throne of King Oswald for himself. His meeting with Morgarath had as good as confirmed all his suspicions in his mind. But the question he was left with now was: what exactly was he going to do about it? What could he do about it?

He shook himself as he took stock of where he was—just past the border of Gorlan fief and close to the winding Crowsfoot River by the look of it. The path was narrow here, worn deeply into the thick forest by countless ages of use. Suddenly, he heard the sound of hoof beats coming from behind him. He turned to see a rider at full gallop waving his hands frantically for Crowley to clear the way.

The long-billed, crested cap he wore marked him as a messenger or dispatch rider. Crowley could just make out the insignia on the breast of his jacket. His teeth clenched tighter: it was Morgarath's lightning bolt emblem.

"Clear the way! Dispatches from Lord Morgarath," the man shouted arrogantly as if in confirmation of Crowley's observation. He showed no sign of letting up on his fast pace. He would plow Crowley and Cropper over if they didn't move. Narrowing his eyes in barely controlled anger, Crowley moved his horse to one of the edges of the road so the man could pass.

"Out of my way, curse you!" the man shouted, despite the fact that it was obvious that he'd already done so. That yell was the last straw for Crowley. His temper snapped fully then. He was tired of being bullied by Morgarath and his men. Rage bubbled up in him and he un-slung his bow as the man rode past him, hooking it over the man's head at the last second and then hauling back, pulling him bodily from his horse. The man crashed to the ground.

Crowley dismounted and stood over him. The man was awfully still, Crowley's anger died slowly as a worried thought, that he might have killed the man, crept in. That hadn't been his intention. He relaxed a little as the man took in a gasping breath and then started breathing normally again. Not dead. He would be unconscious for quite a while though, Crowley was certain.

He turned his attention towards the man's horse and the saddlebags, his thoughts on the dispatches the man was carrying. If they were indeed from Morgarath, then Crowley really wanted to know what they contained. There were three scrolls. Crowley carefully slipped his knife under the yellow wax seal affixed to each, keeping each of the plugs whole, and then carefully unrolling the parchments to read.

The first one contained a list of 12 Rangers that were to be dismissed from the Corps, their authority as Ranger's revoked. He sucked in his breath as he read: his own name was at the top of that list. The second scroll contained an appointment for Baron Naylor to act as Grand Marshal of the upcoming tournament at Gorlan. But it was the last message that was the most intriguing and revealing. It was a letter to Sir Eammon of Wildriver. It detailed how Morgarath had been stirring up unrest against Prince Duncan by using a man name Tiller to impersonate him. It said that the real Prince was a prisoner at Castle Wildriver and that Morgarath was planning to announce himself a King Oswald's heir at the tournament—and that the prince was to be kept alive until then so that he could be used as leverage should the king refuse Morgarath.

Crowley found his mind reeling as he processed all of this. Just moments before, he'd been wondering what he was going to do about the state of the kingdom, the state of the failing Ranger Corps. Now he thought he had the beginnings of an idea, a plan to fight back. The tournament was seven weeks away. He had seven weeks to get Prince Duncan out of Castle Wildriver and have him confront Morgarath at the tournament.

It was too much for him to do alone, and he knew it. He would need help if he was to pull this off. And the first dispatch had given him a very good idea of where to find it. Resolved, he moved to try and re-seal the parchments as best he could by re-heating the bottom of the wax seals and re-sticking them back to the scrolls. He knew it would be best, for what he was planning, if nobody knew that the letters had already been read.

As he put them back in the messenger's saddlebags and prepared a story to tell the man when he woke up, he remembered something that his late mentor Pritchard used to say about training to be a Ranger: "We don't do it for the glory, we don't do it for ourselves, we do it for when the kingdom has need of these skills." If ever the kingdom needed the skills of the Rangers, it was now.

~x~X~x~

Present Day

~x~X~x~

Crowley got up from the chair he occupied and headed towards the window of his office of the northern castle that was serving as the equivalent of Castle Araluen in the King's Lands. Outside, the spring air was crisp and fresh. Crowley took it all in and tried to work himself up into a smile. It was an expression that had once been thoughtlessly easy to make, but had grown increasingly harder as the years passed and the war dragged on.

Crowley was a Ranger, appointed by the King to be the commandant of a failing Corps in a failing kingdom. All those years ago he'd tried his best to rally and reform the Corps. At one time, during the start of the war, the numbers had reached into the twenties. But they had lost many Rangers during the Battle of Hackham Heath, almost half their numbers, ensuring the King's safety and securing the half of the kingdom that remained Duncan's.

Now, fifteen years later, their number was back up to twenty again, but even that wasn't near enough for the 28 fiefs that belong to the King—especially not with the war on. He shook his head free of those dark thoughts, they weren't going to help his situation. He heard a knock at his door and called for whomever it was to enter.

An elegant woman in the white gown of a Courier stepped inside in answer to his call.

"Lady Pauline," Crowley greeted, a genuinely pleased smile touching his scarred face.

"Crowley," She smiled at him in return.

"And, Lady Alyss," Crowley inclined his head to the young girl standing behind Pauline.

She'd been the elegant Courier's apprentice for about a year now. Apparently, she'd been a ward of Arald's once, sent to Baron Tyler when Redmont fell. Pauline had told him that, about a year previous, when she had gone to deliver messages to Tyler with Arald, Alyss had approached her to ask about becoming a Courier. Long story short, she'd become Lady Pauline's apprentice and was already becoming one of the brightest in the Diplomatic Service.

The girl nodded now, her formally solemn features lighting up with a smile, "Ranger Crowley," she greeted, respectfully.

"Call me Crowley," he said pleasantly and she nodded.

"Alright then… Crowley," she tried it out.

Crowley couldn't help but smile again, her smile was infectious. Then he turned back to Pauline. "I take it this isn't a social call?"

She shook her head wanly. "Is there even such a thing anymore in these times?" she asked rhetorically.

Crowley allowed himself a wry chuckle. "That's true enough."

She nodded before coming to the point. "King Duncan has called a meeting to discuss the recent developments."

It was his turn to nod understanding as he fell in step beside her as they headed out to meet the King.

"Has there been any further news about the hired Scandians or Morgarath's plans?" he asked curiously as they walked.

She shook her head. "We were lucky to get what we did. It's hard to get agents into Morgarath's lands—into positions or places where they might glean valuable information."

He nodded knowingly.

"I'm afraid that the news I have is closer to home. I've recently gotten reports from my people informing me that the Moondarker problems have been getting worse on the east coast, and the Outsider cult has been taking greater hold in the west.

Crowley frowned, "That's pretty much what my Rangers have been saying. And add to that the problem of bandits and slaver and Scandian raids. Honestly, all we need is for the Scotti to invade from the north and we'd have all the points of the compass covered when it comes to problems. I know I should probably send some Rangers out to deal with it all, but it's hard: I have so few and we are already spread thin."

It was Pauline's turn to frown at that, knowing that he was right. Every day things seemed to grow more bleak. Both of them turned, however, when young Alyss cleared her throat.

"Do you think that if Rangers and Couriers worked together more jointly we might be able to help the problem of not having enough numbers?"

Lady Pauline nodded at the suggestion and Crowley smiled.

"If the situation with the Moondarkers and Outsiders, gets any worse, I think that's a suggestion that merits further thought," he said.

Joint operations between Rangers and Couriers weren't unheard of after all. Crowley frowned, deep in thought, as they continued on. Whatever they did, he was certain that they needed some new strategies, especially with the threat of Morgarath growing bigger every day.

~x~X~x~

A few days after he had left the village, Horace had found himself near, or across—he wasn't entirely sure which—the border between the King's land and Morgarath's land. He had figured that out around noon that day when he had seen a band of wargals and men wearing the lightning bolt standard of the traitor Lord, traveling parallel and somewhat southwest of his position.

It had been the first time in his life that Horace had ever seen the bestial creatures that made up the main part of Morgarath's army, and they were terrifying to behold. Part of him had always thought that the stories he had heard about them were exaggerations—but now that he'd seen them for himself, he realized that they obviously were not.

The moment he had seen them, he'd dropped quickly behind a nearby bush to keep them from seeing him. Fear had held him frozen as they passed by. He'd watched numbly, both mesmerized and horrified by the creatures' hideous visages. They hadn't been very close to his position, but he'd been able to make out their guttural chant as they marched. It was toneless and wordless and it had sent shivers down his spine.

It was in that moment that he'd realized that he'd traveled way too far south. He'd made a horrible mistake coming this far. He'd just decided to head back the way he'd come when something had made him pause. That something was the sudden thought of the provisions that the enemy band carried with them. Horace had run entirely out of food a while ago and he hadn't eaten anything at all for two days. The roll he'd gotten in the village was nothing but a fading memory now.

He couldn't bring himself to rob from villagers and other travelers, but the semi-human beasts of Morgarath's army and the men that led it weren't innocent villagers. Besides that, he'd known that the only villages where he could find something to eat were days away from his current position. If he was to survive and make it back north he needed food, he needed supplies.

It was an insanely stupid idea and he'd known it, but he hadn't been able to push it from his mind. After the men and wargals had passed him by, he'd felt himself rising from his hiding spot and then starting to travel in the direction they had taken, his utter desperation overriding his caution. He'd been able to follow them easily, without coming into their sights, by following the sound of their chant as they marched.

It was that which had led him to where he was now, standing near the top of a dell in the dark shadows of night, looking at the firelight of the enemy camp below.

Stealing from bandits and murderers wasn't really stealing, he told himself fiercely. This party of Morgarath's men and wargals had likely killed and stolen from people to get what they had. It would only be fair if he were to take it back.

His stomach ached again and it was physically starting to hurt. For a moment, he felt a little flushed and lightheaded. He leaned against the tree he sheltered behind for support as he waited the uncomfortable feeling out.

He needed food and he needed it badly. When the moment finally passed, he shook himself and reached for his sword. He could smell the roasting haunch of venison that was in the very center of the camp. But he knew that there would be no way for him to get any of that. His stomach sent another wave of pain through him and his mouth watered despite himself. It just smelled so good. Then he shook his head. It wasn't possible. He'd learned enough in tactics and history class to understand that he wouldn't even have a chance.

But he'd noticed something earlier. This band's bags and stores of provisions had been carelessly placed nearer the edge of the camp. He could see no more than five or six men stationed near there. He could not sneak or fight through an entire camp of men, it was true. But he bet that he could sneak past five or six... hopefully. He took a breath, his eyes seeking the best path to the bags of stores.

His hand clutched tight at the hilt of his sword and he felt his palms already beginning to sweat with nerves. If he wasn't careful, he could very well die here tonight. But he would die anyway in a week or two if he didn't get food, he argued with himself. Best to try it now—while he still had the strength. He nodded to himself and chose his path, straightening his shoulders as he began to creep down it.

"I wouldn't go that way if I were you," a quiet but, at the same time, almost cheerful voice spoke out of the darkness.

Horace started in fear and only just managed to stop himself from yelping, or worse, in shock. As it was, he drew his sword reflexively, even as he turned toward where the sound had come from.

There was a tall slim figure leaning casually against the trunk of a tree not more than two meters from him. It was a man, he saw, and he might have taken him for a simple forester had he not noticed the dulled, grey-brown, brigandine armor that he wore. He also carried a veritable array of weapons. Horace could make out a longbow, a quiver of arrows, a sword, and, if he was not mistaken, a knife. But the man had made no attempt to draw any of them.

In the dark, all Horace could see of his face was a wide easy smile. The rest of his face lay in shadow because of his hooded surcoat. The man, for his part, seemed totally unconcerned by Horace's sword as he leaned forwards and continued speaking, his tone as light and amiable as if they were discussing pleasantries over supper.

"Though their camp looks relatively slapdash, they're not quite as unprepared as they seem." He stood fully then and pointed down in the direction Horace had chosen for himself to take. "See, they have picket guards stationed in the trees around their camp."

Though still startled and more than wary, Horace couldn't help but follow the line of man's pointing finger. It was then that he saw something move in the trees and then a small orange flash of light as the firelight reflected off the armor of a picket guard that he had missed. His eyes widened. He swallowed hard as he realized he would have blundered straight into that guard. He looked back towards the strange cowled man who had pretty much just saved his life.

"There are six of them total," the man went on, "and, judging by the way you move, they probably would have heard you before you even got near the camp. That is, if you didn't flat out run into one of them on the way down."

Though the words were almost chiding, the tone was calm and still almost cheerful, not condemning. It was the tone that soothed Horace's initial flash of anger at the near insult—that and the realization that the man was probably right. He had trod on more than a few twigs this night and this man had gotten within mere meters of him without him hearing the slightest sound. Horace found himself lowering his sword at that revelation. If the man had wanted to kill him, he probably could have already done so and Horace was fairly certain that he wouldn't have even known what had hit him. But instead, this man had just stopped him from walking into a potential death trap.

"No," the man shook his head as he continued, his smile dimming slightly, "if we want to steal some supper for ourselves, we are going to need a different plan."

By now Horace's head was practically spinning with the total craziness of this situation, but he still managed to pick up on the stranger's use of a specific pronoun.

"We?" he managed to gasp out, his voice rising in pitch. The hooded man made a gesture for him to hush.

"They're not deaf down there, you know," he said good-naturedly.

Horace nodded and spoke again, softer this time, though his voice still cracked a little.

"We?" he repeated.

"Naturally," the cowled man said, matter of fact. "It's far easier for two people to create a diversion than one. Most of Morgarath's men in small bands like these don't have a lot up top," he said, lightly tapping the side of his head with a forefinger. "Two people will definitely be enough for our purposes," he nodded to himself. "And the terrain here is perfect for it…"

"Diversion?" Horace squeaked; this was all moving a little too fast for him.

The man's mouth grew serious at this interjection and so did his tone.

"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of the diversion. You just make sure that you're in place to steal our dinner while they're distracted. Got it? If you don't think that you can do it, just say so and we'll think of something else."

Horace nodded numbly. "I can do it," he murmured and his strange partner regarded him quietly for a moment before nodding.

"I think you could at that. Name's Gilan, by the way," he added, holding out his hand, the smile returning fully to his face.

"Horace," Horace breathed, clasping arms with him.

"Pleased to meet you, Horace." Then his mouth grew serious again. "When I make my move there will probably be a lot of shouting and confusion. Can a trust you to keep your head and wait until most of them are chasing me into the woods before moving in?"

His whole attention was fixed on Horace now and Horace nodded.

"Just get in, grab what you need and get out. Don't take any unnecessary risks and try not to get pinned down into any engagements. This is dangerous, so be alert and be careful."

Horace nodded again. It made good sense. Though he couldn't see it, he could feel the man's gaze on him until he was sure that he understood.

"One thing," Horace stammered, his voice becoming steadier as he spoke on, "you said that they'll be chasing after you."

The man nodded agreement.

"Then how will I find you after… you know, so we can split it?"

The man smiled again. "I'll find you," he said, as he began to move away.

Well, that was more than a little disconcerting, Horace thought. Then started in surprise as the man seemed to vanish before his eyes. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine. But he began to move forwards none the less. He went more carefully this time, aware of the pickets that—he searched for the man's name then found it: Gilan—that Gilan had pointed out to him.

He moved slowly and cautiously, taking advantage of the heavy shadows all around as he drew nearer to the enemy camp. Once he judged that he was as close as he dared to the picket line of guards, he stopped behind a shrub bush and waited, his eyes fixed on the camp.

For a long while, there was nothing. Then he nearly blinked in surprise as Gilan seemed to appear inside the enemy camp, deep enough to cause alarm, but not so deep as to trap himself, Horace noted. Morgarath's men seemed totally oblivious to his presence until he spoke.

"What's for dinner? I'm starving!"

The men started in utter surprise as they became suddenly aware of the brazen interloper in their camp. Then all chaos broke loose as Gilan sent the leader to the ground with a precise hit from a spear he had taken from one of the men. He then turned and darted away into the deep night at top speed.

"After him!" the angry roar of the second in command sounded—a little belatedly. Startled men scurried for weapons and hastened to obey the cries. Even the pickets on guard moved to do likewise. In that moment, Horace couldn't decide whether to be impressed by this Gilan's courage or appalled at his foolhardiness.

Soon there were only two men left in the encampment. Horace ghosted to the supplies, aware of the sounds of men and wargals tramping and crashing through the forest. Then he heard faint deep throated thrumming sound and several cries of pain and alarm. Horace tried to tune it mostly out, so it wouldn't distract him as he moved in. The two enemies that were left were positioned fairly far apart from each other and facing different directions. Horace crept towards the one near the supplies and knocked him senseless with a heavy blow.

Now that the moment of action was upon him, he found that much of his earlier nervousness had gone...most, but not all. He quickly stooped to gather several bags of the provisions, as much as he could carry. He slung them over his shoulder and then hurried back into the shadows. He wished then that he had a better way of carrying all the supplies because, as it was, he'd be unable to use his left arm at all if it came to a fight.

Once he was out of sight of the camp, and its large fire, he ran, heedless of the branches that grabbed at him—always heading into the opposite direction to the sounds of fighting. He kept going even when they were no longer audible. He had heard once that, without light, men tended to run in circles. In order to keep that from happening to him, he made sure to head in the direction of the full moon that lit the night around him with a silvery glow.

His breath started to come in ragged puffs, something that he knew probably wouldn't have happened yet if he'd been in good condition. The sacks began slipping so he adjusted his hold, clutching them to his chest. Finally, when he felt that he could run no longer, he slowed to a walk, his eyes seeking in the moonlight for a sheltered place to secure himself.

When he found one, he waited there for a long while. Gradually, his breath came back to him and his heartbeat returned to its normal pace. As the moon dipped ever lower in the sky, and minutes turned to hours, Horace began to believe that Gilan wouldn't be coming to meet him. Either he couldn't find him or, worse, Morgarath's men had caught and killed him.

To his slight surprise, he found himself hoping that the latter wasn't the case. This Gilan had intrigued him and there was something about him that he found himself almost liking. He stared into the darkness around him once more and then looked down, frowning. What if he hadn't been killed but rather injured or captured? Horace's brows furrowed at the thought. He found he didn't at all like the idea of anyone being held or hurt by Morgarath's men. He'd just made up his mind that he'd go back and try to help if Gilan were hurt, or find a way to free him if he were captured when he looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Gilan was directly before him, crouching on a nearby log with that by now familiar grin visible under the shadow of his hood, the white of his teeth glinting faintly in the moonlight.

"Hello, Horace. I trust you managed to find some supper?"

A/N: Thanks for reading. As usual, feedback is really appreciated! Let me know what you think. I hope you all have really blessed weeks until next time! I know that I said Evanlyn was going to be in this chapter, but I had to do a little rearranging, and it didn't fit. But she'll definitely be coming into things a little later, promise.