A/N: I'm really sorry for the delay everyone! I just finally submitted my last essay and took my last final for the fall term though. That means I'll have a few weeks off from school for winter break, so I'm hoping to get some decent writing done... finally XD. Today's flashback belongs to Evanlyn; so I can explain exactly how she wound up in Gallica. Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed; it means the world.

Anonim: Don't worry, I promise I'll explain. X) I would think I'd be losing my mind if I heard that too XD But thankfully, in Gilan's case, it's nothing so specific or odd as that. To answer your question, for the most part, no Will doesn't—at least not to the same extent (there is a reason for that that will be explained later, I promise that too). XD Thanks so much for the review, and for the compliment. I really appreciate it.

TrustTheCloak: Yes, there is a very good chance of those three meeting up. I hate it when he's written that way too! It really bugs me, especially when there's tons of evidence to the contrary all over the place in the books X) Halt and Evanlyn will be on their way soon and Halt and Crowley will definitely find each other again as well. Thanks for the review! It made my day.

jaymzNshed: I'm really glad you liked it—and that it came off well. Yes, Will's in a bit of a pickle, but at least he has a plan! (or will get one eventually) XD Yes, you're right, that is the same evil warlord from book three and yes he's not quite finished causing trouble. Thanks so much for the review! I really appreciate it.

Dragonslover98: Thank you :D that's really nice of you to say. This chapter should answer a lot of your guesses about what everyone is going to do. And I promise that I am starting to bring everybody back together. Thanks again for the review; It means a lot.

Ranger-Corpses: I'll get to the answer to that question as soon as I can (or as soon as the plot permits) XD Will's going to eventually come up with a plan to help the village. Thanks so much for the review. It really brightened my day.

helloyesimhere: Thanks so much for the compliments and for the review! It was really encouraging. :3

Chapter 7: The Lost and Withstanding Part II

~x~X~x~

A Few Weeks Previous

~x~X~x~

She had been sent to Gallica so that she would be safe from the war. For some reason, she couldn't keep that thought from her head. It was a cruel irony if she had ever heard one, she thought darkly as she made her way, as silently as she could, through the woods that surrounded the open patch of farmlands ahead of her. There had never before been a time in her life when she had felt less safe, felt more afraid.

Yes, she had been sent to Gallica to keep her away from, and so safe from, the war. A distant uncle on her father's side was a Gallic lord who held sizable holdings in the north. Somehow, through discussion between her father and that uncle, they had all come to the agreement that she would be better off and safer if she were to be raised by her uncle's family.

It was not, after all, an unheard of arrangement in the circles of noble families. And she had been treated as family—as if she were her uncle's own daughter… but that had been before the warlord Deparnieux had attacked. Memories of bloody vicious fighting, of the castle in smoldering ruins, of her uncle telling her to flee, of the men that had chased her and her retinue… of the face of her lady's maid, her friend, lying dead… all of her retinue lying dead, sacrificing themselves to get her safely away, burned painfully at the forefront of her mind.

She felt her throat close up and the tears she had desperately been trying to hold back these past few days gather in her eyes. She closed them. She couldn't afford to break down here, or now. She had to focus only on staying alive, focus on finding a way back to Araluen, back to her father—for she was not safe here. This was because the warlord had obviously gotten some intelligence that her uncle had been playing host to a foreign princess. She could think of no other reason why he had pursued her so relentlessly—why he still hunted her.

He obviously hoped to gain an extravagant ransom for her capture, or thought she'd be a useful piece in a gambit for power… or worse… Regardless, her father was beleaguered by the war, he probably couldn't afford half a ransom: he had enough trouble keeping his kingdom fed and as safe as he could. And Cassandra had no intention of becoming a political tool… or worse… She felt her chest tighten as she thought it.

She paused at the edge of the clearing, eyes locked on the lone farmstead before her. It had once been occupied, she knew. But that had been before Deparnieux and his men had attacked her uncle's holdings. Part of the building was burned, and there was no sign of any people or animals anywhere. She gathered herself and then dashed quickly down the hill towards the building—wanting to cover the open land between the woods and the farmstead as quickly as possible. Once she reached the farmhouse, she crouched in its shadow, listening. She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard no sound other than the typical sounds of the early evening.

Inside, she began rifling through the shelves and the root cellar—looking for anything to eat, and anything that could help her. Luck seemed to be with her, for she found several crusts of stale bread and some dried meat and fruit. It was enough to last her long enough for her to make it to the coast. She shoved it all, and a length of rope, into a leather satchel she found trampled near the door to one of the bedrooms.

Knowing that it was not safe to stay any longer, she headed again for the door but stopped when she caught sight of a strip of leather that had been carefully shaped and molded: a sling. In one of the other abandoned houses she had visited—the one where she had found the peasant boy clothes that now disguised her—she had found a small hunting bow. But she had been unable to learn how to use it on the go and so had left it behind. She knew how to use a sling though. She'd often used one when she was younger back home. She had even done so at her uncle's castle before she had been forced into learning the more ladylike activities a princess was meant to be proficient in...for all the good those specific skills did her here.

She reached down for the sling, running her fingers over it to make certain it was in good condition. She set the thongs of it in her hands, as if she were going to use it. Somehow that action, knowing that she now had some means of defending herself, started to make her feel just a little safer. She slung the satchel over her shoulder and tucked the sling into her belt where she'd be able to reach it, and use it, at a moment's notice. Now all she needed was to find some rounded stones.

She slipped out of the house and back into the forest, using what she knew of astronomy to find her direction and start moving towards the coast. She tried desperately not to let the niggling doubts that she had about her abilities take control. She was only fifteen, after all, and had no idea how to survive alone like this...She had no idea how much longer she could outrun and outsmart her pursuers. She gritted her teeth, promising herself that she'd find a way out of this mess, find a way back home.

~x~X~x~

Present Day

~x~X~x~

Cassandra—or rather Evanlyn now, she mentally corrected herself—stood facing the man who had just saved her from the knight: a knight who would have brought her kicking and screaming straight into the arms of the warlord she had been fleeing. They had gotten safely away from the immediate area where the knight had nearly caught her and had stopped so she could rest a little.

She had told the man that her name was Evanlyn, the name of her lady's maid, and that she was from Greenfield Fief. Mostly it was because she was certain that she couldn't trust anyone with her true identity, not even this man, despite the fact that he had saved her—and the fact that there was something about him that struck a familiar chord.

On the surface, he looked like simple a yeoman. He had a grim manner and grizzled appearance. His hair and beard were salt and pepper, and a little unkempt looking. But there was something more about him that she couldn't put her finger on—something almost reassuring. But she couldn't focus on that at the moment because she needed to prepare herself, and get her story straight in her mind, in order to answer his next inevitable questions. They weren't long in coming.

"If you're from Greenfield Fief," the man began, "how exactly did you wind up here in Gallica? It's not exactly a day ride away," he added dryly.

"I… was, or rather, my lady was visiting relatives up in the northern part of Gallica," she began, not noticing how he seemed to start slightly at her words or how his eyes had narrowed faintly in thought or concentration. "To be safer from the war in Araluen… But about a week ago, the warlord Deparnieux attacked and over-ran the castle. My lady and I tried to escape, but the warlord's men surrounded her and the rest of the retinue," she said, her voice breaking as she remembered that awful night, relieved the horror, heard the screams anew, saw… saw… "They killed…" she trailed off unable to continue past the lump in her throat. "I ran," she finished finally when again found her voice, "I wanted to help them… but I couldn't… and I ran…" She trailed off into silence again, feeling the tears that she'd been trying to hold back for the past week start to run freely down her face.

Soon she was crying openly and couldn't stop herself despite her best efforts. All the exhaustion of the past week seemed to catch up with her all at once and she found herself swaying a little. Through the sheen of tears that blurred her vision, she saw grizzled man moved forward to catch her before she fell and then help her sit down. He even went so far as to offer her the forest green cloak that he wore, and she accepted it. She was faintly aware of him sitting next to her. He hesitated for a moment then reached out an awkward hand to grip hers reassuringly. She gripped it back.

"I'm… sorry that happened," He said finally, slowly. And although the words were simple, he was sincere, and it meant something for her to hear them. It didn't fix what had happened, didn't take away the pain of loss, but it helped to know that someone cared, and perhaps even understood. After a long while, she finally started to calm a little and was able to continue with her story.

"The warlord and his men still hunt me… and I don't have any idea why..." She said, scrubbing at her face with her hands; her eyes felt puffy and tired from weeping. "I've been traveling at night and hiding during the day. But today I broke that habit so that I could try and buy passage on a boat to escape across the channel. Deparnieux has his men everywhere and one of them recognized me somehow, right as I was about to approach one of the ship captains. He chased me all the way into the woods, and that's where you found me."

She saw him nod thoughtfully, a small frown of concentration on his face. Suddenly, she was able to put a name to the things that had made him seem familiar: the two knives placed in scabbards close together at his side, the longbow and quiver of black painted shafts, his cloak and the way he dressed, even the way he moved. His accent was Hibernian and not Araluen true, but surely it was all too great to just be a coincidence. She felt a small flare of hope.

"Pardon me for asking but are you," she began wondering how to ask and then just deciding to just flat out say it, "are you a Ranger?"

He seemed taken aback by the question and then she saw a stricken, almost pained look come into his dark eyes. He hesitated for a moment before nodding at her. His expression now was, if anything, even more grim than before.

"I…was, once," he said finally, quietly.

"Before the war?" she asked softly. Her father had told her stories of how Morgarath had nearly destroyed the Ranger Corps, how many of the old rangers had been killed, banished, or driven off to other countries.

He sighed and then answered, "Yes."

He seemed to consider that to be the end of the conversation for he turned, searching through his packs until he found some food which he passed to her. She accepted it gratefully and took several hungry bites; she hadn't eaten in a very long while. Despite this, she couldn't stop her mind from running with questions and curiosity. She knew he wanted her to drop the subject. And his admittedly grim manner wasn't really one that invited questions or conversation, but her curiosity soon got the better of her.

"What happened?" She ventured after the silence between them had stretched for a long time.

"It's not important," he said brushing it off, his tone broaching no further argument or questions. "Do you know what is important though?" he said finally after another pause. When she shook her head mutely in answer, he continued, "Finding a way back to Araluen. That is important."

She looked up at that, surprised. She was about to speak when he beat her to it.

"Which is a bit of a problem: I don't have the time to travel days to get to another port, and I'm certain that our friend the knight has already alerted this Deparnieux to the fact that you are here and that you were trying to get passage on a ship. My guess is that he'll send men to scour this forest, and also station men to guard the port. It's going to be tricky for us to get out. Which leaves me to think of a plan to get around them I suppose," he took stock of Evanlyn's surprised and questioning glance, and added, "and you to pester me with endless questions, no doubt."

Evanlyn, however, was stuck on something he'd said earlier. "You mean you'll help me get back to Araluen?" Truthfully, if he hadn't offered she had planned to beg or even try offer to pay him for his help. A Ranger, even a banished, disgraced, or wandering one was a powerful ally to have.

Halt raised an eyebrow, "I see it's already started," he said of her question before he answered it. "We both are trying to get to the same place. And I'm not about to leave you here for this Depanieurx to find—especially not since he wants so you badly. I've seen enough of his work to know that I'd enjoy upsetting his plans."

"Me too," Evanlyn said decisively, the haunted look coming back into her eyes, except this time it was heavily tempered with both anger and determination.

"When you're ready, we'll set off towards the port town," he said finally.

She nodded, stuffing the last piece of food into her mouth, then rising determinately to her feet and dusting off her hands. "Do you know of a way to get us past the knights and onto a ship?" she asked hopefully.

"I have an idea," he said before looking sidelong at her. "I trust you know how to swim?"

She nodded, despite being puzzled by the unexpected question.

"Good," he said simply as he signaled her to follow.

"How—" she started, but he cut her short with a raised hand.

"I think that's enough questions for now. I'll explain further when we get to the town."

Evanlyn nodded, not wanting to push her luck. The last thing she wanted was to drive the Ranger away. He was her best chance of getting home. Besides that, despite his grim and forbidding manner, she liked him—if only because he'd saved her, and because he was the closest thing she had to something being familiar in this foreign country. Then another thought occurred to her and she opened her mouth to speak without thinking.

"Excuse me, Ranger?"

He sighed. "What is it now?"

His short tone made her wince before she straightened; "I just realized I don't know your name."

"I'm called Halt." He said and she nodded thoughtfully as she followed in his wake.

Halt, for his part, had a lot to consider, and not just about how he was going to get the two of them past Deparnieux and his men. The girl called herself Evanlyn Wheeler from Greenfield Fief. And, even as she had said it, the words had struck a chord in Halt's memory; something his former apprentice had said when he'd been reporting on the happenings in Celtica… was it really years ago now?

It had been back in that other time, not long before the incident with Morgarath's stone. Evanlyn's story seemed to mirror exactly the one that his former apprentice had told of the girl that he had found in Celtica while on the mission to deliver dispatches—a mission that had gone awry when they had discovered that Celtica had already been attacked by Morgarath.

The girl Evanlyn, in that time, had at first been thought to be the Princess Cassandra of Araluen's maidservant. However, when Gilan had pointed out that the girl had been blonde with green eyes and small of stature, they had all realized the truth. Gilan had surmised that Evanlyn was, in fact, Princess Cassandra, and that she had taken her maid's identity "because she thought it was safer if she remained incognito" Halt remembered Gilan saying.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he tried not to think of everyone that he had left behind. Instead, he focused back on the girl. He tried mentally comparing her with the last image he had of Princess Cassandra in the other time. She'd been little more than nine then, but he could see the similarities. Also, her asking if he was a Ranger, and the relieved look on her face when he had said he was, had as good as confirmed it. Only the Araluen nobility felt comfortable like that around Rangers. It was probably why the warlord so determined to capture her; he must have figured out her true identity as well. It was the only thing that made sense.

Halt was certain that this Evanlyn was the same as the one in the other time, and was, therefore, nothing less than the Crown Princess of Araluen. That only made it more imperative that he got her to safety. She was the future monarch of the kingdom that he had sworn allegiance to. She would need to be there if he was ever to try and find a way to fix everything. Besides that, though he would never admit it aloud, there was something about her that he found himself liking. She was determined and brave. She had a quick mind and was very good with the sling she carried. As things stood, he'd definitely had worse company.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea confronting her about her identity. In the end, though, he decided not to mention it—not only because he didn't want to scare her off, but also because what his former apprentice had said in that other lifetime was true: it was safer that way.

That decided, he turned his mind back to the problem of getting passage on a ship. As he'd told Evanlyn, he had the beginnings of an idea. He just needed to work out the logistics of it, something he couldn't do until he knew for certain what they were up against. One thing was certain though, he thought grimly, they were both in for a rather cold swim.

~x~X~x~

Horace stood near the northern entrance to the village. According to the headman, this was the direction that all the previous raids had come from. It was, for that reason, that Gilan had had some of the villagers—ones that had experience poaching and so knew back trails, as well as how to stay relatively unseen— act the part of lookouts for him. He hoped that this would give some advance warning before the inevitable attack. He'd also had the rest of the village preparing in other ways. In fact, the first few days preparing and waiting had been torture to Horace. All the expecting an imminent battle, but not knowing when, had him on edge. It almost had him wishing for the upcoming clash; just to get it over with, he thought wryly. It was then that Horace saw one of the scouts, Sam by name, come running up.

"Tom spotted them by the south bend in the road!" Sam gasped out through raged, panting breaths.

"How long?" Horace asked.

"No more'n fifteen minutes," Sam said, still trying to catch his breath.

Horace nodded, feeling an uncomfortable sensation of butterflies in his stomach. "I'll go tell Gilan."

So saying, he headed down the town street at a jog, carefully avoiding certain spots in the road.

"Gilan!" he called when he was halfway. He saw the tall warrior turn from where he was busy directing a small group of villagers. Horace beckoned for him to meet him halfway and Gilan obliged.

"Sam says they're on their way! They've been spotted by the south bend and should be here in no less than fifteen minutes."

The tension that Horace had felt building in his stomach had reached a fever pitch by now and he looked for and answering fear or tension in Gilan, but could sense none. Not for the first time, he wondered how it was that Gilan could be so calm. He merely nodded at the news and placed a hand on Horace's shoulder.

"Good work, Horace," he said simply. "We're about finished here. You go back and keep watch and I'll get all the villagers safe inside. If I've not come to join you by the time you first catch sight of them, come and fetch me."

"Yes, Sir!" Horace said, old habit causing him to stand at attention before moving off to do as Gilan had instructed.

Gilan smiled faintly at the boy's back. Over the past few days, he'd told the youth to just call him Gilan. 'Sir' was a title only for knights, or in some cases, senior military officers, and he was neither. Then he shook his head. He really couldn't blame Horace. He knew from experience that the 'Sir' business was drilled into the heads of Battleschool apprentices. Besides, he had more pressing things to worry about at the moment. He turned away from the sight of Horace and headed back to where he'd been. He looked up when he heard the measured gait of the headsman.

"Is it time?" the man asked solemnly and Gilan nodded, keenly aware of the sudden flash of fear that seemed to ripple through everyone who was within earshot.

"It'd probably be best if you start gathering everyone up and barricading them in your house like we discussed. You can sit comfortably while Horace and I do all the work and send them packing." He added the last with a smile.

That remark earned a wry chuckle from the elder, and the tension seemed to ease a little after that. The headman set off to organize his people and Gilan moved to survey the work of the villagers. The wicker mesh that had been laid carefully over the pitfall there had been covered very neatly with sand so that it looked just like the rest of the dirt road around it.

He'd had the villagers help him make it and several others like it. The wicker mesh concealed thigh deep holes in the ground. Inside the hole, in all directions, he'd embedded sharpened stakes close together, with their points angled downward. The weight of a man's body would force the foot and leg down through them, causing fairly nasty scrapes and cuts—but they'd badly impale their legs if they tried to pull out to get free, rather like how the barbs on an arrow worked. It would effectively trap anyone who got caught in them. They were placed in strategic locations all along the village main street.

Gilan nodded approvingly at the workers and they took that as their cue to leave and head to the headman's home. After he checked to make certain that the village was secured, and the people out of harm's way, he went to the north entrance to meet up with Horace.

Horace stood tensely at his post, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword in nervous anticipation of the bandit's imminent arrival. Vaguely, he realized that his hand was already slick with sweat and he wiped it on his pant leg. It was just as he was doing this that he caught sight of the rough-looking men as they broke through the tree-line. The bandits had arrived.

"Not a very pretty bunch, are they?" A voice came softly from beside him.

Horace jumped, reaching instinctively for his sword until he recognized Gilan, leaning casually on his longbow. He hadn't heard him approach. He returned Gilan's smile only faintly.

"No, they aren't," he agreed.

"You ready?" Gilan asked then, his expression turning serious, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scraggly line of men that were steadily approaching their position.

Horace nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy. There were thirteen of them, just as the elder had said. They mostly were a raggedy looking bunch. Only two had boiled leather breastplates, one had gambeson shirt, and the one that he suspected was the leader had a shirt of lightly rusted chainmail and a simple conical helmet. Most all the men carried variations of swords, spears, axes, and clubs. Only one had a longbow. Horace unsung his shield from where he'd hung it on his back and fixed it to his arm before loosening his sword in its scabbard.

"Ready," he said, and now that the moment of battle was upon him, paradoxically, he felt much of the earlier tension fading away until it was nothing more than background noise—after all, this was what he'd been trained for.

Gilan only nodded as he kept his eyes on the approaching enemy, an arrow ready to be drawn back on the string of his bow. He waited until the men were only about nine meters from his position before he lifted the weapon and brought it to full draw.

"I think that's far enough," he said in a voice that could almost have been taken as amiable, were it not for the bow that he had leveled at them.

The men stopped moving forwards, looks of surprise or contempt on their faces. One of the latter, the one in chainmail, stepped forwards.

"And who're you supposed to be?" he asked Gilan, sneeringly.

"I'm the one the villagers hired to protect them—seemed they weren't really pleased with your efforts."

"And you think that you and that boy," he gestured at Horace, "can stop us?"

"Only if we have to," Gilan shrugged. "You could always just turn around and walk away—or, better yet, surrender. "

"All of us, surrender to you?" the bandit laughed and then gestured to his men to move forward. "Take this idiot," he ordered, drawing his sword.

The one archer in the group was in the process of raising his bow to shoot when Gilan's arrow found him. He fell back with a cry. Gilan and Horace, as they had planned, turned and ran down the main street of the village. Horace was vaguely aware of the sound of the men pursuing them. But most of his attention was devoted to watching exactly where it was that he put his feet, and trying to keep in step with Gilan. As if in answer to his caution, he became aware of several of the bandit's battle cries change suddenly in pitch and tone to something more along the line of pain and fear as they found Gilan's traps. Gilan and Horace didn't look back, but instead skidded around a bend in the road and waited.

Gilan still had his bow out and Horace saw him draw three arrows from his quiver, knocking one and holding the other two in the fingers of his draw hand. Horace, expecting the bandits to round the bend right behind them, took a ready stance and drew his sword. Gilan's traps, however, must have slowed the men a little because there was a short pause before their ragged line rounded the bend. As soon as they did, Horace saw immediately that their numbers had dropped from twelve to seven. Then those numbers thinned even further as Gilan let three arrows fly. His holding them in his fingers saved him the time of drawing them individually from his quiver. Three more bandits fell in rapid succession. Then the charging men were too close for Gilan's bow to be of use anymore.

He cast the weapon aside in favor of his sword and then moved ahead of Horace, effectively taking the attention of the majority of the four men that were left. One man, however, slipped past him. Horace found himself face to face with that man and his heavy cudgel. The man lunged forward, his club raised in a vicious downward swing that would have crushed Horace's skull had it connected. For the briefest of moments, the vicious brutality of the assault scattered Horace's thoughts.

Then his year of training kicked in. Instead of leaping back or to the side, he moved forwards, flicking his sword up to catch the heavy cudgel at the start of its downward arc, close to the grip. It flew from the bandit's grasp and landed with a dull thud beside them. Horace, throughout this time, hadn't stopped moving forwards into the bandit. They were nearly toe-to-toe when he reversed the motion of his arm to send the pommel of his sword crashing into the bandit's head.

The man crumpled to the ground and Horace quickly switched his attention to the sounds of combat, his sword upraised and ready to face any other nearby bandits. He was just in time to see Gilan facing the last remaining two. His eyes widened in surprise. Gilan seemed a blur of motion. Every parry, thrust, and slash was perfectly timed, economical, and positioned. His sword always seemed to be effortlessly in the right spot. Horace could see no gaps at all in his defense. He was never off balance, as he cut through the bandit's defenses like a hot knife through butter. Horace had never seen anything like it. The last two went down in quick succession.

"Horace?" Gilan asked as he surveyed the bandits and then spared a quick glance at the five who had gotten stuck in the pitfalls—checking to make sure that all immediate threats were passed before lowering his guard.

"I'm alright," Horace called back. Gilan, as soon as he was certain they were in no immediate danger, turned back to Horace, his eyes flicking over him in a quick once-over as if to be certain Horace was indeed unharmed. Then he smiled broadly at him.

"You handled yourself pretty well from what I saw," he said mildly.

But Horace, who was still a little overawed by what he'd seen, shook his head. He'd expected that Gilan, being the son of a knight, would have decent combat skills—but he hadn't been expecting this. It certainly wasn't for want of sword skills that had kept Gilan from becoming a knight, he thought then.

"Not half so well as you," he said pointedly, with a rueful smile.

Gilan shrugged. "My three weren't all that skilled."

He moved to set about securing the fallen bandits. But Horace wasn't quite ready to dismiss the subject, or the woodsman's skills with a blade that easily.

"May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship? I've never seen anything like it."

"From an old northerner," Gilan replied cheerfully, and then added, "You might go knock on the headman's door and tell them that it's safe to come out again."

Horace, though not entirely satisfied with Gilan's answer, nodded and sheathed his sword before setting off.

A short while later found both of them standing before the elder's home, waiting as the village headman brought out their promised reward—a full pouch of coins. They chinked together as he handed them to Gilan.

The woodsman took the purse and weighed it in one hand before he opened it, rifling through the contents. He selected out several coins and passed the still quite full leather bag back to the village elder, before pocketing the money he had selected.

"But, Sir, you've only taken a quarter of what we agreed," the elder said, confused.

"I think your village has encountered enough bandits for a while," Gilan said amiably. "Your families need it more than me."

"But—"the man began to protest again and then wondered why he was even arguing the point. His people did indeed need the money. He studied Gilan for a moment as if to make sure he was serious. Then he nodded and tucked the pouch into his own waistband when he was satisfied.

"Well, at least let us offer you and your friend some supper, and give you some food for your journey," the man said then. "Please, allow us to do something for you in return."

Gilan smiled at him and nodded. "Now that's an offer I can't turn down. Thank you."

~x~X~x~

Horace sat on a log that had been placed on the edge of the village center. An empty bowl rested beside him and he sighed contentedly, feeling full for the first time in a long time. The villagers had prepared a variable feast and the celebrations had lasted for hours already. In front of him, the bonfire and lanterns burned brightly, the foot-tapping sound of a reel calling out into the night.

Horace smiled faintly as he saw Gilan get pulled into another dance, this time with a pretty young dark-haired woman who seemed around his age. Horace had been taken part in a few such dances himself over the course of the night and his feet were already sore. Gilan, however, seemed not to mind at all as the smiling lady tried to teach him the steps to another of their country dances. Soon both of them were laughing. In fact, most of the villagers that he could see seemed happy—even the elder's son.

Horace however, had too much to think about to enjoy the merriment as fully as he might have. He frowned, and then forced a smile when Gilan, who had finally managed to escape the dancers, sat down beside him.

"So then, off to Aspiene Castle tomorrow?" he asked, "We'll have to make a stop off at the garrison before we head there though. It's a fair way to Aspiene castle from where we are, and I've no interest in babysitting our friends the whole way." He gestured towards one of the village sheds that currently was housing the bound bandits.

Horace gave him a distracted half-smile and shrugged in answer to his question.

"Having second thoughts? Gilan asked him.

Horace started to shake his head, but then thought better of it and shrugged again. "Maybe? It's just that, after seeing all this," he gestured to the celebrating villagers, "I'm not as certain about hiring myself out to a garrison as I was… I'm not sure anymore… not sure if…" he trailed making a helpless gesture with his hands

"Then there's a simple question you need to ask yourself," Gilan said gently. "What is it that you want?"

Horace frowned; it had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask him that, a long time since he'd thought to ask himself that. He wanted… He looked back at the merrymakers around him, the happy families, and at all the things he could have named in answer to that question: good food and good company, a place to belong. But there was something else niggling in the back of his mind, something he been trying hard not to let himself ponder ever since they'd defeated the bandits, and he'd seen what Gilan could do with a sword, seen how much they'd helped the people of this village. He looked up at Gilan, hesitant to voice his thoughts. What if he said no, or worse, laughed at him? He clenched his fists.

"Horace?" Gilan prompted, "I can't help you if you don't let me know what's going on inside that head of yours."

Though his words were teasing, they were earnest. It was enough for Horace to shake off the small moment of doubt and just ask. After all, in his opinion, it was best to be straightforward and honest. Getting no for an answer would be better than never asking, and never knowing after all.

"I want to learn how to do this," he said finally, gesturing at the celebrating village. Then he added in a rush, "And I would really like to learn swordsmanship from you, Sir." And now that it was out in the open, he felt he needed to prove his case. "I won't be dead weight; I can fight. I'm good with a sword. I can ride and joust. I know how to use polearm weapons. I can read, write, and do sums. I'm a fast learner; I'll follow your orders and will work hard if you teach me. I'll—"

He stopped abruptly when Gilan raised a hand to cut him short and felt that now-familiar dull ache of pain in his chest as he became certain that the woodsman was about to tell him no. He was taken by surprise, then, when he heard what Gilan had to say.

"I've seen what you're capable of," Gilan said slowly, composing his words carefully because the last thing he wanted was to hurt the boy—but there were things that needed saying. "And I would be glad of your company and your help… but, Horace, the life I lead isn't safe, it isn't glamorous. I have no permanent home. I move around constantly and I'm almost always in danger. I sleep rough—live rough. It's often hard and uncomfortable, and it can get you injured or killed more easily than not. Are you certain that that's what you really want? You'd be far safer and more comfortable working with the garrison."

Horace thought about it for a moment. But if Gilan thought that what he said might deter him, he was wrong—Horace was aware of the risks, and to him, even the thoughts of hard living, injury and even death seemed better than what he'd been doing before: wandering alone with no purpose, and better than what the garrison could offer him.

"I'm sure," Horace said decisively.

Gilan sucked in a breath, as if he intended to launch another counterargument, before he seemed to shrug. He glanced sidelong at Horace, his mouth tilting up at the corners.

"Why not?" he said finally, holding out a hand. Horace clasped it eagerly, feeling a great weight seem to lift off of his shoulders. As Horace looked back at the villagers, he was certain he had made the right decision. They lapsed into a comfortable silence until a question occurred to him.

"Can I ask you something?" Horace began, and when Gilan nodded he continued, "Why exactly do you do this?"

Gilan grinned. "As I told you before, it pays well."

Horace shook his head a faint smile on his lips. Despite what Gilan said, he knew he wasn't really in it for the money. If he was, he would have taken the entire pouch of coins. He only took just enough to sustain himself, his horse, and now Horace himself. The respect and approval that he'd felt when Gilan first told him what it was that he did those few days ago, started to come back a little.

"You didn't take all what the villagers offered you," he pointed out and Gilan nodded.

But then all that sudden re-kindling and surge of admiration and respect was shattered for a second time that week as soon as Gilan opened his mouth to speak.

"Only because I didn't have to," he said airily, brushing his hand to the side. "I'll be paid that much again when I drop our bandits off at the garrison. Several of them have bounties on their heads, you know."

Horace looked up at him incredulously. "You're going to get paid twice for the same job? And you're not even going to tell them that the villagers already paid you?"

Gilan only gave a vulture-like smile in response to Horace's scandalized tone. "Of course not; that's not good business sense."

Horace leveled another of his disapproving looks and him, but Gilan only laughed.

"Remember what I said about empty purses—especially if you're going to be tagging along with me. You probably ate half the banquet on your own."

"It wasn't that much," Horace shot back, the picture of injured dignity.

~x~X~x~

Will made his way along the streets of the village of Bawtry. He was so lost in thought that he nearly bumped into a woman and dropped the sack of supplies he had been sent to town to get for Dorian. He just managed to catch them, and hastily apologized to the woman before hurrying on his way. It had been four days, and Will still had not managed to come up with any solid ideas as to what to do about the slaver problem.

He had thought to tell some of the other members of the Watch about the slavers and their captain's treachery. But then he had started to wonder: what if it wasn't just Frederick who was in on the scheme? What if other members of the Watch were in on it? He'd decided that it wasn't safe to try to alert the other Watch members. He couldn't tell anyone in the village because he knew that nobody would believe him that Captain Fredrick was selling them out to slavers. Most of the people looked up to Fredrick and the Watch. Whereas Will was basically a nobody—and a young boy on top of that.

He had then thought of traveling the distance to Aspiene Castle and trying to get the Baron and his knights to send help. But that option came with a different set of problems. The first was the question of whether or not he could get the Baron and his knights to believe him. As he'd pointed out earlier, he was just an orphaned peasant boy. It would be his word against that of an appointed Watch member, and Will didn't have any concrete proof or evidence to back his word. Even if he managed to convince them and get them to come, there was still the question as to whether or not he could get there and back in time. Aspiene Castle was all the way on the other side of the fief. Will wasn't sure he could get there, convince the knights, and get back before captain Frederick's Spring Festival—when the slavers were due to attack.

The best he could think to do was finding some way to stop or disrupt and disperse the Spring Festival. That way the people wouldn't all be in one place and such an easy mark when the slavers attacked. But he had no solid idea yet of exactly how he could do that. All he knew was he had to try something.

He moved the sack to spread its weight more evenly as he continued down the road, trying desperately to think of something he could do. He was just about level with the tavern when two foresters exited. The two men were deep in conversation and, close as Will was, he couldn't help but overhear.

"Let me get this straight, you're sayin' that two sell-swords took on twenty men and won?"

"That's how my cousin tells it," The other man replied. "Saved their village from the bandit gang that's been plundering them for a year now. But that's not all; my cousin says that they didn't even take half of the promised price offered them. Then I heard, just two days ago, they helped keep a farmer who was trying to get his goods to the market at Hawley from being robbed on the road. Folks round these parts have started taking to calling them the Commoner's Knights on account of it all."

"And where're they now?"

"Last I heard, still in Hawley, lookin' for work."

"Well, I say good on them. We could do with more like them out 'n about."

The two men soon turned a corner and changed the topic. Will had been unconsciously keeping pace behind them, listening intently, eyes wide. Two men, taking on twenty bandits and winning? And they were swords for hire, but decent ones from what Will had heard—especially if folk were calling them the Commoner's Knights. The wheels of his mind had already started turning. Hawley was only about half a day away on foot; he'd helped Dorian take his goods to the market there for sale before. Maybe he could go there and find these knights and…. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he realized that he'd need to find a way to pay them, even if he did find them.

His thoughts flew suddenly to his little cedar box that contained all the money he had saved to try to get into Battleschool, to the years he'd spent doing extra work and sometimes skipping meals for the sake of keeping a coin. That money was his only way of getting out of the life of a farmer, of reaching his dream.

Then he looked at a mother leading her children down the street, saw a young man and his lover walking hand in hand, and thought of Helen, the elderly herbalist who was like a grandmother to him. If what those two foresters said was true, then he had a real chance at saving the people of this village. When he looked at it that way, there wasn't even a choice.

Finally having decided on a plan, he headed back to Dorian's farm at a fairly quick pace. As soon as he had dropped off the supplies, he gathered his meager belongings and sneaked off towards the forest, intent on fetching his coins. There was no time to lose.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback, as always is always very appreciated. Leave a review if you've a mind to. Let me know if I can improve. Sorry if this chapter seemed a little slow or boring, I really had to set some things up for future chapters/events. Since I'm on break, I'm really going to try to get the next chapter out sooner (and also see if I can get some of my planned/partially drafted short stories out as well). Wish me luck XD

I wish you all the best until next time!