A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you all are doing well. Chapter 25 is finally out: Will and Horace enact their plan, we catch up with Crowley, and Sir David and Gilan have a more honest talk while they make ready to face the Outsiders. This one took a bit longer than I expected to write, and it also ended up being longer than I expected too: about 9K words... it ran away with me a little bit, so I hope that none of you mind too much and that it proves an enjoyable diversion anyway. Thanks so much to everyone who reads, comments, follows, or favorites: you guys are all awesome and none of this would be possible without you!
A/N 2: (9/19) I looked this over and saw that document manager deleted a few words and even a couple of sentences in different places when I copy-pasted this in. I have replaced them. This is the third time lately that it's happened. Honestly, I'm beginning to think that document manager does it just to have a laugh at me DX (Forget it being the RA Celts trusted number—I have a better saying: once may be an accident, twice coincidence, but three times is definitely a conspiracy!) lol XD
VanyaNoldo22: Thanks so much for your reviews! I hope college is going well for you even though it keeps you busy, and that you also are well and safe during these difficult times. I do apologize for any heart scarring/breaking you might have experienced XD. Ah, yes, one of the most moral, kind, and upstanding characters I've written: Rubin the merchant lol. Yeah, he's not a good dude X) And yes you are right that there is a bit of trouble brewing ahead. Thanks again for the reviews, it means a lot!
Skala: Thanks so very much for all the reviews! It made my day to read them. It means a lot to know that you have been enjoying the story so far! I really appreciate the support. I'm always worried about portraying characters right, so I'm glad to know you think I haven't messed it up yet/so far. Continuity has also always been important to me, so I do try my best to keep things straight and make sure that most things I mention have a place/purpose. I too love the dynamic between Will, Gilan, and Horace so it's always great to have it. I also always wished we got more Gilan and Crowley in the books too: they strike me as being pretty fun together. Thanks again for your reviews and kind words!
Jammeke: Thanks for the support/concern. I am doing a little better, so that's good at least. Thanks also for the kind words and review, I really appreciate it! I'm having fun writing most of the former Ward kids (plus Evanlyn) working together. I've always had a weakness for Halt and Gilan banter so I couldn't resist. Maybe he didn't cause *all* of Halt's grey hair, but I'm certain he was responsible for a good amount lol. There's going to be a little David and Gilan drama this chapter but I promise things will get better (they both deserve that I think) XD. Thanks again!
Dragonslover98: Thanks so much for the review! Jenny always struck me as a pretty kind and friendly person. So I thought holding a grudge after someone sincerely apologized might have been a little too OOC for her. I always loved Will and Horace's bromance—it was always one of my favorite parts of the books XD Thanks again for the review! I really appreciate it!
TrustTheCloak: I couldn't resist including Jenny and Gilan meeting when they were younger. I'm looking forward to writing the wrapping up of things so I hope it turns out to be satisfactory. I'm glad to hear from you again and see you around fanfiction again too. I hope you were able to take care of what you needed to in your absence and that things went well for you. You made my day as well, so I should be thanking you!
CoffeeAndOakLeaves: Good luck with school! I hope all goes well this semester for you and that things don't get too stressful. I must admit I always wanted to see what it would be like to have Evanlyn included in the Ward kids' group. I probably won't switch up canon relationships: I rather like them as they are. Yes, Crowley will definitely be making an appearance. Thanks so much for the kind words and the review!
Ziviah10: Thanks so much for the review and encouragement! Yeah, poor Horace hasn't had the best of times. But at least things are now going better for him. Thanks again!
RangerPippin: Poor George! I didn't want to leave him out of the party, but I didn't have a clever way to include him just yet. I've always enjoyed the kid squad together so it's been fun to include here too. I also couldn't resist having Gilan and Jenny meet a little earlier in this verse than the canon one. I'm glad it has been meaningful/helpful. Despite all the craziness and terrible things going on, I'd like us all to be okay again too. Here's to wishing the best for all of us X). I hope you are staying healthy and safe. Thanks so much for the kind words and support, you made my day!
Chapter 25: Subversion Part III
~x~X~x~
Around a few years after The Battle of Hackham Heath
~x~X~x~
It was the second Sunday of the month. Fourteen-year-old Gilan smiled brightly to himself as he headed towards the stables. Not only did he have the day off of training, on account of it being the weekend, but he also had the chance to spend the day with his father: a sort of tradition that the two had kept ever since Gilan had started his basic training at nine.
His father's duties as Battlemaster of a border fief, when combined with Gilan's own restrictive schedule of a Battleschool apprentice, didn't leave much by way of spending time together—not as much as either wanted. As a consequence, they both tried hard to keep up the tradition of spending the second Saturday of the month together. And, when the weather was nice like it was this day, they would always meet up to go riding: something they both enjoyed.
The prospect was always something he looked forward too, but today it was all the more so because of the tournament that Highcliff had just put on. Not only had it been a break in the near-ceaseless monotony that was Battleschool life and training, but Gilan had performed well in the Apprentices' swordsmanship competitions. He'd been able to outperform all the other competitors to win the title of victor and claim the prize of a sword. True, the swordsmanship competitions didn't hold the prestige of the joust, but it held a lot of weight all the same.
He quickly saddled his horse as soon as he made it to the stables, patting the animal fondly before double-checking his saddlebags. Lastly, he carefully drew forward the sword that he had won at the tournament to affix it to his horse's saddle. He rolled the weapon in his palms for a moment, taking in the fine wood and leather sheath, the polished metal of the crossguard and pommel, as well as the comfortable leather-bound hilt. To an inexperienced eye, the sword was plain and simple, unadorned in nature—but Gilan knew better. It was perfectly balanced and the steel of the blade was of excellent craftsmanship: strong with just the right amount of flexibility. But what made it all the more beautiful was that it was entirely his own, a symbol of all the hours and dedication he spent in pursuit of his craft.
His excitement was not only for the sword but also for the chance to tell his father about it and about the competition itself. After all, they hadn't really had the chance to speak since before the tournament. Sir David had been in his own bout when Gilan had received the prize for taking first, then was later called away to attend to something after the tournament's end. And then, at the banquet put on in honor of the event, they had been veritably sectioned off: Gilan with the apprentices at one end of the hall and his father with the officers at the other.
He gripped the sword a little tighter before tying it carefully to his horse's saddle, anticipation broadening his grin. He led his mount from the stable and out into the courtyard before getting into the saddle and making his way towards the edge of the village where he and his father always met. As soon as he had made it to the end of the village main street, he caught sight of his father standing beside his Battlehorse in the distance. He dug his heels into his horse's sides to get there faster.
"Gilan!" David called with a smile as he approached.
"Morning, dad," he waved back, comfortable in that moment to avoid the distancing use of 'Sir' since they were alone and not on duty.
He drew rein and then dismounted too, embracing his father before turning quickly back to untie his new sword.
"I wanted to show you," he began, turning back to his father and gripping the sword in both hands, the rest of the excited tale on his tongue and ready to tumble forth. But his father interrupted him before he had the chance.
"I saw your last bout," he said seriously.
"You did?" Gilan asked, surprised but pleased all the same that his father had seen him in the match that had won him the competition.
Sir David nodded solemnly.
"I did," he said holding up a hand. "And there were a few things I noticed. You were up against Apprentice Taran—and I know he is the best of all the fifth-year apprentices—but you really should have minded your footwork better on the second pass. As it was, you very nearly lost because of it. I've told you before not to lose focus with that form. Just think for a moment where it could have left you in a real fight."
Gilan felt all his excitement bleeding out of him at the sound of the recriminating lecture—a lecture of a type that had grown more and more commonplace of late it seemed. The sword that had once felt so light, so balanced and responsive, seemed to grow heavier in his grasp.
He knew what his father said was true; his footwork had been a touch sloppy on that second pass and he'd very nearly lost the match because of it. But he'd liked to think that he'd more than made up for that small lapse in attention in how he'd handled himself in the latter part of the duel. But, of course, that one small mistake had been the thing his father noticed most. Because, when it came to his father, often, what was could never be left alone as is.
Even when he was younger, nothing ever seemed quite enough, there was always a lesson of knighthood attached to everything, always protocol, formality, drills, and practice. As his father so often said: "a knight should always be striving to learn and better himself, no matter what. Our duty and honor demand it. Where would our lords and people be left if we just accepted complacency?" Gilan knew that there was a reason for it and a good one. The country was at war and no knight could ever afford to be stagnant. Even small mistakes could get you killed or, worse, killed the people you were meant to protect.
But, sometimes, he felt that he had to work twice as hard as a normal apprentice to meet his father's standards simply because he didn't have that fervent passion that most apprentices displayed to bolster him along, nor the coveted desire for knighthood to set his sights and goals to. But the sword—the sword had always been different; it was the one knightly skill he loved and genuinely wanted to master. And Gilan had hoped that, just this once…
He looked away, the arm that had before been holding the sword out dropping to his side.
"Yes, Sir," he said finally in answer, standing to and trying to swallow his disappointment.
He looked up, surprised when he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.
"But, all things considered together, I can say with confidence you deserved to take first. His father concluded more quietly, earnestly. "You did well, Gilan. I'm proud of you."
Disappointment melted into surprise which slowly gave way into a bright smile.
"Is that the sword you won?" David asked then, gesturing to the weapon in Gilan's hand.
Gilan beamed at him. "I wanted to show you."
He held the weapon out hilt first and David took hold of it, drawing it from its sheath. He gave it a few experimental swings before nodding approvingly.
"It's an excellent blade." He passed it back to Gilan who took it carefully. David shot him a conspiratorial look. "And, if I'm being honest, I was hoping that you'd end up getting the best of Taran. He's been getting a little big for his boots lately. Getting bested by a fourteen-year-old in a tournament was probably just the thing for him."
Gilan snorted, barely holding back a surprised laugh at his father's unexpected remark. "He is a bit arrogant, isn't he?"
Taran indeed had been acting bit conceited of late. He'd been condescending to his year mates and took far too much pleasure in humiliating the younger cadets in practice duels.
"He is that," David cracked a smile and then ruffled Gilan's hair fondly. "Before we head out for our ride: did you bring your drill sword? I wouldn't want you notching your new one while we practice."
Gilan nodded but tilted his head curiously to the side. "Practice what, exactly?"
"I thought we could go over your footwork. We can work on it together to make sure that what happened during the match doesn't happen again. Maybe next time you'll beat Taran in only one pass."
Gilan grinned.
~x~X~x~
David sat in the command tent of the camp his small army had set up. Gilan had led them quickly and successfully through some back trails to make it to Cramelford in excellent time. As the main army had done near the fens, David had ordered their camp to be set up a fair distance away from the settlement so as not to reveal their hand until they were certain what move they were going to make next.
On that vein of thought, David had sent an orderly to fetch his son so they could start talking numbers and plans. Because, on the way over, David had been troubled by something Gilan had mentioned in passing: how Outsiders were typically in league with bandits. It was concerning because, if these Outsiders were also working with bandits, and they added their number to the Skandians, it could well lead to disaster for their small force.
David spread a map of the area across the table and set weights upon its corners to keep it stable. Then he moved to light a lantern as the low light of dusk was already working to limit good vision. He took the lantern over to the table and set it beside the chart. He looked up from his work as he heard approaching footfalls heading towards his tent.
"This way, Sir," came the voice of the orderly as he returned from fetching his son. It was a little muffled by the fabric of his tent but still audible.
"No need for the 'Sir', I'm no knight or officer," came Gilan's cheerful reply.
"Oh, alright then, master…"
"Just Gilan is fine. I don't have a family name and I'm not much for titles."
David frowned inadvertently as he heard that, heard just how far Gilan might have gone to erase everything of his past and heritage—going so far as to give up his family name, the last connection he would have had to David after he left all those years ago. True, it could simply be that he was avoiding giving his lineage so as not to reveal his true identity. But, if that was the case, why wouldn't he just have made up a false surname? It would have been a much easier lie to tell and sell. David could only think of one reason why. The depth of the fracture between them was clearly far deeper than Gilan had been letting on. In fact, David was beginning to have the suspicion that his son probably would never have even come back at all if it hadn't been for the invasion.
He'd been avoiding dwelling on it, hoping that things would simply work themselves out on their own, but he'd noticed. There was a disconnect, a certain aloofness, to their interactions that hadn't been there before. It wasn't as if his son was being disrespectful or derelict in his duties; he'd done his job as guide well and had already endeared himself to the troops well enough with his competence, quiet confidence, and easy manner. This was on a personal level, not a professional one.
There was a restrained, almost shallow, shift he saw in his son's manner that wasn't there with Lady Pauline, Baron Arald, Sir Rodney, former Ranger Halt, or even the two young boys. When it came to David, Gilan was all easy smiles, ones that rang hollow because they did not hold the same depth they used to, and easy words that, though usually respectful and amiable enough, were rendered empty by never turning towards the things that really mattered. Sometimes it wasn't that way between them, it was true. But it was like that far more often than David liked or was willing to accept.
Outside, he heard his son offer his thanks to the orderly before entering the tent.
"You asked to see me, Sir?" he offered David a respectful nod of greeting.
David waved the formality aside. "Come, sit. I wanted to discuss our situation before we turn in for the evening. Something you said on the ride over has been weighing on my mind."
Gilan inclined his head and sat opposite David at his light camp table. "What exactly is the problem?"
"I was just considering what you said about the Outsiders working with bandits. I was wondering what the number usually tends to be in their parties."
"Usually around their twenties or so," Gilan said immediately before adding, "Of course, I haven't come across all that many Outsider parties. I can't guarantee the numbers of this group without taking a closer look."
"But that's about what you would guess?" David pressed.
Again, Gilan nodded and David frowned, stiffening.
"It leaves us with a bit of a problem," David said in answer to Gilan's questioning look. "Fighting both the Outsiders and the Skandians together just isn't feasible. We don't have enough men. The best we could do in that situation is to make a last stand to delay them."
"We'll have to fight them both separately and on our own terms if we want to stand any chance of succeeding," Gilan offered.
David agreed, but there was more to it than that. "Even if we are able to defeat the Outsiders with minimal casualties, I'm still worried that we won't have enough numbers to repel a full Skandian war party. Morgarath wouldn't waste time with a small raiding force. And Skandians are probably one of the best, if not the best, close combat forces out there."
"Then attacking from range is probably one of our better options. Well-positioned archers could help even the odds a little further in our favor," Gilan said distractedly as his eyes flicked from where the village was on the map and towards where the sea was depicted.
"True, but it would it be enough on its own?" David put in. "Like our knights, our archers are a small force. What we really need is a strategy to help negate their advantages enough for us to gain the upper hand."
Gilan made a small hum of acknowledgment but said nothing more, eyes still fixed and narrowed on the map. A silence descended between them.
"Unless we were to outthink and outmaneuver them: give our force the element of surprise while leading the Skandian force into a trap," Gilan said at length.
"You have some idea?" David asked hopefully.
"Maybe," Gilan replied, his tone indicating that he wasn't quite ready to commit just yet.
"Let's hear what you have: perhaps we can work out any problems or hitches together," David offered.
Gilan thought about it for a moment before agreeing. Normally, he liked to work a problem and strategy through his mind until he was entirely certain of himself before laying it out. But they were pressed for time and bouncing ideas off each other might well help offset that limitation. Besides that, he knew his father to be an experienced and successful tactician. If there were any flaws in his ideas, David would see them, and if there was any room for improvement his input would be valuable.
"I was thinking of a two-part assault," Gilan began carefully. "The focus of the first assault would be to take care of the Outsider problem. They will be the easier target and their defeat could give us the advantage that we need over the Skandians."
"How so?" David asked, leaning forward.
"Once we defeat the Outsiders, our force can take their place: we can have our men disguise as members of the cult and townsmen. We'll welcome the Skandians to the village in their stead. Only when they're inside, and positioned where we want them, do we show our hand and attack." Gilan indicated the village on the map. "Disguised, our people could move around freely and without suspicion to surround the Skandians. Cramelford is situated in a natural valley surrounded by seaside cliffs, after all. The only easy ways out are the bay and that narrow path on the opposite end that winds up to the cliff tops. If you place the bulk of our men at those two points and place our archers here," he pointed to the cliff tops, "we'll not only have them trapped and outmaneuvered, but we'll be able to catch them entirely off guard as well—they're expecting the Outsiders to be their allies, after all."
David tapped his chin thoughtfully, nodding as he ran the idea through his mind then looked up. "It's a good idea and could well give us the upper hand we need. The only problem is that it will still be a difficult fight even with surprise and the archers on our side. Ground to ground we're evenly matched when it comes to combat—might even be a little disadvantaged if they have their shields and form a shield wall. Especially if some of our men have to forgo some of their armor and shields for the sake of the disguise.
"True," Gilan admitted unhappily. He hadn't thought that far ahead yet, but his father was right.
They both sat in silence for a moment before David sat up straighter, brightening as his eye fell on a certain point on the map.
"What if instead of having our disguised men surround the Skandians entirely, we concentrated them more towards the front and leave the way to the bay unguarded." He pointed to the edge of the cliff towards the north. "There is another smaller cove only a few kilometers north, and it's angled that way. It creates a perfect blind wall that the Skandians wouldn't be able to see past when they sail in from the south or land on the beach."
Gilan caught on quickly, "You're thinking of hiding a small cavalry force there, then having them attack from the rear once the Skandians are engaged with our main force. That would help negate the advantage of their shield wall—just like the strategy you came up with during the mêlée at Highcliff tourney that one year," Gilan added, chuckling at the memory. "Poor Sir Edward, you could have gone easier on the man."
"Nobody told him not to thoroughly scout the field and place his troops in a single straight line with the rear of his party unguarded," David said, smiling too. "Regardless, it's a solid plan; perhaps a little more deceitful than I'd prefer, but it just might be our only chance to come out of this alright. Honestly, it's just the type of devious and unconventional thinking I'd expect from you," he said then with a faint smile. "I can honestly say that I'm glad you haven't changed much, it might just save our fief."
David had honestly meant it as a compliment but, the moment it was out of his mouth, he could tell that somehow he'd said the wrong thing again; picked at the scab of some festering wound he hadn't expected to be there.
The tentative but genuine smile that had started to spread across Gilan's face at the compliment died midway to turn into a flat unreadable look.
"It might be a good idea then, to stop trying so hard to beat that kind of thinking out of your knight apprentices—in case you get into another situation like this one further down the road," he said, his tone light except for the sharp undercurrent at its edge that David didn't miss.
Despite the broad terms of his words, Sir David knew Gilan wasn't speaking in generalities, not truly. And the implication and sentiment his words had carried were as clear to David as the misguided unfairness behind them. He was speechless for a moment, feeling both a stab of guilt and a flash of anger simultaneously.
"You well know that was never the reason. I wouldn't class arson, theft, and manslaughter as helpful unconventional thinking. That was lawful justice: It was meant in recompense for those crimes and to teach you discipline and respect, nothing more," he said finally, quietly.
In the brief, biting, flash of silence that followed David's sharp words, Gilan looked almost as if he was going to be sick. The flat look that had come into his eyes hardened into something decidedly dangerous. They seemed to glisten in the flickering lamplight.
"And yet, the only thing it taught me was to never turn my back," Gilan said, a caustic edge to his words. He stood abruptly, the action surprisingly silent for the tension and pent up anger behind it. "If that's all," he gave his father a perfunctory nod before taking his leave.
That definitely could have gone better. David placed his head in his hands, wishing he had just held his tongue—not taken the bait and instead stayed away from sensitive topics.
For several self recriminating moments David sat in silence before he rose to his feet with a frustrated sigh. It went against his nature to leave a conflict hanging like that, to let a mistake or misunderstanding fester with time when it was well within his power to do something about it. Decided, he rose and left the command tent to wander through the camp in search of his son.
After a time of looking and asking a few of his men for guidance, he finally found him near the edge of the camp. He was crouched alone near one of the smaller campfires, the unsteady light playing off the gleaming metal of his sword as he methodically honed its edge with his whetstone. His head tilted minutely in David's direction, obviously aware of his presence. But he made no further move to acknowledge David as he approached. And now that David had found him, he found himself floundering for what to say.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards a cut log near where Gilan crouched. He took the nearly imperceptible head tilt he got in answer to that question as permission and sat heavily. "I see you remembered to take proper care for your sword," David remarked after a pause, uncertain how to even start the conversation he wanted to and so, instead, settling on awkward generalities.
"Poorly maintained weapons tend to get you killed," Gilan replied with a shrug.
The flatness of his tone didn't exactly encourage further conversation. However, the content of his words and their implication did.
"It's a dangerous life you chose," David said quietly, momentarily distracted from his original purpose by the thoughts of how exactly Gilan had been living since he'd left.
Gilan scoffed, brushing David's concern off with a dismissive wave of his hand and offering him a smile that was rendered disconcerting by the iciness in his eyes. "No need to start worrying about my wellbeing. I'll be fine."
"I always did."
"Oh, please," Gilan's grin disappeared to be replaced by a long-suffering look that was far too angry, far too sad, for David's liking.
"Look, I know things are…" David trailed, gesturing a little helplessly, "between us. But it doesn't have to be… If we could just talk about it."
"Talking doesn't usually work very well without listening."
And that jab had not even an attempt at subtlety or disguise, and it was completely unfair as far as David was concerned.
"If you would just talk to me, tell me what's wrong, then I can listen."
"The only reason we need to talk now is because that's exactly what you can't do."
"Gilan—"
"No." Gilan made a tired, negative, gesture with his hand, cutting his father short in a manner brooked no argument. "Rehashing any of that isn't going to help. I'm well aware of what you think." He shook his head, the tired expression growing. "We have a job to do; we should focus on that. Then, as soon as this is over, and Highcliff and the Kingdom are safe, we can go our own ways again."
David's heart sank at the words, as all his efforts to mend this were rebuffed yet again.
"Do you truly hate me so much?" he asked then, defeated, his words sounding as raw to his ears as he felt in voicing it.
Silence greeted him and David looked at his son to see startled surprise melt into hesitation. Gilan closed his eyes briefly.
"No," he said finally, softly, with a minute shake of his head, hands moving in a small helpless negative gesture. "I don't hate you."
David met his gaze and knew that he spoke honestly. David was a seasoned campaigner who had faced dozens upon dozens of conflicts; he knew what hate looked like and he couldn't see it in his son's now unguarded eyes. He could read an old pain, a muted anger even, but not hate. There was, however, something else…
"You just don't trust me," David realized then, heavily.
Again silence—and that hurt.
"I trust that you'll always do what you believe to be right, that you'll always do your duty as a knight: put that first," Gilan said, finally shrugging. His lips tilted up at the corners in a small, wry, smile. "Which is good for this fief; especially in times like this. We should turn in, get some rest. We've got a bit to do tomorrow, after all." His normal, more cheerful, tone came back a touch, its out of place lightness suggesting they move on to something else.
"On that vein, I was hoping to discuss how exactly we plan to deal with the Outsiders before we rest for the night," David said, resigned, once again finding himself with little recourse but to let it drop. Both parties needed to be willing in order to mend things. He contented himself in deciding they could figure it out later if they both somehow managed to make it out of this mess alive. "Judging by what I've seen, and what you told me, the villagers won't be all that welcoming of us removing the Outsiders: their influence is too strong, they're likely too enthralled and under their thumb."
Gilan looked relieved at the subject change, the tiredness drawing noticeably back from his posture. He shot David what just might have been a grateful look.
"That's what I was thinking. The Outsiders thrive by fooling and endearing themselves to their victims. I was hoping to scout things out a little before we made any set plans. With any luck, there might be something we can exploit, or, at the least, turn to our advantage."
"We can hope."
~x~X~x~
Crowley hadn't gotten far into Morgarath's lands before he had become aware of the army of Morgarath's men on the march. Once he had sighted it, he'd had to once again set aside his intelligence-gathering mission, along with his hopes of finding and rescuing Halt. An army that was already on the march told him full well that he was already too late for either.
So Crowley had followed the contingent of men, trying to predict and uncover where it was that they were bound. Alone as he was, he knew it would do him little good to ride back and report it immediately; mobilizing the King's men would only work so long as he knew exactly where to place them to stop an attack from breaching the border.
It hadn't taken him long to realize that the border of Highcliff Fief was their intended target, or realize that several Wargals had already gotten through by way of a timing gap between two outpost towers. He had it in mind to scout the area and ascertain the nature and numbers of the Wargals that had made it across the border before reporting to Highcliff Castle, hopefully with time enough to mount a defense and rally the troops. He'd secured Cropper somewhere safe, knowing that, in this situation, it would be imperative to cross the border unseen by the enemy army.
He made it past the border itself with little enough trouble. He moved carefully, cautiously, attuning his movements with the shadows cast by the tree canopy overhead as they moved in tandem with the breeze. The four Wargals that had most recently slipped past the guard towers were easy enough to track. The ground was moist with a light covering of frost. The effect was to make the trail easy enough for even an inexperienced tracker to follow. But what the inexperienced tracker might be unaware of was the older tracks beneath those more easily spotted: ones that told Crowley that this was a route that was far more heavily traveled than anyone in the King's lands would feel comfortable with.
The landscape gradually changed from woodland to fenland the further he followed the trails. It wasn't long before he became aware of the sounds of an encampment ahead. Folding himself into his Ranger cloak, he broke off from the trail to head to a rise where he could observe the camp without being spotted by pickets or soldiers on watch. He crested the small hill in a crawl so as not to silhouette himself.
The sight that greeted him wasn't a pleasant one. There was a large army of Wargals perhaps around two hundred strong. There were also human commanders amongst them. It didn't take a genius to figure out just how much danger Highcliff Fief and the King's lands as a whole were in.
After observing the camp long enough to get accurate numbers and details on the enemy, Crowley backed up the way he had come, once more crawling over the hill's crest before rising to his feet. He made his way back through the woods, heading towards where he had secured Cropper. His next steps, he knew, should be to make his way to the main road to the castle to sound the alarm before it was too late.
He had not gone halfway to the grove where Cropper waited before he began to get the sense that he wasn't alone anymore. He didn't know what it was that had alerted him: it hadn't been a sound or even a sight or sign of movement. Rather, it was more of a feeling. Crowley froze in the shadow of a tree, ears straining for any hint of a sound that didn't belong, eyes sweeping to try and catch any glimpse of movement from his periphery.
Nothing.
He already had his bow strung and in his hand. He knew he could have an arrow knocked and drawn in seconds, but that did him little good if he had no idea what or whom he was up against. Because now he was positive there was something there, and his instincts had never led him astray before.
That was when he saw it: the barest flicker of movement nearly directly across from where he stood stock still.
Not willing to take any chances, Crowley turned swiftly in the direction arrow appearing on the string of his bow as if by magic. But what was startling, unsettling even, was the way the faint shadow seemed to match him movement for movement, speed for speed.
Crowley found himself with bow at full draw, an arrow aimed directly at a cloaked man who had his own arrow trained on Crowley. Crowley blinked in surprise—a surprise that only grew when the hooded man spoke.
"Oh, it's only you," Halt's dry tone, for it was none other than the former Ranger, belied the faintest of smiles that touched his face.
"Halt!" Crowley said happily, beyond relieved that he was alright. He instantly released the tension of his bowstring, closing the distance between them. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually quite glad to see you. That grumpy face of yours has somehow managed to brighten my day considerably."
"I've been told I can have that effect on people," Halt said, his deadpan tone giving away no hint to the statement being meant in jest.
But Crowley knew enough of the man to take it that way anyway. He chuckled moving to clasp arms with Halt. "How on earth did you manage to get past Morgarath's men? Not that I'm complaining mind, but, last I saw, you had about fifty on your tail."
"It's a bit of a long story," Halt shrugged. "But the short of it includes hiding in a cave for a few days and then escaping down the mountainside. Apparently, using a shield as a sled makes you considerably faster than the average Wargal and harder to stop."
Crowley couldn't help but chuckle at that, deciding after a moment's pause that Halt's words had to be sarcasm.
"If that's the short version, I'm almost afraid to ask what the long one is."
"That's probably for the best," Halt conceded, once again without an ounce of humor in his words.
Crowley shook his head, his grin widening before it abruptly fell as he recalled what it was he had been doing before running into the other Ranger. "Regardless though, you'll have to tell it another time. I've just come back from the fens—"
"I take it you saw the army, then?"
Crowley was again taken a little aback. "You know about them?"
Halt nodded. "And so does Baron Douglass and Arald now. I can take you to our army's camp. We were just in the middle of planning a rather nasty surprise for them."
"In that case, you can count me in," Crowley said, slinging his bow over his shoulder, and falling in step with his friend. "You know, for being new to this whole Ranger thing, you sure manage to get around."
~x~X~x~
David watched as Gilan seemed to materialize before his eyes. He jumped at the unexpected appearance, hand flashing towards his sword before he relaxed.
"Gilan," he greeted, letting out a breath, "I wish you wouldn't do that."
In reply, he saw the corners of his son's mouth tilt up briefly beneath the shadow of his cowl—clearly far too amused or pleased at having caught him off guard. David had gone with Gilan on his morning scouting mission, stopping partway there to provide assistance if needed and keep both of their horses ready in the event they needed to make a quick getaway.
"Were you able to find out what we needed?" David asked as he handed the reins of Gilan's horse to him and they both mounted.
"I think so," Gilan said as he brought his horse in step with David's as they turned back to their camp. "I was able to get the get a number on the Bandits. From what I can tell, there are about thirty of them, and that doesn't include the main Outsider cult members that are in the village itself."
"So it's fairly close to what we thought," David mused. "We will definitely have to try our plan of fighting two separate engagements. Were there any signs of Skandians or their ships?"
Gilan made a negative gesture with his free hand. "I saw no sign of them. And a conversation I overhead near the Bandit's camp led me to believe that they should be here soon though: perhaps within a couple of days. The men I overheard weren't definite."
David brought up a hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully, mulling this new information over. In the distance, he could just make out the white of the tents through the trees and brush as they drew nearer.
"I see," he said finally.
"But that isn't all," Gilan put in. "While I was watching the village, I discovered something interesting."
"And what was that?"
"A new priest has taken over the religious leadership. I know because I ran into him before in another village."
David looked a question at him.
"His name is Tennyson," Gilan replied, reading the unasked question.
"Is he trouble?" David asked, growing a little cornered by the tone his son had taken.
Gilan nodded seriously. "I'm pretty certain he's one of the cult's higher-ups. In fact, he's actually the one responsible for negotiating this little alliance with Morgarath in the first place. Which makes sense why he's here leading the operation."
"How did you learn of that?" David asked, eyebrows raised.
"I found out about the alliance when I had a run-in with him not too long back. He isn't exactly what you would call a nice person under that fatherly leader façade. When last we met, he took it upon himself to have quite a lot of fun at my expense, and that's not to mention the fact that he threatened my apprentices. I was in pretty bad shape when my apprentices and I finally escaped him and his cult."
David frowned, not at all liking the implications of that. He cast a worried gaze on his son.
"Can you still get in like you planned, even though this Tennyson is in command?"
Gilan's eyes narrowed, mouth quirking in a faint humorless smile as he answered David's question.
"It might be a little tricky."
Both men paused their conversation to nod a greeting to one of their picket guards on watch as they made it back into the relative safety of the camp.
"Is he that good of a fighter or that well protected?" David asked once they were passed, already working his mind for any way they could work around this new difficulty. He was, therefore, a little taken aback when Gilan answered him.
"Not at all."
"Then, what's the problem?"
"It's the enormous respect I have for him, and then there's the matter of personal discipline too. I gained so much of both while I was his prisoner because of what he did to me. I'd be more likely to simply fall in line under his command than oppose him." Gilan said, airily, sarcastically.
David felt almost as if a rug had been pulled out from under his feet as he caught the reference to their conversation the night before. The implications of what he'd said hit all the harder because it had taken until now to realize how easily it could be twisted into something horrific and misconstrued—especially from Gilan's perspective. He realized how it could almost have sounded as if he truly believed beating a person within an inch of their lives was the best way to teach discipline and respect; that David had not only condoned the action taken by the Baron and the majority of the senior staff that day, but that he had felt it entirely justified and necessary. The thought alone made him feel a little ill.
"Gilan, what I said last night, you have to know I didn't mean it that way," he dissented, earnest. "I never wanted..." he trailed, words and voice failing.
Gilan regarded him quietly for a moment, his expression softening the barest fraction with a cautious openness. He seemed about to speak, but was interrupted before he had the chance by an orderly. The man approached at a jog before stopping to stand at attention.
"Sir," he saluted David. "The scouts you sent to watch the coastline have returned to make report."
"Have them meet me in the command tent. And summon my captains."
~x~X~x~
Horace watched the small group of Battleschool apprentices heading for a grassy knoll near the river to practice their swordplay with each other. He had waited outside the castle grounds until the time he knew the Battleschool classes would end for the day and it seemed his patience was about to be rewarded.
Horace took a breath and then approached them confidently, putting a friendly smile on his face and care into his posture: easy but ready, neither cowed nor overconfident.
"Afternoon," he greeted the three apprentices politely.
All three turned to face him at the sound of his approach. And Horace tapped down on his unpleasant Battleschool memories to continue on.
"Would you mind if I joined you? It's been a while since I had a good sparring partner."
"You?" one of the boys asked skeptically, a bemused smile spreading across his face.
"Well, only if you're willing," Horace shrugged, paying no heed to the tone inherent in the question.
"That depends on whether or not you have any idea how to use that," the boy who had spoken spoke again gesturing towards the sword at Horace's hip.
Horace smiled guilelessly. "I know that the basic idea is to put the pointed end into your opponent."
"And where did you learn that? Plowing the fields?" the boy asked sarcastically.
"Practice actually," Horace said mildly, a little encouraged by the other two boys who chuckled at the byplay and by the fact that he couldn't detect any real malice in the one who had spoken. Horace had a feeling that the apprentice was merely looking for fun or easy amusement and he seemed curious even. He didn't sense any real danger from him.
"Well then, I'm sure you're a master swordsman," the first boy said then, holding out his practice sword with one hand. "Let him borrow yours, John, and we'll see what it's like going up against a mighty Master Peasant Swordsman."
"Never heard of a Master Peasant Swordsman," the boy who proved to be John said as he tossed his wooden practice sword to Horace who caught it deftly to hold it casually, point respectfully lowered.
"Me neither," the third boy put in with a laugh. "I suppose you'll just have to see exactly how good he is. But, mind you," he addressed Horace, "Fennick here has never been topped by anyone in his year."
The two squared off then with the first boy, Fennick, making the first move: a quick thrust which Horace easily deflected. Fennick's eyes winded in mild surprise before he made another move, this time a side cut, which Horace again parried easily.
Fennick's two friends had stopped laughing and grinning then as they realized that perhaps the newcomer wasn't quite as much of a bumpkin as they had previously thought him to be.
Fennick swung again and the two began a deadly dance that picked up rapidly in both speed and intensity until Horace drew close, locked their blades at the hilt, before making a sharp twisting movement that disarmed the startled apprentice.
Fennick stood back, hands up in submission, eyes showing that he was just as surprised as his fellows. But there was also a blossoming respect growing there.
"I yield," he said. "You've well and truly bested me."
Horace lowered his sword before slipping his hold from the grip to the blade and passing it back to John. He inclined his head respectfully at both of them.
"Thanks for the bout and the use of the sword. I can see why you've never been topped. You really are quite good."
Fennick shook his head ruefully. "Maybe there is something to that whole Master Peasant Swordsman thing," he said with a wan smile. "I don't suppose you would teach me that disarming move. I've never seen its like."
"If you show me how you did that fourth parry; you very nearly had me there."
"I'm not sure it was as good as all that," Fennick said despite the pleased look on his face. "Where did you learn your swordsmanship? I think I've seen you around the castle; you're visiting aren't you?"
Horace nodded. "I came with my mentor. He's the one who taught me swordsmanship. He was hired to do a job for the Baron."
"Hired?" John asked curiously.
"Yes, I suppose you could say that I'm an apprentice mercenary," Horace shrugged.
Most knights didn't hold a very high opinion of mercenaries, Horace knew, but he saw only interest in Fennick and his two friends' eyes, curiosity too.
"A mercenary, eh? Well, that explains the skill. What's it like, being a mercenary? I'd wager you have a tale or two that you could tell." Fennick asked eagerly: an eagerness that was matched by his two friends.
~x~X~x~
Getting a position among the castle servants had been fairly easy for Will—especially since he had started out by helping one of the servants pick up some stray laundry that had fallen out of her basket, and then volunteered to help her carry her load. After that, and having made a good impression, he had been readily welcomed into a position.
He was currently helping to scrub floors in the great hall. The work was hard and pretty unrewarding in regards to the floor—but it hadn't been quite so unrewarding regarding his ulterior motive for being there.
There were two young servants, probably in their early twenties, that he had observed giving furtive glances towards each other throughout the day. And, once, he had seen them locked in what appeared to be a fairly heated whispered conversation that they had abruptly ended when someone drew near. Even now he watched them furtively from his position on the other end of the room.
Motion out of his periphery caught his eyes suddenly. Will glanced that way to see the head maid, who had been supervising their efforts, get called away to attend to something. As soon as she left the room, the two servants exchanged subtle nudges, the taller one making a covert head tilt toward the door to the opposite hallways. The shorter woman glanced around the room, likely to make certain they were not being observed. Accordingly, Will lowered his head and pretended to be wholly absorbed in scrubbing a particularly troubling spot on the tiles. He gave it a moment before daring to glance back up again and saw the hem of the shorter one's skirt as she turned the corner into the hallway.
Will also glanced around then, to ensure that no one was watching him either. Once he was certain, he left the bucket and scrub brush and covertly followed after the two young women. He could hear them talking faintly in the hallways ahead. He followed them one bend behind so, if they looked back, he wouldn't be seen. Because he was so far back, he couldn't make out all of what they said, but he thought he did catch mention of a Sir Taran. His eyes narrowed at that, heart rate starting to increase a little as he had the suspicion that he might just be on the tail of something. These two women and their secretive behavior, in combination with mention of the name of a knight, could well mean something, could well be what Will and his friends were searching for.
He heard the sound of a door opening and he crouched down to peek his head around the bend. It was something Gilan had taught him. If a person was to look for a watcher, odds were they'd be expecting to see them peering around at head height, not low near the ground. It could help keep him from being seen or throw off the aim of an armed and ready attacker long enough for Will to move back to safety if that were the case.
But Will needn't have worried; the two women weren't even looking in his direction. Instead, they were already making their way inside one of the small, and likely empty, dormitories. The door clicked shut behind them and Will pressed forward, stopping near the closed door so he could listen in on their conversation, expectations high.
"And you're sure that it were Sir Taran that Mistress Aggie were with?" he heard one of the women asked, her voice carrying faintly through the door.
Will placed his ear closer to the door jamb to hear better.
"I'm that sure, I am. I seen them both walking together in the halls past dark, then duck into one of them empty rooms. I followed them and stood right outside the door, and you'll never be guessing what I heard."
"What did you hear?" the second woman asked, her voice as tight with curious anticipation as Will felt.
"I heard Sir Taran say that mistress Aggie were the most beautiful woman that he'd ever laid eyes on, I did. And then he goes on saying how he couldn't wait to be with her. And, as soon as I realized what were going on, I quickly made to leave. But, as I was leaving, I heard them—"
Will, whose thoughts had been set on treachery and espionage didn't immediately track what it was the woman was saying. He caught on fairly quickly though. Eyes widening, he unconsciously made a face, clasping his hands to his ears before he heard any of the private and compromising details he was certain the woman was about to share. Then he headed off away from the door with only his disgust to rival his disappointment.
That hadn't been at all what he hoped.
~x~X~x~
Later that night, when Will and his friends all met in the privacy of Alyss's room to share the news of what they had discovered, his disappointment still had yet to ease fully. In fact, it was only heightened further by the fact that none of the other gossip that he'd managed to overhear over the course of the day was worth much either. He was hoping that at least one of them might have noticed something useful, but so far it wasn't looking good. Neither Alyss nor Evanlyn had heard or seen anything out of the ordinary.
"What about you, Horace?" Alyss asked when she had finished her report. "Did you find out anything?"
"I was able to get close to some Battleschool apprentices. They told me a little about the Battleschool, but I think I'll need a little more time before I'll be able to learn anything really useful about the knights and commanders."
They all nodded understanding. Will, realized then that he was probably being a little impatient. He conceded that Horace did have a point. They really hadn't been at this very long and likely it was going to take time to discover what they needed.
"And you Will? Did you discover or overhear anything interesting from the servants?" Alyss asked then.
Will's nose scrunched a little as he ran a hand through his messy curls. "A lot more than I wanted to, actually," he admitted before launching into a hurried accounting. "Apparently, there is a lovers tryst going on between a Sir Taran and a Mistress Aggie. Someone named Elena has taken leave to visit her sick father. Ambrose the porter is a gambler and he helps run games out of the Swan Tavern. Also, I found out that John, the castle smithy, takes to drinking on the job sometimes—I saw him get reprimanded for it. And Lady Edwina is engaged to the same Sir Taran that is secretly meeting Mistress Aggie the maidservant."
Once he'd finished, Alyss and the others merely blinked at him in surprise for a moment.
"That was a lot to learn in such a short time," Alyss said at length.
"Well, servants do like to gossip and Will here is very good at going unnoticed when he wants," Horace said, ginning, slinging a companionable arm around Will's shoulders.
Will flushed a little at the compliment. "It really isn't all that impressive," he deflected. "I didn't exactly find out anything that useful to us after all."
"Maybe not at face value, but they could be worth looking in to," Alyss put in. "A potentially messy secret, someone with gambling connections, someone with known drinking problems, and even someone with a sick family member could be people who are easier to blackmail or bribe."
"So they are probably worth keeping an eye on still," Evanlyn put in. "They do have some of the qualifications you told us to look for."
Will, after a moment's thought, conceded the point.
Alyss turned to Jenny then. "What about you? Did you overhear anything?"
Jenny shook her head. "I didn't head much by way of useful gossip but…"
"But what?" Will asked curiously when she trailed.
"But, after our talk the other day, I got to thinking that I just might have seen something strange. It was the night before the day when we all met for that picnic. I couldn't sleep and so I left the servants wing to take a walk and that's when I saw it… well, him: the Baron of this fief. He was out near the aerie and I saw him attach what I took to be a message slip to a carrier pigeon and send it off. At the time I didn't think anything of it. I just assumed he had some urgent message to send, maybe about the invasion force. But, now that I think back on it, I realize that it was a little odd. He was completely alone after all."
"Completely?" Evanlyn asked, surprised. "You mean he didn't have his senior staff or any servants with him?"
"No, none." Jenny supplied.
"That actually is quite out of the ordinary. A noble usually… well, at least the nobles I have worked for, wouldn't go places without their servants—especially to do a menial task. And a Baron or commander usually wouldn't send an urgent message to other fiefs or his army without at least one of his senior staff present." Evanlyn mused.
"And he didn't even wake or send for the pigeon handler," Jenny added. "Besides that, if it really was something so urgent that he needed to send it in the middle of the night, why did he not approach the Couriers that are here. I remember Alyss mentioning to me once that they have an even better, quicker, message system in place and could even reach the King almost directly. So why was he doing it alone in the dead of night?"
"And I haven't heard anything about Baron Douglass needing to send an urgent message," Alyss put in. "Which tells me that he didn't approach the Courier party about it at all…"
Will pursed his lips thoughtfully, suspicions well and truly raised. Alyss thought that some of the rumors he'd overheard might be worth looking into further. But Will had a feeling that this lead might be a little more promising altogether to look in to. Why was Baron Douglass sending messages alone in the dead of night? He just hoped that this one wouldn't also turn out to be a lover's tryst: he didn't think he'd truly want to know about it if it turned out that Baron Douglass was merely sending secret loving messages to a lady of another fief.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. Feedback is always appreciated if that is your inclination. It feeds the muse and helps me improve. Next week Horace and Will get themselves into a bit of a predicament as they search more deeply for information, Gilan and David make a move against the Outsiders, and Halt and Crowley make ready to fight against the Wargals. Everyone is just about in their final positions now XD I do apologize if there are more grammar mistakes in this one than usual, my head seems to be a little out of the game at the moment; every time I go over it, I keep finding more that I missed and I'm still not sure I got them all... (so I have a feeling I did rather poorly but I can't look at it anymore... everything is blurring together. But I also didn't want to make you guys wait another week XD). Again I apologize; if you see any problems (grammar or story-wise) please let me know and I'll fix it right away.
I wish you all the very best until next time! Stay well!