Chapter 3: Perspectives
Even though it was after midnight, the lights were still burning in Baron Arald's office when Gilan reached the castle. The Baron and Sir Rodney, Redmont's Battlemaster, had a lot of planning to do, preparing for the march to the Plains of Uthal, where they would join the rest of the kingdom's army. When Gilan burst in, animatedly talking about something that had just happened with Harry.
Baron Arald was about to snap at him for barging in and talking over his discussion with Sir Rodney, but the Battlemaster held up a hand to stop him. "'There's obviously something quite serious happening, my Lord. Rangers, especially one like Gilan, have never really talked over themselves before and have always explained things calmly and patiently. It must be serious."
With that, the Baron noticed the tear stains on Gilan's cheeks and subsided. "What's happened?," he asked more gently. "Other business first, then I'll briefly tell you. I have to get back there soon," Gilan got out. His sides were still heaving from the fear and worry he felt, as well as his desparate ride here on Blaze, short though it was.
Gilan quickly explained the situation, then the quest and his need for a third member. Sir Rodney was quick to see where the Ranger's thinking was headed.
"Horace?" he said to Gilan.
The lanky Ranger nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Yes, it's not a bad idea at all," the Battlemaster continued, pacing the room as he thought it over. "He has the sort of status you need for the task—he's a Battleschool member, even if he is only a trainee. We can spare him from the force leaving here at the end of the week and…"
At this he paused and looked meaningfully at Gilan. "You might even find he's a useful person to have along."
The younger Ranger looked at him curiously and Sir Rodney elaborated: "He's one of my best trainees—a real natural with a sword. He's already better than most members of the Battleschool. But he does tend to be a bit formal and inflexible in his approach to life. Perhaps an assignment with two undisciplined Rangers might teach him to loosen up a little."
He smiled briefly to show that he meant no offense by the joke, then glanced at the sword Gilan wore at his hip. It was an unusual weapon for a Ranger. "You're the one who studied with MacNeil, is that right?"
Gilan nodded. "The Swordmaster. Yes, that was me."
"Hmmm," muttered Sir Rodney, regarding the tall young Ranger with new interest. "Well, you might see your way clear to giving Horace a few pointers while you're on the road. I'd take it as a favor and you'll find he's a quick learner."
"I'd be glad to," Gilan replied. He thought that he'd like to see this apprentice warrior. He knew from his time at Redmont as Halt's apprentice that Sir Rodney wasn't given to overstating praise for any of the students in the Battleschool.
"Well, that's settled then," Baron Arald said, anxious to get back to planning the thousand and one details of the march to Uthal, after finding out what had happened. "What time will you be leaving, Gilan?"
"As soon after sunup as I can, sir," Gilan replied.
"I'll have Horace report to you before first light," Rodney told him, but Gilan demurred. "Sir, could you write a pass or something so I can fetch him. We want to get underway as soon as possible and it would be best if he could be on hand to help at Halt's Cabin. You do realise that the cabin is badly damaged in a duel with a rogue wizard?," he said.
Rodney's eyes widened - he hadn't realised it was that bad, and Arald suddenly felt a stab of worry for the wellbeing of the most legendary Rangers of the entire Corps. "Very well, then, take this. We'll be along as soon as we finalise the urgent details that need to be done tonight," Rodney said to Gilan, handing him a note. Gilan nodded his thanks and left promptly, sensing that the discussion was over.
"That is concerning, Rodney," the Baron said after the young Ranger had left. "I agree, My Lord," Rodney replied. "We should go up there soon pay our respects and see if we can help, but for now, we'd best get back to the relatively simple business of planning a war," the Baron said.
-Arald and Rodney's POV-
As they reached it in the early hours of the morning, both the Battlemaster and the Baron let out noises of shock as they came into view of the cabin. The structure itself, surrounding forest and grass looked like it had been sieged. The door was almost hanging off its hinges, there was black smoke curling out from inside the hut, scorch marks visible on the floor. Not to mention a few streaks of blood and huge chunks of grass outside the cabin ripped up like it had been attacked by a giant boar.
Gilan summarised in a few sentences, promising he'd get Halt to leave a memory from Harry, when the young Wizard and Ranger in training regained consciousness. Despite the urgency of getting back to their war preparations, the Baron felt for the young wizard. It seemed only yesterday that he was thrust into a strange new world and had asked him about what to make of his life here.
Now he was a part time wizard, Ranger, Courier and Battleschool Apprentice, learning everything he could from three of Redmont's primary and most demanding craftmasters. He could not help but respect him and delight in seeing the initially serious young man start to lighten up (yet also become more intense and focused at times) when he started spending time with the Rangers. It showed in little ways, a quick smile or witty remark here and there mainly, but it was there. The boy was a good lad and was a credit to the Fief, the Baron, his craftmasters, the Ranger Core and to himself.
Sir Rodney also felt for the young man. At least twice a week, he'd show up at Battleschool for the hardest drills, with a thirst for tactics and skill at arms of an intensity that was rare in even his own apprentices. Rodney remembered the time that Harry had verbally beaten into him that he was to be pushed hard, and that Rodney holding back on him at all was unacceptable.
He had initially been going lighter on Harry than his other apprentices because he could see that his body had been malnourished for most of his life. And his vision wasn't all that good even now. But Harry had insisted that the harder he was pushed the better, otherwise he couldn't truly embody a balance of training from the three hardest crafts in Redmont.
"Can I trust you to take care of any fallout from this? I don't want to leave to Celtica with Halt and Harry unconscious. But the sooner we can go the better," Gilan asked, gesturing to where Harry was unconscious and Halt was asleep. It was only now that Arald and Rodney saw Halt lying still on the grass.
"Why are they both still outside?," Rodney asked curiously. Gilan hesitated for a moment, then said, "The cabin is not as sound as we'd like it. Will and I agreed it would be best to keep them outside in the fresh air too." Rodney nodded his understanding and picked up the Ranger's dead weight and placed him gently on his bed.
Arald was deep in thought as he examined the damage of the battlefield. It had never registered with him just how destructive magic could be. There was an immense amount of damage in the field surrounding the Cabin, a hole in the wall that looked like it had been made with acid, and other indications of supernatural powers. People couldn't see this as it was.
"We can't let onto everyone about magic. It's best if it's a secret shared only with the Ranger Core, maybe Couriers, and a few craftmasters, as well as the King of course. We can only use it in certain situations that way but the rest of the time we still have our wits and Ranger training to handle any difficulties, and the magic gives us a considerable edge in secret." That was what the wizard had told him as they discussed it some time back. Now he could see how right Harry had been.
Having assessed the situation, the Baron and Battlemaster made their way back, sending the Seneschal (who was saddened by hearing what had happened to Harry and informed very briefly about his magic, as well as being sworn to secrecy on the subject) to take care of the situation so no one knew it was magic while the Baron and Battlemaster continued their duties.
-Horace's POV-
I couldn't believe the sight that met me as I rode up the last hill to Halt's cabin. It looks like a battlefield, I thought to myself, and it truly did. I had never realised until that moment just how damaging magic could be when it was used by a powerful wizard. My admiration for it turned to respect. It was not to be tampered with, I realised. It could be extremely evil or extremely good at defending what matters depending on the user.
It took me a while to actually believe Gilan when he woke me at about 2:30 in the morning, insisting I pack and prepare for a long mission as quickly as possible and join them at Halt's cabin as soon as I could. The only explanation I got was "There's another magician here who's after Harry. They had a magic battle at the cabin and Harry's trunk was stolen. You'll see for yourself". And with that, Gilan had been off, so I hurried to get everything ready and find out for myself.
I did what I could to help Gilan and Will look after Halt and Harry, although there wasn't really anything I could do. Finally, when Harry regained consciousness and revived Halt, I was able to say a goodbye I felt didn't sufficiently express my feelings. They were not the kind of feelings you could put words to, so I kept it simple. I was going to miss Harry, he was a truly good friend, always ready for a joke and very supportive of me. Not to mention the fact that he had the most amazing food in his trunk. Halt was easier to farewell. I respected him and he inspired me to be better.
I saw Gilan placing the lid of a pot into his saddlebags when I was sure I had seen the pot it matched sitting on the stove just before. Gilan noticed the look and laughed, explaining that it was a portkey Harry had made when I had been taking care of the horses and readying them to be ridden. I could only nod at that - I didn't even know what a portkey really was, beyond the fact that they take you nearly instantly from one place to another.
With everything finally packed and ready to go, Gilan, Will and I made our way to our horses and then we left, despite the still early morning hour.
-Page Break - Narrator-
The sky was heavy with sullen rain clouds. Somewhere the sun may have been rising, but here there was no sign of it, just a dull gray light that filtered through the overcast and gradually, reluctantly, filled the sky.
As the little party crested the last ridge, leaving the massive shape of Castle Redmont behind them, the new day finally gave in to the clouds and it began to rain—a cold spring rain. It was light and misting, but persistent. At first, it ran off the riders' treated woolen cloaks. Will wished they had been taught the Impervius spell which would have made it so none of the rain hit them. But, Harry hadn't got around to teach them that yet. Eventually, it began to soak into the fibers. After twenty minutes or so, all three were hunched in their saddles, trying to retain as much body warmth as they could.
Gilan turned to his two companions as they plodded along, eyes down, hunched over their horses' necks. He smiled to himself, then addressed Horace, who was keeping a position slightly to the rear, alongside the pack pony Gilan was leading.
"Well then, Horace," he said, "are we giving you enough adventure for the moment?"
Horace wiped the misting rain from his face, and grimaced ruefully.
"Less than I'd expected, sir," he replied. "But it's still better than close-order drill."
Gilan nodded and grinned at him, slightly. He felt they all needed some cheering up and every smile and joke would help. Harry's losing his trunk and the battle last night had taken a toll on all of them and it wasn't a good way to start a mission. Not to mention the fact that considering he had got no sleep last night, he and Will were both constantly stifling yawns.
"I imagine it is at that," he said, then promptly yawned again. Then he added kindly: "There's no need to ride back there, you know. We Rangers don't stand on ceremony too much. Come and join us."
He nudged Blaze with his knee and the bay mare stepped out to open a gap for him. Horace eagerly urged his horse forward, to ride level with the two Rangers.
"Thank you, sir," he said gratefully. Gilan cocked an eyebrow at Will.
"Polite, isn't he?" he mused with a grin. "Obviously manners are well taught in the Battleschool these days. Nice to be called 'sir' all the time."
Will grinned at the kindly meant jibe. Then the smile faded from his face as Gilan continued thoughtfully.
"Not a bad idea to have a bit of respect shown. Perhaps you could call me 'sir' as well," he said, turning his face away to study the tree line to one side so that Will couldn't see the faint trace of a grin that insisted on breaking through.
Aghast, Will choked over his answer. He couldn't believe his ears.
"Sir?" he said finally. "You really want me to call you 'sir,' Gilan?" Then, as Gilan frowned slightly at him, he amended hurriedly and in great confusion: "I mean, sir! You want me to call you 'sir'…sir?"
ilan shook his head. "No. I don't think 'Sir-Sir' is suitable. Nor 'Sir Gilan.' I think just the one 'sir' would do nicely, don't you?"
Will couldn't think of a polite way of phrasing what was in his mind, and gestured helplessly with his hands. Gilan continued.
"After all, it'll do nicely to keep us all remembering who's in charge of this party, won't it?"
Finally, Will found his voice. "Well, I suppose it will, Gil…I mean, sir." He shook his head, surprised at this sudden demand for formality from his friend. He rode in silence for a few minutes, then heard an explosive sneezing sound from beside him as Horace tried, unsuccessfully, to smother his giggling. Will glared at him, then turned suspiciously to Gilan.
The young Ranger was grinning all over his face as he eyed the apprentice. He shook his head in mock sorrow.
"Joking, Will. Joking."
Will realized his leg was being pulled again, and this time with Horace's full knowledge.
"I knewwwww," he replied huffily, drawing the word out into two syllables to show his disdain. Horace laughed out loud and, this time, Gilan joined in.
They traveled south all day, finally making camp in the first line of foothills on the road to Celtica. Around midafternoon, the rain had slowly begun to peter out, but the ground around them was still sodden.
They searched under the thickest-foliaged trees for dry, dead wood, and gradually collected enough for a small campfire. As for the coffee, Harry had given them each a magically expanded and lightenned pack to carry their gear, and they had plenty of coffee which they could use the heating charm on. So even when they couldn't light a fire, they could enjoy a hot cup of coffee at any time. Gilan joined in with the two apprentices, sharing the work among the three of them, and they ate their meal in an atmosphere of friendship and shared experience.
Horace, however, was still a little in awe of the tall young Ranger. Will eventually realized that, by teasing him, Gilan was doing his best to set Horace at ease, making sure that he didn't feel left out. Will found himself warming to Halt's former apprentice even more than before. He reflected thoughtfully that he still had a lot to learn about managing people.
He knew that he faced at least another four years' training before he finished his apprenticeship. Then, he supposed, he'd be expected to carry out clandestine missions, gather intelligence about the kingdom's enemies and perhaps lead elements of the army, just as Halt did. The thought that one day he would have to depend on his own wits and skill was a daunting one.
He sighed. Sometimes, it seemed that life was determined to be confusing. Less than a year ago, he had been a nameless, unknown orphan in Castle Redmont's Ward. Since then, he had begun to learn the skills of a Ranger, and learned that magic did exist and what it could do, and was even able to use a few basic spells himself thanks to Harry's preset wands, and basked in the admiration and praise of everyone at Redmont Fief when he had helped the Baron, Sir Rodney, Halt, Gilan and Harry defeat the terrifying beasts known as the Kalkara.
He glanced across at Horace, the childhood enemy who had become his friend, and wondered if he felt the same bewildering conflict of emotions. The memory of their days in the Ward together reminded him of his other friends—George, Jenny and Alyss, now apprenticed to their own Craftmasters. He wished he'd had time to say good-bye to them before leaving for Celtica. Particularly Alyss. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of her. Alyss had kissed him after his homecoming dinner at the inn and he still remembered the soft touch of her lips.
Yes, he thought, particularly Alyss.
At least he had time to say a decent goodbye to Harry. Like Halt and Gilan, Harry was a reassuring (and sometimes cheerful, when he wasn't super focused on his training or brooding about his past) presence to him over the previous year. He had been through so much that Will still had trouble realising just how many dramatic things had happened to him.
Having watched his experiences at Hogwarts, his school, had been an eye opening experience for him. He, Halt and Gilan had initially laughed their heads off as they heard of the name of the school - why would you name a school after lesions on a pig?! But then they had seen Voldemort, for instance, who was so terrifying that Will had been pale white with fear every time he saw him. But Harry had talked with him and comforted him from the fright until we was no longer afraid, much like an older brother would have (which was how Will now saw him).
They had played some pranks on a few boring or tedious people in Redmont village who, as Harry said, "Could use some lightening up when they're such sticks in the mud". They had reflected on Will's father together after Halt had told them about him. They had trained together and watched each others backs.
Now Harry was preoccupied with what was clearly a great burden. Will should have HIS back in this... but he didn't. Instead he, who was doubting he had what it took to be a good Ranger recently was sent off to Celtica just because of his status as a trainee Ranger so the Celts would listen to Gilan's message promptly, instead of being able to help Harry track down the brute of a man who had stolen his trunk and attacked them all with strange spells.. after he had already failed to stop the wizard once.
Across the campfire, Gilan observed Will through half-closed eyes. It wasn't easy being Halt's apprentice, he knew. Halt was a near-legendary figure and that laid a heavy burden on anyone apprenticed to him. There was a lot to live up to. And he suspected the boy was upset about what had happened to Harry last night. He decided that Will needed a little distraction.
"Right!" he said, springing lithely to his feet. "Lessons!"
Will and Horace looked at each other.
"Lessons?" said Will, in a pleading tone of voice. After a day in the saddle, he was hoping more for his bedroll.
"That's right," Gilan said cheerfully. "Even though we're on a mission, it's up to me to keep up the instruction for you two."
Now it was Horace's turn to be puzzled. "For me?" he asked. "Why should I be taught any Ranger skills?"
Gilan picked up his sword and scabbard from where they lay beside his saddle. He withdrew the slender, shining blade from its plain leather receptacle. There was a faint hiss as it came free and the blade seemed to dance in the shifting firelight.
"Not Ranger skills, my boy. Combat skills. Heaven knows, we'll need them as sharp as possible before too long. There's a war coming, you know." He regarded the heavyset boy before him with a critical eye. "Now, let's see what you know about that toothpick you're wearing."
"Oh, right!" said Horace, sounding a little more pleased about this turn of events. He never minded a little sword practice and he knew it wasn't a Ranger's skill. He drew his own sword confidently and stood before Gilan, point politely lowered to the ground. Gilan stuck his own sword point-first into the soft earth, and held out his hand for Horace's.
"May I see that, please?" he asked. Horace nodded and handed it to Gilan hilt-first.
Gilan hefted it, tossed it lightly, then swung it experimentally a few times.
"See this, Will? This is what you look for in a sword."
Will looked at the sword, unimpressed. It looked plain to him. The blade was slightly blued steel, simple and straight. The hilt was leather wrapped around the steel tang and the crosspiece was a chunky piece of brass. He shrugged.
"It doesn't look special," he said apologetically, not wanting to hurt Horace's feelings.
"It's not how they look that counts," said Gilan. "It's how they feel. This one, for example. It's well balanced, so you can swing it all day without getting overtired, and the blade is light but strong. I've seen blades twice this thick snapped in half by a good blow from a cudgel. Fancy ones too," he added, with a smile, "with engravings and inlays and jewels."
"Sir Rodney says jewels in the hilt are just unnecessary weight," said Horace. Gilan nodded agreement.
"What's more, they tend to encourage people to attack you and rob you," he said. Then, all business again, he returned Horace's sword and took up his own.
"Very well, Horace, we've seen that the sword is good quality. Let's see about its owner."
Horace hesitated, not sure what Gilan intended.
"Sir?" he said awkwardly.
Gilan gestured to himself with his left hand. "Attack me," he said cheerfully. "Have a swing. Take a whack. Lop my head off."
Still Horace stood uncertainly. Gilan's sword wasn't in the guard position. He held it negligently in his right hand, the point downward. Horace made a helpless gesture.
"Come on, Horace," Gilan said. "Let's not wait all night. Let's see what you can do."
Horace put his own sword point-first into the earth.
"But you see, sir, I'm a trained warrior," he said. Gilan thought about this and nodded.
"True," he said. "But you've been training for less than a year. I shouldn't think you'll chop too much off me."
Horace looked to Will for support. Will could only shrug. He assumed that Gilan knew what he was doing. But he hadn't known him long, and he'd only briefly seen him so much as draw his sword and take a swing or two at the Kalkara before his view had been blocked, let alone practice with it. Gilan shook his head in mock despair.
"Come on, Horace," he said. "I do have a vague idea what this is all about."
Reluctantly, Horace swung a halfhearted blow at Gilan. Obviously, he was worried that, if he should penetrate the Ranger's guard, he was not sufficiently experienced to pull the blow and avoid injuring him. Gilan didn't even raise his sword to protect himself. Instead, he swayed easily to one side and Horace's blade passed harmlessly clear of him.
"Come on!" he said. "Do it as if you mean it!"
Horace took a deep breath and swung a full-blooded roundhouse stroke at Gilan.
It was like poetry, Will thought. Like dancing. Like the movement of running water over smooth rocks. Gilan's sword, seemingly propelled only by his fingers and wrist, swung in a flashing arc to intercept Horace's blow. There was a ring of steel and Horace stopped, surprised. The parry had jarred his hand through to the elbow. Gilan raised his eyebrows at him.
"That's better," he said. "Try again."
And Horace did. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings.
Each time, Gilan's sword flicked into position to block the stroke with a resounding clash. As they continued, Horace swung harder and faster. Sweat broke out on his forehead and soon his shirt was soaked. Now he had no thought of trying not to hurt Gilan. He cut and slashed freely, trying to break through that impenetrable defense.
Finally, as Horace's breath was coming in ragged gasps, Gilan changed from the blocking movement that had been so effective against Horace's strongest blows. His sword clashed against Horace's, then whipped around in a small, circular motion so that his blade was on top. Then, with a slithering clash, he ran his blade down Horace's, forcing the apprentice's sword point down to the ground. As the point touched the damp earth, Gilan swiftly put one booted foot on it to hold it there.
"Right, that'll do," he said calmly. Yet his eyes were riveted on Horace's, making sure the boy knew that the practice session was over. Sometimes, Gilan knew, in the heat of the moment, the losing swordsman could try for just one more cut—at a time when his opponent had assumed the fight was over.
And then, all too often, it was.
He saw now that Horace was aware. He stepped back lightly from him, moving quickly out of the reach of the sword.
"Not bad," said Gilan approvingly. Horace, mortified, let his sword drop to the turf.
"Not bad?" he exclaimed. "It was terrible! I never once looked like…" He hesitated. Somehow, it didn't seem polite to admit that for the last three or four minutes, he'd been trying to hack Gilan's head from his shoulders. He finally managed to compromise by saying: "I never once managed to break through your guard."
"Well," Gilan said modestly, "I have done this sort of thing before, you know."
"Yes," panted Horace. "But you're a Ranger. Everyone knows Rangers don't use swords."
"Apparently, this one does," said Will, grinning. Horace, to his credit, smiled wearily in return.
"You can say that again." He turned respectfully to Gilan. "May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship, sir? I've never seen anything like it."
Gilan shook his head in mock reproof. "There you go again with the 'sir,'" he said. Then, in answer: "My Swordmaster was an old man. A northerner named MacNeil."
"MacNeil!" Horace whispered in awe. "You don't mean the MacNeil? MacNeil of Bannock?"
Gilan nodded. "He's the one," he replied. "You've heard of him then?"
Horace nodded reverently. "Who hasn't heard of MacNeil?"
And at that stage, Will, tired of not knowing what was going on, decided to speak up.
"Well, I haven't, for one," he said. "But I'll make tea if anyone chooses to tell me about him."
"So tell me about this Neil person," Will said, as the three of them settled comfortably by the fire, steaming mugs of herb tea warming their cupped hands.
"MacNeil," Horace corrected him. "He's a legend."
"Oh, he's real enough," said Gilan. "I should know. I practiced under him for five years. I started when I was eleven, then, at fourteen, I was apprenticed to Halt. But he always gave me leave of absence to continue my work with the Swordmaster."
"But why did you continue to learn the sword after you started training as a Ranger?" Horace asked.
Gilan shrugged. "Maybe people thought it was a shame to waste all that early training. I certainly wanted to continue, and my father is Sir David of Caraway Fief, so I suppose I was given some leeway in the matter."
Horace sat up a little straighter at the mention of the name.
"Battlemaster David?" he said, obviously more than a little impressed. "The new supreme commander?"
Gilan nodded, smiling at the boy's enthusiasm. "The same," he agreed. Then, seeing that Will was still in the dark, he explained further: "My father has been appointed supreme commander of the King's armies, since Lord Northolt was murdered. He commanded the cavalry at the Battle of Hackham Heath."
Will's eyes widened. "When Morgarath was defeated and driven into the mountains?"
Both Horace and Gilan nodded. Horace continued the explanation enthusiastically.
"Sir Rodney says his coordination of the cavalry with flanking archers in the final stage of the battle is a classic of its kind. He still teaches it as an example of perfect tactics. No wonder your father was chosen to replace Lord Northolt."
Will realized that the conversation had moved away from its original gambit.
"So what did your father have to do with this MacNeil character?" he asked, returning to the subject.
"Well," said Gilan, "my father was a former pupil as well. It was only natural that MacNeil should gravitate to his Battleschool, wasn't it?"
"I suppose so," Will agreed.
"And it was only natural that I should come under his tutelage as soon as I could swing a sword. After all, I was the Battlemaster's son."
"So how was it that you became a Ranger?" Horace asked. "Weren't you accepted as a knight?"
Both Rangers looked at him quizzically, somewhat amused by his assumption that a person only became a Ranger after failing to become a knight or a warrior. In truth, it was only a short time since Will had felt the same way, but now he conveniently overlooked the fact. Horace became aware of the extended lull in the conversation, then of the looks they were giving him. All of a sudden, he realized his gaffe, and tried to recover.
"I mean…you know. Well, most of us want to be knights, don't we? Except Harry, of course, who wants to try and be everything..."
Will and Gilan exchanged glances. Gilan raised an eyebrow. Horace blundered on.
"I mean…no offense or anything…but everyone I know wants to be a warrior." His embarrassment lessened as he pointed a forefinger at Will. "You did yourself, Will! I remember when we were kids, you used to always say you were going to Battleschool and you'd become a famous knight!"
Now it was Will's turn to feel uncomfortable. "And you always sneered at me, didn't you, and said I'd be too small?" he said.
"Well, you were!" said Horace, with some heat.
"Is that right?" Will replied angrily. "Well, does it occur to you that maybe Halt had already spoken to Sir Rodney and said he wanted me as an apprentice? And that's the reason why I wasn't selected for Battleschool? Has that ever occurred to you?"
Gilan interrupted at this point, gently stopping the argument before it got any further out of hand.
"I think that's enough of childhood squabbles," he said firmly. Both boys, each ready with another verbal barb, subsided a little awkwardly.
"Oh…yes. Right," mumbled Will. "Sorry."
Horace nodded several times, embarrassed at the petty scene that had just occurred. "Me too," he said. Then, curiosity piqued, he added: "Is that how it happened, Will? Did Halt tell Sir Rodney not to pick you because he wanted you for a Ranger?"
Will dropped his gaze and picked at a loose thread on his shirt.
"Well…not exactly," he said, then admitted, "and you're right. I always did want to be a knight when I was a kid." Then, turning quickly to Gilan, he added, "But I wouldn't change now, not for anything!"
Gilan smiled at the two of them. "I was the opposite," he said. "Remember, I grew up in the Battleschool. I may have started my training with MacNeil when I was eleven, but I began my basic training at around nine."
"That must have been wonderful," Horace said with a sigh. Surprisingly, Gilan shook his head.
"Not to me. You know what they say about distant pastures always looking greener?"
Both boys looked puzzled by this.
"It means you always want what you haven't got," he said, and they both nodded their understanding. "Well, that's the way I was. By the time I was twelve, I was sick to death of the discipline and drills and parades." He glanced sidelong at Horace. "There's a bit of that goes on in Battleschool, you know."
The heavyset boy sighed. "You're telling me," he agreed. "Still, the horsemanship and practice combats are fun."
"Maybe," said Gilan. "But I was more interested in the life the Rangers led. After Hackham Heath, my father and Halt had become good friends and Halt used to come visiting. I'd see him come and go. So mysterious. So adventurous. I started to think what it might be like to come and go as you please. To live in the forests. People know so little about Rangers, it seemed like the most exciting thing in the world to me."
Horace looked doubtful. "I've always been a little scared of Halt," he said. "I used to think he was some kind of sorcerer."
Will snorted in disbelief. "Halt? A sorcerer?" he said. "He's nothing of the kind!"
Horace looked at him, pained once again. "But you used to think the same thing!" he said.
"Well…I suppose so. But I was only a kid then."
"So was I!" replied Horace, with devastating logic.
Gilan grinned at the two of them. They were both still boys. Halt had been right, he thought. It was good for Will to be spending some time in company with someone his own age.
Will turned to the older Ranger. "So did you ask Halt to take you as an apprentice?" he asked. Then, before receiving any answer, continued, "What did he say to that?"
Gilan shook his head. "I didn't ask him anything. I followed him one day when he left our castle and headed into the forest."
"You followed him? A Ranger? You followed a Ranger into the forest?" said Horace. He didn't know whether to be impressed by Gilan's courage or appalled at his foolhardiness. Will sprang to Gilan's defense.
"Gil's one of the best unseen movers in the Ranger Corps," he said quickly. "The best, probably."
"I wasn't then," said Gilan ruefully. "Mind you, I thought I knew a bit about moving without being seen. I found out how little I actually did know when I tried to sneak up on Halt when he stopped for a noon meal. Next thing I knew, his hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me in a stream."
He smiled at the memory of it.
"I suppose he sent you home in disgrace then?" asked Horace, but Gilan shook his head again, a distant smile still on his face as he remembered that day.
"On the contrary, he kept me with him for a week. Said I wasn't too bad at sneaking around the forest and I might have some talent as an unseen mover. He started to teach me about being a Ranger—and by the end of the week, I was his apprentice."
"How did your father take it when you told him?" Will asked. "Surely he wanted you to be a knight like him. I guess he was disappointed."
"Not at all," said Gilan. "The strange thing was, Halt had told him that I'd probably be following him into the forest. My father had already agreed that I could serve as Halt's apprentice, before I even knew I wanted to."
Horace frowned. "How could Halt have known that?"
Gilan shrugged and looked at Will meaningfully. "Halt has a way of knowing things, doesn't he, Will?" he asked, grinning. Will remembered that dark night in the Baron's office, and the hand that had shot out of the darkness to seize his wrist. Halt had been waiting for him that night. Just as he'd obviously waited for Gilan to follow him.
He looked deep into the low embers of the fire before he answered. "Maybe, in his own way, he is a kind of a sorcerer," he said.
The three companions sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, thinking about what had been discussed. "Then there's Harry, who really IS a sorcerer," Horace mentioned. That got two nods from his companions. "Don't worry about him, you two. He's responsible. We can call him in a few days, once he's more underway," Gilan said, then stretched and yawned.
"Well, I'm for sleep," he said. "We're on a war footing these days, so we'll set watches. Will, you're first, then Horace, then me. 'Night, you two."
And so saying, he rolled himself into his gray-green cloak and was soon breathing deeply and evenly.
-Page Break-
His feet ached. His back ached. Even a day tracking his attacker was taking it's toll on Harry's already battered body. He was tired beyond belief. He had been in a violent war lasting over two years against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Then, after helping out with the cleanup, just as he started learning about peace and living in nature, those Stones sent him into a whole new world where he, admittedly by choice, joined up with the Rangers and spent many nights with barely a few hours of sleep, coming up with ways to bring some of the things he had learned in Magical and Muggle England to his friends from here.
Then they had heard about the Kalkara. Tracking and then fighting them had taken even more strength out of him. And straight after that he had been embroiled in helping the kingdom prepare to face Morgarath in a final battle. They had to end it, and having heard and even seen some of what Morgarath was like, he agreed. Then this had happened, just as the battle was nearing. Baron Arald and the rest of Redmont's warriors would be moving out any day now onto the Plains of Uthal to prepare for the final battle against the Lord of Rain and Night. And while he could otherwise be helping, he had to prepare to track and bring down this hook-nosed man. This man would rival Voldemort and Dumbledore for both power and intelligence.
Harry knew both madmen had to be stopped. Morgarath was similar to Grindelwald or Voldemort in some ways, he had mused. But losing his trunk and being defeated so comprehensively (at least that's how it felt to him) by someone who shouldn't have even been there had nearly finished him and his remaining strength and drive felt like it had evaporated.
He thought of the three men going off to Celtica. He had always loved Gilan, with his ready smile and light-hearted nature. He was a good influence on a jaded, reckless hero like himself, he figured. The best friend he could have asked for. Comparing him to Ron was like comparing night and day. Gilan was never jealous and never shirked from doing his duty. Ron would often be jealous of Harry's inherent fame and money, despite the fact that Harry had it because his parents were brutally killed by Voldemort. He loved Ron like a brother, but he hadn't been as good a friend as Harry had thought him to be, now that he had people like Gilan to show him the best way friendship can be.
And Halt, was like an uncle or even a father to him. The Ranger had taken him in within hours of meeting him and treated him like family, welcoming him into his home and encouraging him to choose the future he wanted to make for himself in this strange land. Halt had learned all he could about magic to understand the world Harry had come from. He had trained him personally and organised the other two craftmasters he had wanted to train him. He had even made sure to send a last minute request for Old Bob to put another horse aside just for Harry. He had seen to it that Harry was accepted in the Ranger Core. Yet the grizzled, sometimes grumpy, Ranger insisted that Harry owed him nothing. He disagreed, but could think of no way to convince Halt otherwise.
Then there was Will. The boy was intuitive and a brilliant student, despite a bit of self doubt which was understandable in someone of his age. Harry had made a firm friendship with the young boy within a short time of meeting him. There was no malice in Will, he wasn't spiteful or jealous, like Ron had occasionally been (at which times were most awkward and uncomfortable for him). He was cheeky, bright and one of the best friends he could have hoped for.
And then he couldn't help but think of Hermione. Goodness, he missed her. She had been through so much with Ron and himself. Always trying to help out where she could and support them. He wished so hard that he could show her this world and introduce her to his friends here. Alas, that wasn't possible. He had even looked for the Stones where they had sent him out only to find he couldn't get back home using them.
He loved his new life and was fitter and happier than he had ever been. But also had never been more tired. It had been one thing after another since his sixth year ended and there was very little time to regenerate after each new trial.
He swore to himself, violently. He was wasting time. He wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. That was one thing he had learned from Halt - he had to be constantly attuned to the world around him. He wasn't going to catch up with this man if he spent his time deep in thought. That would just get him killed, then where would his friends be? Forcing himself to focus despite the strain it put on his whole body, he reconnected with the world around him and forced his body to keep moving forward while staying aware of his surroundings, and keeping his mind alert, held in place by a laser focus.
He had a feeling that he was the reason the man had come and it was his responsibility to end this, once and for all. Then, finish Morgarath. Then have at least a week with no training or committments and sleep as much as he could. It was curious how this man had left such an obvious trail before him as he headed north after the clear path.
A/N Hope you guys all enjoyed this chapter. I'm estimating roughly ten chapters or so for this book, all of which are quite long. I'm gradually working my way through editing my other stories on here and improving them as well as a number of other stories in development. I'm very much enjoying writing this one currently so expect more regular updates on it.
On another note, ít's hard to believe it's almost Christmas time! And who has read the two most recent installments of John Flanagan? Arazan's Wolves (The Royal Ranger series), and Stern Chase (The Brotherband series) have both recently been released. I've not read them yet - looking forward to hearing the audiobooks when they're made.