- CHAPTER EIGHT -
Home Is Behind (The World Ahead)

Home is behind, the world ahead
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight

Mist and shadow, cloud and shade
All shall fade

-Pippin, from The Return of the King

Halt was a wraith, silent and shadowy as he slipped through the long, twisting corridors on the way to the tower staircase of Duncan's primary office. He knew the way by heart—after all, he couldn't count the number of times he had been there by invitation as a guest and a friend. This time was different, though, because for the past week Duncan had refused to see him.

For years, Halt had been one of Duncan's closest allies and friends. Their pasts were intertwined. Each owed his current place in life to the other, and each was mutually grateful. And beyond gratitude, their relationship was one of deep respect and even friendship. The refusal had been a harsh blow—made harsher by the reason for it.

Two weeks ago, Halt had woken up hungover and miserable. And alone, save for a note on the table. Halt wasn't entirely certain what he'd said the night before, but he must have told his friend enough to worry him. And, with no small amount of guilt, Halt realized that Crowley was right to be so.

In a word, Halt was desperate. Every hour of wasted time in Araluen was another burden on his shoulders as he thought of his missing apprentices, sailing further and further north, and each new notice containing orders backed Halt deeper into a corner. Gilan and Will needed him. Halt was out of options.

So the plan had been drinking himself half to death and then committing treason. Not his best work, but it would do in a pinch. And oh, how bitter that thought was in Halt's mind, even unspoken. To go against everything he had fought for and believed in—. But for his apprentices, he would in a heartbeat. Things changed after the night Crowley pulled him out of the tavern. Halt knew in his heart that Crowley didn't deserve his betrayal. Not after everything. And while he couldn't abandon Will and Gilan, he knew he also couldn't turn his back on his oldest friend.

All of which meant that at last, Halt had seen the King. It wasn't a particularly productive visit. They'd spoken. They'd argued. When Duncan had warned Halt to remember his oath all Halt could feel was the salt spray on his face and the words torn from his lips as he watched his apprentices sailing away from him.

Will! Gilan! Stay alive! I'll find you wherever they take you!

There was a divide now between him and Duncan that would not be crossed. Strange, Halt thought, that the only two people in the nation who could understand each other had nearly come to blows over their shared grief.

So now Duncan refused to see Halt, knowing what he would ask. And Halt, well and truly cornered, having exhausted every escape route and alternative—and never one for letting others dictate his path—decided to move forward anyway.

This was the reason for the letter in his hands. Neatly signed and sealed, a raised bump along the center fold that clearly meant it contained some small object. His official resignation. Two decades of his life come to a close. But even as he swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, Halt supposed he'd always known it would come to this. Ever since that day by the sea, he'd known.

Which brought him here: To the shadows in the corridor where two knights-at-arms guarded the tower staircase to King Duncan's main office. Halt wondered why he was still hesitating—then angrily, he shook his head. He knew why. It didn't matter.

He stepped forward. "Halt, Ranger two," he announced crisply, ignoring the knights' startled jumps as he appeared to materialize out of nowhere. "I have an important message for the King."

One of the knights shook his head regretfully as he composed himself. "Sorry, sir. The King is away as of this morning. Visiting Medrow Castle for diplomatic purposes. He won't return for another three days."

Halt knew this, of course. It was why he'd chosen this afternoon to act. The southern Risedale port, where ships regularly docked from and sailed for La Rivage, was a four days' ride from Castle Araluen—four days for Halt, that is. Longer for any troop of knights Duncan might send after him. Longer for almost anyone who might follow. Anyone except Crowley, Halt knew—but even if the King sent his oldest friend to chase him down (and Halt hoped Duncan wouldn't do that to him), he would have a significant head start. Even Crowley couldn't make up three days in one. By the time anyone could catch up to him, he would be gone.

Externally Halt gave no sign of these thoughts. "Very well," he told the knight-at-arms. "But I have a field assignment; I can't stay three days. Will you give this to him once he returns?" And Halt held out his envelope.

Of course, Halt couldn't be certain that the knight on guard would do as he asked. Technically speaking, there was a protocol that should have been observed, for protocol's sake but also for the King's safety. But Halt was reasonably certain the knight would do as he'd asked. Rangers had a reputation for unorthodoxy, and Halt had a reputation in himself. He was one of the King's closest advisors and confidants.

Sure enough, the knight at guard nodded. "Certainly, Ranger," he said, holding out an open hand.

Halt briskly handed over the envelope. Act as if you've got a purpose and rarely will anyone question you. Still, even he couldn't resist the way his fingertips hesitated over the envelope's surface, reluctant to relinquish it. For a moment there was still the possibility that he could still take it back. Yet he knew in his heart that he'd made his decision that day at the fens. Any oath made to Will and Gilan was first priority to him.

Still, as he withdrew his hand with a nod and turned sharply to walk through the corridor, he was surprised by how deeply he felt the pain of his broken vow. Because of course, the letter also held his oakleaf.

The woods were dark, even at noon.

This land had been his home for decades. He'd known that leaving it would be hard, he just hadn't expected it to be so difficult. The idea of parting with the gentle woods and towering castles that had welcomed Halt when nowhere else would was an aching pain and a heavy weight to bear.

At least if nothing else, he thought, he was able to suffer in solitude.

Not thirty seconds after the thought had crossed his mind, hoofbeats sounded behind him. Abelard whinnied as if he'd met an old friend, and Halt closed his eyes in defeat. With Will and Gilan gone, there was only one person it could be, and only one reason he would come.

The hoofbeats grew closer, and Halt reined Abelard to a stop. Moments later Crowley's horse, Cropper, pulled alongside Abelard.

"Halt—" the man began at once, but Halt cut him off.

"I've made my choice, Crowley," he said firmly, "and there's no convincing me otherwise."

Crowley's brow furrowed. "Choice," he repeated. "I take it this is about your letter of resignation?"

Halt bit back the sarcastic retort at the tip of his tongue. His resignation itself was enough of a wound to his old friend without his cruel words pouring salt on top of it. Halt knew enough to recognize that. "You know it is," he said instead.

Crowley nodded gravely. "Yes," he said. "I was given your letter by a very polite knight-at-arms. The thing is, the King won't accept it."

Halt bit his tongue. "The thing is, I don't care," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry, Crowley. You won't stop me." I'll fight you if I must. The words hung unspoken in the air between them, but Halt knew they were not unheard. He and Crowley were far too close for that.

But Crowley smiled—smiled?—and instead replied, "Yes, about that. The thing about stopping you is that actually, I'm coming with you."

For the sixth time in his life, Halt was properly speechless. "I—" he stopped. The smile never left Crowley's face, an amused curl at the corner of his lip, and Halt stared, utterly bewildered and utterly out of words.

The grin dropped off Crowley's face. "All right, I've had my fun. Your resignation was overturned ahead of time because the King needs you," he said quietly, now the very picture of seriousness. "But not here. Not any more. Two Rangers were taken, Halt, along with the Crown Princess, and we must go after them. This isn't the kind of security threat you wait out to see how it ends up."

Halt still felt like he was stuck several minutes back. "You've come after me to come with me as I abandon my duty."

Crowley winced. "Well, when you put it like that," he muttered. Then, in a lowered voice: "Halt, I spoke with Duncan."

"So did I!" Halt snapped—and then, realizing he'd raised his voice at his friend, he held up a hand in a gesture of peace. "What happened?"

Crowley winced. "It wasn't pretty. Duncan's grieving. But I would've been a poor advisor and a poorer friend not to bring it up." He sighed and squared his shoulder. "There's the issue of succession, Halt. The Princess is gone. Yes, her kidnapping is a massive security concern, and we've talked circles around that. But so soon after Oswald and Morgarath, and at the end of a war… Duncan can't be seen as an unstable monarch. Without an heir, though—if something happens to Duncan, the kingdom plunges into chaos. There are people who would take advantage."

Halt frowned. "What about ransom? I thought Duncan had decided to wait for a demand from Ragnak."

Crowley shook his head. In fact, this was the primary issue he and Duncan had discussed—and this was the point that had turned the tables in Halt's favor. "Ragnak's son was among those killed at Thorntree." At Halt's visibly shocked face, Crowley nodded. "We recently received intelligence that he was among the forces there, and that he never returned. That changes things for us, of course. Skandians tend to take things like that personally. There's too much political uncertainty between our countries right now for us to sit and wait for a ransom demand that might not come. Even if it does, that's what—one year? Two, to get her back? And longer if Ragnak decides to hold her captive, or worse, God forbid."

Halt blew out a long breath. He and Crowley were both intimately familiar with the sentiment behind such truths. This put an altogether different spin on the national situation. If Ragnak didn't intend to ransom Cassandra, that left Duncan as the last of his line. In the short term, it was tragic. In the long term, it meant assassination attempts and treasonous rebellions by the dozen until one or another would likely succeed.

"Does the Princess know?"

Crowley shrugged. "We'll have to hope she hears something of it and keeps quiet," he said grimly. "Of course, the consequences of her revealing her identity might be several. That's why the two of us are going after them now. If Ragnak discovers who she is and holds her captive, and sends us a message once he does, but then it takes months for a party to travel to rescue her…" He trailed off. The idea was plain anyway. Cassandra was in grave danger. And if they waited until her identity was discovered to act, they would be too late to save her.

On top of that was the succession issue. Duncan was a popular ruler, with the vast majority of the Kingdom supporting him. But there were always voices of discontent. And for Duncan to find himself without an heir now, barely fifteen years after his fight for ascension… Such a precarious position could well become untenable. It would take time, certainly. Rebellions against popular rulers don't gain ground overnight. But in a year or two, if Ragnak didn't ransom the Princess? All it would take was a skilled orator with a thirst for power, a few speeches and manuscripts proclaiming Duncan an unfit ruler, a few agents to spread the word.

A year or two, and everything Halt and Crowley had fought for fifteen years ago could come crashing to the ground.

Halt nodded, full of a grim resolution. "So this is—"

"A mission." Crowley's tone was brisk now. "Unofficial, of course. Officially, your resignation has been reviewed and accepted by myself and the King. I'm out cleaning up after Morgarath, deep undercover, and no one knows when I'll be able to emerge. For our ears, and ours alone, our task is to find the Princess—and Will and Gilan, of course—and bring them home."

"If they're alive," Halt couldn't stop himself saying. If Ragnak found out Cassandra was Duncan's heir, after losing his son at Araluen's hands, he might simply kill her on the spot. If the Oberjarl found out that Will and Gilan were Rangers, it was perhaps hopeful he would extend to them the same mercy. The alternative was unthinkable.

Crowley nodded in acquiescence. "If they're alive. If Cassandra's not, we send Duncan a message through the Silesian Council and prepare for the worst."

"So you and Duncan have truly planned this, then," Halt said, but it wasn't a question. His friend nodded.

"This is high stakes. Duncan eventually agreed that he needs his best Rangers working on this one, and that's you and me."

Halt sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "One question," he said at last, still puzzling through these things. "Why wait until now? Why not save me the grief and tell me straightaway, so we could leave together? Why wait until you had to chase me?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I told you not to do anything stupid," he said almost petulantly. "I wouldn't've had to chase you at all, if I had my way."

"This wasn't—" Halt began, but Crowley held up a hand.

"Good Lord, Halt, if this was the smart decision, I'm not sure I want to know what your previous ideas were." He rolled his eyes again. "Duncan and I met this morning, just hours before he left for Medrow. This all happened fairly quickly. I came after you as soon as I could. I worried for a time I wouldn't catch you," he added, a note of reproach in his voice, and Halt shrugged.

"You did," was all he said in response. But inwardly he was touched by his friend's loyalty. He knew that Crowley's actions had been taken in the name of the kingdom, but he recognized a deeper motivation—the same one that had carried Halt home from the tavern last fortnight.

Crowley rummaged around in his pocket. "By the way…" he said, reaching out and pressing something into Halt's hand, "I have something you'll be needing."

Halt didn't have to look down to see what he'd been given. He already knew every ridge and curve of the silver oakleaf that he held once more.

He looked up at his friend. Their eyes met, burning determination within each, and an agreement was reached. Crowley noted with approval that there was a light in Halt's eyes that had been missing recently. He dug his heels into his own horse's sides, turning him around so that he was ahead of Halt on the path. His head turned to face his friend's.

"Now let's go find your boys."

They hadn't made it fifteen minutes before they realized they were being followed. One horse, one rider. Not a Ranger. Not trying to keep quiet. Halt and Crowley exchanged glances, wordlessly agreeing on the place they would stop and wait for their pursuer—a small clearing off to one side of the path, about ten meters ahead. Arrows nocked and bows at the ready, they brought their horses to a stop and waited.

A black battlehorse soon crested the small hill behind them, laden with travel equipment and carrying a familiar rider.

"Horace," Halt said, confused but not entirely surprised. The young apprentice drew his horse to a stop in front of the two Rangers. He wore his mail and apprentice surcoat, sword in his scabbard and a determined look on his face. He nodded.

"You're going after Will."

"I am," Halt said. It wasn't a surprise that Horace knew—Halt had left a separate resignation letter for Baron Arald, and someone likely would have relayed the news to Horace. The apprentice nodded.

"I'm coming with you."

Halt raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Horace looked down for a moment and swallowed. When he looked up, his eyes were wet but unmoving. "Will's my best friend. I can't leave him. If it were me, he wouldn't sit at home and wait."

"He wouldn't," Halt agreed. He looked Horace over. The young apprentice carried himself calmly yet determinedly, with a light in his eyes that spoke volumes as to why he and Will were such good friends. "I don't suppose you've spoken of this plan of yours to Sir Rodney, however?"

But Horace shook his head to the contrary. "He gave me permission and leave yesterday. Said you might find it useful to have a sword to guard your back."

Halt hid his surprise. But then again, perhaps the news wasn't quite so surprising after all. Rodney was a great deal cleverer than the average knight—it was one of the things that made him such an excellent battlefield commander. It wasn't so shocking that he would deduce Halt's true intentions in leaving. Nor was it, perhaps, so shocking that he would send Horace along. It was no great secret that most people in Redmont were fond of Will, Rodney included.

"Those were his exact words?" Halt queried, and Horace flushed.

"No. His exact words were, 'You could use a good sword.'"

And, well. Rodney's good opinion was hard to come by.

"You really do know what you're doing, don't you," Halt said quietly. But inwardly, he was already decided. Horace was a faithful friend—it was good that Will had such loyal people who loved him. And whether Halt would admit it out loud or not, it would be nice to have another young person around.

"Might be useful to have that sword in handy, as well," Crowley remarked mildly, but Halt knew better than to believe his tone. They were headed to uncertain territory. And whether or not the boy himself would admit it, Horace was very good.

Horace started, as if he'd forgotten the other Ranger was there. "Oh," he stammered. "I'm sorry—?"

Crowley reached out his hand. "Crowley, Ranger Commandant," he said. Horace's eyes, if possible, grew wider.

"Commandant?"

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "Head Ranger. Never mind that. That was a neat trick you pulled with Morgarath, at Uthal."

Horace flushed and looked down. "It wasn't much," he muttered, somewhat embarrassed at the praise. "Gilan taught me."

"He's a fine teacher," Crowley nodded. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear about it from you when we find him."

It took Horace a second or two to realize what he'd just been told. Clearly, Halt thought with some wryness, he'd come prepared to argue his way into coming along. "You mean," he started hopefully, "you'll let me join you? Really? Where are we doing? When do we start?"

Halt snorted. "Now that I've said yes, I wonder whether I've made a terrible mistake," he remarked in his typically acerbic tone. But in truth, the barrage of questions lightened the load on his heart considerably, and he found himself glad for Horace's courage to follow them.

Crowley intervened before Halt could do any more damage to their young recruit. "Horace," he began, "before we leave, did Sir Rodney tell you anything else?"

Horace nodded, no longer embarrassed. The determined light came back into his eyes. "He said to bring Will home."

At Halt's side, Crowley nodded. "Yes," he said, a quiet certainty in his voice. "So we will."

Whew. There's a lot of new things in this chapter (it's also a long one; it really got away from me while I was fleshing things out). If you can't tell, I enjoy politics and have no problem making everyone else suffer for it. Let me know if it was a bit too much? I'd appreciate it.

Billy Boyd sings this song toward the end of the track "The Steward of Gondor" from the Lord of the Rings soundtrack.