- CHAPTER TEN -
Hard As It Seems

Made up my mind to make a new start
Going to California with an aching in my heart
The sea was red and the sky was grey
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today

- Led Zeppelin, "Going to California"

The only Ranger Horace had known growing up was Halt: A grim, taciturn figure who, if rumor was to be believed, was just as likely to magic you into a toad if you displeased him as to rescue you if you needed help. It had been a long time since Horace had ascribed to such beliefs. Not since he'd watched Halt hold a distraught Will after the boar hunt—and certainly not since the day Horace had confronted his Battleschool bullies. Halt had become a trusted authority figure in Horace's life. Still, Horace knew him as quiet and reserved, and he knew from Will that Halt was always complaining about Will's endless questions.

When Horace had met Gilan, he'd wondered if Gilan was a fluke among the Rangers. Gregarious, charming, friendly with a biting sense of sarcasm running through his veins. In a word, likeable. Nothing like the tales of Rangers Horace had been raised with—and certainly, nothing like Halt.

Now, Horace was wondering whether perhaps Halt was the odd one out.

"You mean this doesn't remind you of that one time in Picta?" Crowley asked for perhaps the third time since the three of them had started riding together. Halt's face, shadowed in his cowl, was difficult to see, but Horace thought he might've been gritting his teeth.

"No."

"You're certain?"

Halt exploded. "Good lord, Crowley, were you even there? This is nothing like Picta. It is warm. There is no snow. There are no mountains. There are no bears. There is nobody shooting at us. We have an apprentice."

"He's not our apprentice, though," Crowley put in helpfully. Halt shrugged.

"He isn't? He might as well be."

Horace hid his grin.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well, don't."

Halt's tone would have withered stronger men. But Crowley shrugged, unaffected. In truth, their journey so far had been pedestrian at best—and much of it had passed in silence. They were still traveling through the woods, on a well-worn travel path bound southward, and they would stay on it until they reached the town adjacent to Port Landing. The conversation was a welcome diversion from the monotony. Crowley sensed that Halt felt the same, despite his protests.

Crowley also sensed that Halt had several questions of his own. He knew he would, if he were him. He also knew there was no sense in goading his friend into asking. Halt had always been one to keep up appearances. So he settled down, knowing Halt would only ask when he could no longer bear his own curiosity.

(Especially now that Horace was with them. Halt would deny it until his dying day, but Crowley knew that he liked to put on a bit of a front for the youngsters.)

It was another half hour before Halt turned to his old friend and spoke. "So—how did you do it?"

Crowley turned a bemused glance toward his friend. "Sorry? Which 'it'?"

Halt made a vague gesture around him. "How does all this work out? You're the Ranger Commandant at the tail end of a national crisis. I'm fairly certain you're not able to just walk away and leave that mess to someone else."

"You mean, like you did?"

"It's not my job to administrate; it's yours."

"You're right; it's your job to follow orders. You didn't do that either, though."

"If you were looking for someone to follow orders you should've hired someone else—and you damn well know it."

Crowley shook his head with some asperity. "I'll have you know that all this took some planning," he said, changing tack, but Halt didn't take the bait.

"I don't doubt it. Perhaps you might also provide some explaining."

Horace couldn't help the way he watched the exchange, intrigued. Halt was famously few with his words, but his dialogue with Crowley resembled something close to banter.

Crowley relented. "Impatient, you are. Let's review. You went out and made some bad decisions. I, productively, met with the King. He and I agreed on a new plan of action—you and I chasing our way into Skandia, which we are doing now. With Horace, of course," Crowley added with a kind smile in the young apprentice's direction. "Then I drew up lists on lists on lists. What needs to be done, where and by whom. Long- and short-term. I've brought back a core of five senior retired Rangers to run the administrative work out of Araluen. They'll see to it that what needs to be done will get done, and they'll make assignments to fill any gaps as they arise."

"And our fiefs?" Halt asked. Crowley inclined his head.

"Yes, that was a puzzle. Redmont is a sizable fief—one of the reasons it's benefitted from consistently having both a silver and a bronze leaf over the past decade or so. And while Meric is smaller, it's not a fief we'd like to leave undefended."

"Meric was Gilan's fief," Halt provided for Horace, who seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the logistical proceedings. The young apprentice nodded.

The Commandant continued. "So, I did some shuffling. I moved Merron to Redmont—he's one of our most experienced; he'll hold it well. And he can look into Foldar besides." Halt had the good grace to drop his eyes at that comment. "I moved young Rhys to Merron's former fief—you remember Rhys, Nathaniel's apprentice?"

Halt nodded. "He was set to graduate this Gathering."

"Correct. But the Gathering's off, anyway. These aren't normal times. He performed admirably at Uthal, and we need all available hands on deck, so we gave him his silver and sent him off. And of course, there's the senior Rangers covering Araluen."

"Who did you leave there?"

"Trent, Breesam, Cade, Matthew, and Kimbel," Crowley said promptly. "All sharp and in fit shape. More than capable of keeping the fief safe. But since Trent and Matthew retired most recently, they'll be in charge of the actual patrolling. The other three will run the post-war operations out of Araluen and handle correspondence and mission assignments as they arise."

Halt couldn't resist shaking his head in admiration. Sometimes the thoroughness of Crowley's administrative work amazed him. "You really have thought this out."

"Well of course I have," Crowley said, somewhat affronted. "You and I both know that a nation post-war is rather messy. It's less than ideal that you and I are leaving it behind. Even less ideal that this puts us four Rangers down." Seeing Halt's eyebrow rise at the inclusion of Will in that number, Crowley explained, "I probably would have sent you after Foldar and left Redmont to Will. He handled a great deal after the Kalkara attack, anyway. But that's all beside the point. If I'm going to leave the Corps behind, I'll at least see to it that it won't fall apart when I'm gone."

Halt recognized the double truth behind Crowley's words. His friend had built a system to function in his absence and one that would remain in place if he never returned. Halt would've been willing to bet that the five gold leaves in Araluen had received instructions on selecting a new Commandant should such an eventuality come to pass. Again, he felt a surge of fondness for his friend.

"It certainly seems that it won't," he said out loud, and he knew by Crowley's smile that he understood much of what Halt didn't say. He always seemed to. Horace, though, seemed puzzled by something.

It was Halt's usual manner to ignore visual cues and let apprentices suffer alone with their questions until they finally burst forth. This was not Crowley's manner. "Something on your mind, Horace?" Crowley asked casually, and Horace gave a guilty jump as if he'd hoped the two senior Rangers would have forgotten about him.

"Sorry, sir—didn't mean to interrupt."

Crowley waved him off. "What did I tell you about all this 'sir' nonsense?"

Horace nodded, unsure. "Crowley, then. I guess it's—I just never realized how organized the Rangers were."

Horace felt foolish as soon as the words left his mouth. But Crowley was actually nodding along.

"Well, yes. That's by design. We do have a certain reputation for dark magic, and that works to our benefit. Very few people know anything of substance about the Rangers. We like to keep it that way."

"It's true, Horace," Halt added. "In knowing Will, you've gotten a glimpse into the Corps—but only a glimpse. And you already know more than most Araluens ever will."

"And think of all the things he'll come to know over the next months!" Crowley added with no small amount of glee.

Horace wasn't entirely certain, over the clatter of the horses' hooves on the path beneath them, but he thought the words Halt mumbled might have been "God help him."

The three traveling companions settled around a fire that night. Horace was still somewhat in awe of the two Rangers, but he was working to keep himself in check. He knew Halt, after all, and if the Commandant was anything like him they would get down to business soon enough.

Sure enough, it wasn't long after dinner (a savory stew of potatoes and fresh-caught rabbit) was prepared and ladled out that Crowley leaned forwards.

"All right," he said. "Business over dinner. We're headed to Skandia. How?"

"We sail from Port Landing to La Rivage," Halt said thoughtfully. "That much is certain. Beyond that, we've got to decide."

Crowley nodded. Horace, however, was unfamiliar with the place name. "Port Landing?"

Halt looked up to the heavens as if for solace. "What do they teach in Battleschool these days?" he wondered out loud.

Horace wisely did not reply.

Halt unrolled the map he'd taken from his saddlebag and spread it on the ground so all three of them could see it. Horace noticed that the map was upside-down from Halt's perspective and quickly realized that mattered little to either of the Rangers. The map was strictly for his sake.

Once a teacher, always a teacher, Horace supposed.

"Here's Port Landing." Halt tapped the map with his saxe. "And here's La Rivage, in Gallica. From there, we could go up through Gallica and sail north, or we could hug the coast through Teutlandt up until we reach Hallasholm."

Crowley studied the map thoughtfully. "Geographically, it would be quickest to head north and sail—but the north of Gallica is riddled with political disorder, even more than the rest. That might cost us more time than it would save."

Halt nodded. "And there's the horses to consider." It was a long voyage to cross the Stormwhite, and it would take a special kind of vessel to ferry five horses. It could be done. But there was no telling how long it would take to hire such a craft and crew, especially without the standard Ranger incentive of royal payment.

"So, Teutlandt?"

Halt shrugged. "If we hug the Gallican coast, I think we can avoid most of the partisan mess in the interior. Hopefully we'll save ourselves some unnecessary conflict."

"If we travel fast, we can be in Port Landing by tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Horace's breath caught. For all the excitement he'd had in his young life, he'd never been off the Araluen island. He'd never dreamed he would. The prospect of leaving it so soon was equal parts intimidating and exhilarating.

Halt nodded. "It's settled." He rolled up his map and stood to replace it in his saddlebags, stretching as he did so. He spoke to Crowley without turning around. "Where's your coffee?"

"Same pocket as always," Crowley said, but there was an appreciative note to his voice. Coffee was just the thing to get a long mission started off on the right note.

"I thought I ought to check," Halt said as he rummaged through Crowley's kit. "Seeing as it's been so long since you've been in the field."

Horace froze with his canteen halfway to his mouth. He was fairly certain by this point that Halt was kidding and that Crowley would respond accordingly. But he figured it never hurt to be cautious in case there was an all-out brawl. He decided he would rather run than wind up stuck in the middle of an altercation between two Rangers who loved their knives as much as these ones seemed to.

Crowley was silent for a long moment. "You know, sometimes I wonder whether it was such a good idea to come with you."

Halt shrugged. "You're the one who followed me. Where'd you pack the coffeepot?"

Despite the occasional barrage of snide comments between the two Rangers—which Horace now recognized as being playful rather than devastating in nature—the rest of dinner was a pleasant affair. Halt laced his coffee generously with honey, and Crowley brutalized him for doing so. Sniffing the strong, bitter fumes from across the fire, Horace asked for honey and was glad of his choice. He liked coffee well enough. But not the same way Rangers did.

Halt eyed Horace as he finished his mug. "Best get some rest, Horace," he said. "I'm not sure what you've heard from Will, but we'll be up at dawn."

"I'll take first watch," Crowley volunteered. Horace nodded.

"I'll take second."

"I'll wake you."

Horace nodded at the two Rangers a little unsurely. He was uncertain whether to wish them goodnight—whether that might be too familiar, or whether saying nothing might be rude. He settled for a grateful "I'll see you then," before standing, brushing off the seat of his pants, and walking over toward his one-man tent.

Halt waited to do the same. He liked Horace, certainly, but much of what he knew from him was from observation or secondhand from Will. Their paths didn't often have occasion to cross. And Crowley was his oldest friend. It was nice to spend a moment alone with him.

Without asking, Crowley reached for Halt's mug across from him. He poured half of the remaining coffee into it and the other half into his own. Halt gratefully accepted the offered mug. The fire had burned down to embers and the occasional sleepy flicker of flame and the two friends sat comfortably in its soft glow, sipping their coffee and enjoying each other's company.

At last, Crowley nodded over toward Horace's tent. "He seems like a good boy."

Halt nodded. "He's a good friend to Will."

"I can tell."

For a moment the old friends sat in silence.

"You really do care about them, don't you."

Crowley pitched his voice low so that his words were between the two of them, in case Horace was still awake. There was no need for him to clarify who he meant. Halt didn't look up from his mug. "They're my apprentices," he replied, as if that explained everything. But Crowley pressed on.

"You would have given up everything for them."

Halt looked up at last. His eyes were dark in the firelight, and utterly sincere. "I would have. And I would do it again." He absentmindedly touched the chain around his neck. There weren't words for his relief to still bear its familiar weight. Yet he knew that if he was given a different decision—if it was truly his oakleaf or his apprentices—he wouldn't hesitate to lose his leaf forever.

"I'm glad to be your friend, Halt," Crowley said quietly.

Halt met his eyes across the fire and saw in them years of campaigns and trials and harrowing dangers. They shared it all. Crowley knew him better than anyone else alive, Halt knew, with the possible exception of Pauline. And somehow, Halt knew that while Crowley was on this mission out of duty to the crown, he was here at Halt's side as his friend. To search for his lost apprentices because he wouldn't see Halt do so on his own. Crowley was a rare kind of friend.

"And I yours," Halt replied. And he meant it.

Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems

"Going to California" is by Led Zeppelin from their album IV. It's one of my favorites; I put it here less for the lyrics than the mood. Melancholy, a little hopeful, careful not to be too hopeful. Hits every time. And a million thanks to the wonderful Belladonna Baggins, for being a marvelous beta!

I start student teaching soon, so I'm not sure how frequent updates will be once school starts (I'll be teaching in-person classes at a high school near my college). I've loved having so much time to write over the past few weeks! I'm hoping to continue once I get back to school. Thoughts/prayers for safety for me and the students/teachers I'll be interacting with in school would be greatly appreciated—I'm pretty nervous about going back in the midst of the pandemic (added to the standard student teaching nerves! Lord help me).