Chapter 11

The two cloaked figures rode in silence, arching their bodies over their horses and enveloping their ears in warm woollen cloaks to try to conserve body heat. Winter had well and truly inched its way down the country, now clawing its icy paws through the southern fiefs. The evidence of it whirled around their heads and Halt watched as Edmund brushed a pile of soft snow off his shoulder, as if flicking dandruff.

The lad was shivering and had his determined jaw clenched shut, to prevent his teeth from chattering. Halt admired his resilience. Under his cloak and surcoat, Edmund was wearing half amour as well as chain mail, while the Ranger was clad in a woollen shirt. The melted snow had seeped through the outer fibres in their thick cloaks and the steel Edmund was wearing retained the cold. It was a wonder the boy hadn't frozen over yet and fallen from his stead as a solid six-foot mass.

Not for the first time Halt cursed the changing of the seasons, even though he knew it was entirely illogical. Ideally, he would be back in Redmont. It was far enough south that the winter was at least bearable. He could lounge in front of the fireplace in his comfortable apartment, nursing a mug of coffee between his stiff fingers and with his own pot of honey, well away from the thieving hands of his former apprentices. Castle Araluen was even better. It was toasty warm due to the servants who worked night and day to keep the fires roaring and there was an endless supply of coffee that he didn't have to brew himself. And it was the good stuff from Arridi.

However, Cassandra had insisted that he accompany Edmund to Caraway to, as she described it, 'keep a check on his youthful exuberance'.

Halt shifted in the saddle, twisting from side to side to stretch his sore muscles. He really was getting too old to be gallivanting around the countryside behind energetic youth.

Halt had never seen Edmund so serious, his gaze on the road ahead unwavering. He didn't think that Edmund would fail. He would definitely find Mon. The real question was whether or not they could get out alive.

Halt shrugged back his hood to get a better view of the horizon. The blue sky had been banished and would not be returning till the spring. It was now entirely covered by foreboding storm clouds. An icy breeze whipped through his salt and pepper hair and Halt hastily put his hood back on, slowing his hands at the last minute so the boy wouldn't find the opportunity to make fun of his age. A week ago Edmund would have been ready with a jibe about Halt's bones feeling the cold more keenly, but now he barely even noticed the movement. His mind was far away and gone with it was his heart. Halt nearly raised an eyebrow at his own pesky thoughts. All these young people with their overly dramatic love stories were making him too sappy.

Darkness was hastily closing in and at this speed they wouldn't reach Caraway till the early hours of the morning. Halt began looking for an appropriate place to set up temporary camp for the night. It was going to be hard enough to retrieve Mon already, but heading there without a few hours rest would be suicide.

"Edmund," he called, raising his voice beyond normal tones to jerk the Prince out of his deep contemplations. Edmund turned and faced Halt, almost expressionless.

"We should set up camp for the night and head into Caraway tomorrow," Halt said, indicating the tree line.

Edmund shook his head.

"She could be in danger and I won't take that chance. What if something happens to her and it's this delay that means we can't save her? I won't be able to live with myself. I'm late enough as it is. Gods I should have followed her out here," the prince rambled.

As much as Halt wanted to throw him into a river, an ice cold river, and remind him that Mon was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, only a more gentler approach would work with Edmund's current state of mind. Halt wasn't widely known for his gentler side so he tread carefully.

"You're going to need your wits about you to find her and then help her bring down el jefe," Halt said. "He's not some common highwayman, robbing passers-by. He's evaded our capture for months now. If you want to help Mon, you need to be every inch that highly skilled knight that I know you are."

"What about patrols?" Edmund asked.

"We'll take turns on watch," Halt said. It was standard procedure and any other time he wouldn't even need to remind Edmund of it.

Edmund thought for a second, those dark eyebrows knitting together as his green eyes flicked towards the horizon. Finally, he sighed, shoulders slumping in agreeance.

A noise suddenly caught Halt's attention and he put a hand up to stop Edmund from dismounting. The prince was immediately on alert and placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword but dared not move beyond that. The thick undergrowth on the side of the highway was moving slightly. Any other observer would have dismissed the movement as one caused by the wind but Halt's senses honed over many decades recognised that the movement did not follow the direction of the winter storm. Even as the wind quietened down for a second, the bushes continued moving. Halt's hand slowly reached for his quiver and he drew an arrow, placing it on the string of his bow. He cursed himself for not noticing the intruder earlier.

Just as he was considering their next course of action, the bushes parted and a dishevelled man ran out, brandishing a spear crudely fashioned from a tree branch. Edmund reacted instantly, drawing his longsword in a second and digging his heals into Thunder's side so the horse backed away a few paces. Halt lifted his bow but stopped as he saw the man more clearly.

"He's not a soldier," Halt said seeing the ragged farmer's smock and dirty, patched boots. Half of his scraggly hair was frozen to his face.

The farmer seeing that he was thoroughly outmatched, raised his arms in surrender.

"No need to shoot! I'm harmless, I promise. Ain't ever hurt anything but those wild mutts that take my chickens."

Halt didn't lower his weapon and glanced approvingly at Edmund who kept his sword drawn and ready to use within a second. He would have been more concerned that the man might be an Iberian in disguise, luring them in while enemy soldiers surrounded them, but Abelard had not given him any warning signals yet.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Edmund demanded, his recklessness getting the better of him. Halt deigned not to interrupt, even though he would have preferred to take point on the interrogation. That would just undermine Edmund's authority and give the stranger some power over them.

The man narrowed his eyes. "Why should I tell you? You might be one of em'."

Halt discreetly adjusted the hood on his green-grey mottled cloak. Edmund pulled back his cloak, revealing his sigil, a silver wolf on navy blue. The man's eyes widened and he took a slight step backwards. Halt tightened his grip on his bow.

"You're a Ranger!" the man said, pointing a shaking finger at Halt.

"It would appear so," Halt answered dryly.

"And you're a royal ain't you?" the man continued, moving his finger to Edmund who nodded slightly. Realising his lax on formalities the man suddenly leaned forward in an awkward bow.

"What's your name?" Edmund asked.

"Lyle of Newman farm, sire. Been in the family fifteen generations. All the way back to my great-great-great-uncle, sire. I mean your majesty. Your highness," the man answered, stumbling over his words. Edmund gave a slight smile, choosing to ignore that twelve generations had magically disappeared.

"Sire is fine. What are you doing this far out from town?"

"Sire, the Iberian's have taken over Caraway, they have. I sent my family to my sister's house in Whitby a few months ago. I stayed behind to gather crops and sell em' but I'm leaving to join them now," Lyle answered.

"On foot?" Halt asked. By horse it was a few days journey but by foot it would take a few weeks and it was dangerous in this kind of weather.

"Aye. Can't sneak out of town on a horse. The patrols don't let anyone out," Lyle answered.

"And Baron Quinn's men?"

"All dead or captured."

"The Baron's dead?" Edmund asked incredulous. The man had been dining at Castle Araluen half a week ago, celebrating the coronation of their new queen.

"Aye, either that or captured," Lyle answered, his eyes shifting to the horizon, eager to leave Caraway and join his family.

"How many soldiers were there? How many ships? Did you meet their leader?" Edmund asked.

As Lyle struggled to answer, Abelard sniffed at the air and then tossed his head. Halt patted the horse's neck, telling him that he was aware of the warning. Abelard's ears pricked up in the direction of the highway which lead to Caraway. From the direction in which the wind was howling the scent of any danger was easily picked up by the well-trained horse. Two seconds later Thunder snorted and began pawing at the ground.

"Shush," Halt said, putting his hand up. The farmer immediately shut his mouth, fear lacing his dark eyes.

There was a second of painful silence as the three men strained their ears. And then, out of nowhere, came the foreboding chorus of hooves, hurtling towards them at a gallop.

The farmer immediately took off, like a rabbit sensing that it was about to become prey. He shot into the bushes, making himself scarce.

Halt considered their options as he readied his arrows. They could ride away into safer territory and come back with the full forces of Araluen to extinguish this threat but by the time they came back, they would lose the element of surprise. Without even looking at his young companion, Halt already knew that Edmund was not going to back down. If they left now, Mon could be killed or worse by the time they reached her. Edmund shrugged his shield off his back and tightened his grip on Thunder's reins. Abelard took a few paces backward, not in fear or cowardice. No, after years with Halt he recognised that their best course of action was for Halt to move back and pick off their enemies one by one. Araluen's most decorated Ranger did in fact carry twenty-four lives in his quiver, and an extra thirty-six in his saddle bags.

"They can't know we're here," Edmund said. "We just crossed the border."

"It must be a patrol," Halt surmised. Good. They wouldn't be expecting a confrontation. This would be their way in.

As the sound grew louder, ten horses rounded the bend. At the sight of two riders, the Iberian soldiers clad in the blood red of King Ferdinand, reined in their horses slightly. Halt didn't fire an arrow. Edmund just narrowed his eyes. Halt waited with patience acquired after decades facing assailants until they were all around the corner, and stopped on the narrow road, effectively preventing any escape.

Then he fired and chaos reigned.

Two men fell out of their saddles and a third clutched his shoulder before yanking on his horses reins so hard that he careered into another.

Edmund then took the opportunity to enter the fray. Thunder was galloping in mere seconds as the Iberian's balked at the huge black battlehorse hurtling towards them and the rider in whose eyes burnt the very fires of hell.

The first man tried to hold up his shield desperately, but Edmund's sword and the strength in which he wielded it, tore it clean in half. He was fast as a viper and brought the same sword around to stab the man through the side. One Iberian decided that while Edmund was occupied, he would try and decapitate the Prince. It was the last mistake he ever made. Edmund wiped the side of his face as the man's blood sprayed out of a vein in his neck, in which a grey shafted arrow was wedged.

Halt had shot the two men at the back of the patrol who were trying to escape. Their riderless horses now stopped the three remaining Iberian's from leaving. The men glanced at each other desperately, yelling in Iberian that they needed to retreat. Halt held up his bow and was about to shoot another when he stopped to watch Edmund. The lad was taking on three well-trained Iberian soldiers at once and was winning. His sword was a flash of steel and death. Backhand, forehand, uppercut and downward strokes. Soon it became a flash of crimson as blood flowed down the expertly crafted blade.

An immense silence settled over them, the type that always followed a battle. As if the entire world was taking a few seconds to contemplate the loss of life as blood seeped into the soil and became one with the land. They watched as the snow slowly fell, beginning to cover the bodies. The horses stopped fussing and began wandering aimlessly without riders to direct them. Edmund looked back at Halt, his face grim as he wiped the blood off his sword with an old rag and then tossed the soaked cotton to the ground.

"We should get going," Halt said. "With all that cacophony we're bound to have alerted someone. You couldn't swing your sword any quieter?"

Edmund gave Halt a sideways glare as he pointed to the side of his face which was blood stained. "You couldn't avoid getting me splattered with blood?"

"I was saving your sorry life," Halt answered. "And I know for a fact that you like your pretty head safely on your broad shoulders."

"Pretty head? Broad shoulders?" Edmund asked, grinning for the first time in days.

"Whenever you walk through Castle Araluen you look in every single mirror. I'm assuming that is only due to your elevated sense of self. It's quite unusual and heightened, even for a self-absorbed teenage boy."

"Maybe if you cut your beard with something other than your saxe, you would have the opportunity to peruse mirrors all day as well," Edmund answered, bringing up his favourite joke of all time. Halt scowled back even though he was pleased to see Edmund happier. Gloomy moods and gruff answers were his façade. He needed the public at least to have a sense of mystique towards their foremost Ranger – or at least their foremost Ranger's mentor.

Abelard whinnied and Halt's attention diverted back to their surroundings. The horse had sensed something again. Halt and Edmund watched in horror as Iberian soldiers began emerging from the tree line, surrounding them.

Edmund swore.

Halt began unlatching his saddlebag, to take out more arrows.

There had only been ten men before but now they were surrounded by more than two dozen, including archers with cross bows and a few spearmen on foot. They had made one of the oldest mistakes in the book. The patrol had only been a distraction. They had been sent to dispatch with the two intruders while a larger force could be mustered. If they succeeded, then that was all well and good but if they failed, then it was the job of the second force to finish off the tired enemy. Even better, the first battle would give them the perfect opportunity to sneak in unnoticed.

"Rendición!" the leader of the men called out. Halt nocked an arrow, taking note of where the four archers were. Edmund unsheathed his sword and patted Thunders neck as the battle horse snorted, ready for round two.

"Not today," Edmund muttered under his breath.

The leader shrugged, taking their silence as an answer. Not that they were going to honour a surrender regardless.

"Tu elección," he said.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Halt loosed an arrow and then a second in close succession. He knew that his aim had to be true, and decades of practice paid off as two archers fell backwards, instantly dead, as arrows pierced their hearts. Halt then slid off Abelard as two arrows sailed right past the position he had been half a second earlier and then above his horse's head. The two archers situated behind them, stared at each other as their leader swore. They had stupidly wasted their crossbow bolts on the same target. Halt thanked Gorlog under his breath. The first archer only had those few moments to contemplate this unlucky turn of events before he saw the arrow lodged in his stomach. The second ducked out of the way just in time and tried desperately to reload a second bolt.

Thunder galloped forward, trying to avoid the crumpled dead bodies and icy road. Edmund cut one man down and then seeing a line of spearman, jumped off Thunder and sent the horse running out of the way.

The problem with facing spearman with a longsword was the extra reach they had. It wasn't ideal, but Edmund had received the best training a swordsman could. The day he taken his first steps, his uncle had handed him a child-sized sword made of hickory. From then on he had been trained by Battlemasters from across the country, the great MacNeil, and had spent extensive time with both Horace and Gilan. His uncle had even sent him overseas to learn different techniques with other types of blades. He knew exactly what to do: aim for the hands. While a sword had a cross to protect a swordsman's hands from a blade, a spear was just a metal stick with a pointy end. The key was to exploit a spearman's anxiety over his hands. In this case it was too easy. No one had had the good sense to give the spearmen gauntlets, they only wore leather gloves and he had just sharpened his sword.

The first man lunged at Edmund, spear out while he stood a good distance away. Edmund easily danced to his left, light on the balls on his feet and then sliced at the man's side while he tried to turn the cumbersome weapon around.

Some sixth sense told Edmund to duck, and he did, just as a spear almost crashed straight into his head. He heard a cry of pain as the bearer was lodged with a red tipped arrow.

Edmund didn't have the time to dodge the next spear and instead caught it on the edge of his sword. The spearman was strong and held his weapon firmly. Edmund knew he wouldn't be able to deflect it, so instead he let his weapon carve down the side of the spear. He maintained eye contact and soon saw the panic in the spearman's eyes as his gaze shifted from his hands to the impending blade. To his credit, he kept his grip but then cried out as steel pierced skin. Now within arm's reach, Edmund punched the man in the side of the head and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

Turning around, Edmund saw soldiers closing in on Halt. While Halt could definitely hold his own, his only close quarters weapons were a saxe and throwing knife, which were practically useless when surrounded by half a dozen swordsman.

Just as Edmund went to rejoin the Ranger he felt a shooting pain up his left arm. He swore, very colourfully, and then made the mistake of having a look. He almost fainted at the sight of the arrow sticking out. It felt deep and turning his arm around, Edmund saw the tip poking out the other side.

"Gorlog's whiskers," he muttered, gritting his teeth. At least it had been his left arm. Edmund decided then and there that if he and Halt were going to die today, he was going to take as many of those bastards as he could with him. It would make Mon's job a bit easier. She would kill el jefe and he knew that he was mostly here to apologise to her, not necessarily to save her. That girl didn't need saving.

Seeing the arrow sticking out of Edmund, Halt shot the last archer and then turned his attention to the swordsmen looming. The sheer number was overwhelming. Surviving was going to be a miracle.

Just as Halt took out his knives and sized up his opponent, their miracle arrived.

Men fell to the ground everywhere. Four within two seconds and then another four before anyone could raise the alarm, all sporting black shafted arrows in various crucial body parts.

For not the first time in his life, Halt knew that taking apprentices had been a good idea. They had now saved his life more times than he could count on two hands.

Will sat on Tug, some distance away, picking off any soldiers who didn't take cover. Gilan and Blaze took care of those trying to retreat. Halt hunted those who left their horses and had retreated to the undergrowth and Edmund took those on the other side of the road.

When everything had been taken care of, Will and Gilan turned to Halt.

"So the apprentices save the master."

Halt just scowled. "What took you so long? You've been trailing us from the castle. Did you get lost or something? Is there a second Queen's Highway that I should be made aware of? We were attacked hours ago!"

"Why didn't I teach my apprentices the importance of punctuality?" he asked no one in particular.

"One of the many bad habits you have corrupted us with," Will deadpanned.

"You sound like Crowley."