Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, made possible by the Ranger's Apprentice by John Flanagan. I have only borrowed his creation and I make no money. For this story I have used several other Rangers from the books, though I've also added my own. I do this only in the hope to entertain…
Author's Note: No harm shall come to the characters that can't be fixed with enough coffee…

Heavier Than the Sword

Chapter 1

Raising the bow Gilan nocked and drew back an arrow in one smooth motion, feeling the tip of his finger at the corner of his mouth, finding his anchor point, and released the string. There was a faint rasp of the arrow against the wood of the bow, a touch against the leather wrist cuff he wore as the bowstring snatched at it. He had seen the archers at Castle Caraway practice enough times to know what the leather cuff was for, and had consequently put it on as soon as Halt took it out.

Curiosity had later had him attempting to shoot without it, and the inside of his arm and wrist had smarted for a week. He was pretty sure Halt had noticed it, but he hadn't said anything. A few times he had taken it off to shoot because he figured he would not always be able to use it, and it made sense to know the best way to do so anyway. If he had to, he didn't want to be surprised by the pain and possibly jerk his shots.

He was stood in the clearing with a few targets surrounding him at various heights and ranges. Halt had urged him to never shoot at the same one twice in a row, unless he was practicing rapid shooting. Otherwise, he'd like as not always try and judge his second shot by the first. Instead he would turn randomly between the different targets until his quiver was empty. Then he'd go and collect the arrows before he started over.

Standing himself about two yards to the side of where he had stood before he slipped the leather cuff off his wrist and placed it beside him.
Shooting arrows was easy, too easy, he did not want it to be too easy. Nocking the arrow and drawing it back in one smooth motion was easy, and as soon as he felt the brush of his finger at his anchor point he released the string. The melodious twang of the bowstring, and the rasp of the arrow seemed to come simultaneously with the burning pain in his arm. The bowstring left a pulsating pain behind as he turned around in a half circle. Nocking and drawing as he turned, releasing just as he faced the target.

With the inside of his lower arm already on fire, it hurt twice as bad this time.

At the fourth and fifth shot, it felt a bit as if his arm was numb. Once he had emptied his quiver he pulled the shirt back, surprised to see the whole lower arm glaring scarlet, there were bits where the skin had come off, and those patches were littered with red dots where blood vessels had broken. Not enough for it to really bleed, but enough that he felt a moment of shame for having done it. Sighing he put the leather cuff back on. He had known it was the wrong thing to do, as such, but in a bad way it had actually felt somewhat good.

The pain didn't bother him overly much, he was used to smaller injuries hurting as he worked. He had never yet had a sword instructor who urged the students to take it easy after an accidental whack by your sparing partner. In a fight for your life you would never be able to, and the one who expected to would be the first one to die.

He had learned to handle the pain and not let it affect him, at least not as long as it was not really bad. A broken rib was just about more than he could handle, but that was to the point where he could barely breath. A skinned forearm at least took some of his attention away. Retrieving his arrows again he slipped them into his quiver before going back to his starting position. The bow was so very different from the sword. The Araluen archers were highly respected for their skill, and learning of the Rangers when he was young he had been immensely impressed. He had barely been able to fathom that someone could shoot so fast, and so accurately. He had not really felt the same way about the sword, though he expected it was from having grown up with it.

Ever since he could walk, he remembered toddling around with a small wooden blade, imitating what he saw the Battleschool instructors teach. Fighting fence posts, wielding the toy with more and more skill until he was able to copy the action more accurately. He had always been tall for his age, and yet when he first started his formal training at nine he had been so much smaller than everyone else. The other cadets were all fifteen or older, and he barely reached any of them past the waist. At first, most of them had been scornful and not wanted anything to do with him. Using the practice posts though he had quickly proved that he was able to do all they could, and once they spared with one another, he rarely if ever lost the match. He was shorter and much skinnier than all of them, but what he lacked in height and muscle he made up many times in skill and agility.

He enjoyed sparring with his father whenever David had the time to spare, he was highly skilled and considered one of the best, and at ten, it was just about the only challenge Gilan met. Until he started training with MacNeil the year after. Suddenly he had to work hard, and he liked it. The sword was a weapon that truly suited him. It required skill, knowledge and an immense focus. It came with a sense of honor as you faced your opponent one on one, at least most of the time. Certainly some had no honor, they would use every dirty trick, kicks, fists, and even bite you if they had the chance. Try to overwhelm you with number, but as long as you had your own honor and was the more skilled you would usually prevail against them.

He found the bow very different. Not so much between the recurve bow and the longbow though he understood from Halt that most apprentices was still using the recurve bow at the time he was. It was the bow Halt had at first given him, easier to draw and hold, and yet with a powerful draw weight. Many years of sword practice though had given him a good arm strength and back muscles, and he was almost if not fully able to use Halt's bow. He could draw it back, but the shot was just a little unsteady and he could not hold it for very long at all. Even so it had impressed his mentor who had begun teaching him how to make his own long bow. The idea being that Gilan used the recurve bow until the bow was ready. There was a lot of skill required for a good longbow.

The draw weight was less than Halt's bow, but it was enough.

It was enough to kill a man.

At first when it was constructed he had been quite pleased with his skill, now, he was not sure if the bow felt right in his hand. It was strong, and deceptively fragile looking. Unstrung, it was just a stick, and strung it was more dangerous than any sword.

Praise from Halt was almost even more rare than from MacNeil, and when his swords instructor praised him it had never failed to inspire a warm feeling in his chest. From MacNeil, he knew it was honest and earned. From Halt, even more so. Yet the last time his mentor had praised him he had felt nothing but self-loathing and disgust.

He fired and collected his arrows one more time, glancing at the sky and noting it was time to head back to the cabin. Halt would want him back in time to help with the dinner preparations though he felt no hunger at all. It had been a fortnight now since he felt like eating anything. He had tried to eat normally and to be cheerful so that Halt wouldn't notice, but he was fairly certain his mentor knew something was different. A few times he had felt him looking at him, well, it was no wonder, by now Halt would know what a failure his apprentice was. Most likely now he was wondering what to do about him, if he should wash his hands off him or not.

A part of him almost wished he would, because he clearly wasn't good enough for the task he had undertaken. As he approached the cabin he forced a smile on his face, hurried his steps and took the steps up the verandah in two strides.

"Good, just in time for dinner," Halt stated without even looking up as Gilan came inside. Something was up with the boy, but as he spent a lot of energy to pretend there wasn't, Halt had felt it best to leave it alone for now. He had a fifteen-year-old on his hands, and in his experience there was more things happening at that age than the few strands of hair that was starting to come in on his chin. Things he would rather not have to go into and that he did not think they were required to explain to their apprentices. Tracking, sneaking and such things, absolutely, girls, absolutely not. He hoped that it was nothing more than the boy having caught sight of a bit of a slender ankle for the first time.

"What do you want me to do?" Gilan hung his cloak on a peg by the door, then slipped one foot into the bow, bracing it against his ankle as he unstrung it and propped it in the corner together with his quiver.

"Scrub those potatoes clean," Halt nodded to the counter where five potatoes lay. Filling a small bowl with water Gilan set about his task of removing all dirt and grains of sand from the potatoes. Halt in the meantime browned some diced meat and passed Gilan three carrots once he was done with the potatoes. "Clean them, then slice them up."

"Okay," cleaning them just as he had done with the potatoes Gilan took one of the kitchen knives. Working slowly and methodically as he sliced up the vegetable. Halt was much faster at it. He would have had them sliced in half the time. Gilan didn't like to rush it though, he was not comfortable with the various parts of cooking and wanted to be certain he did it right.

"Should I do the same with the potatoes?" he thought Halt was making a stew, and then they usually did.

"No, slice them up thin," Halt told them and Gilan frowned for a moment, then shrugged. Putting the potatoes on the counter he took the bowl with the dirty water. Tossing it outside on the small patch of flowers growing there he rinsed it out before filling it with clean water. Putting the potatoes back in it he took them out one at a time to slice them up as thin as he was able.

"Glad you remembered that," if left in the air, the potatoes would blacken. Something Gilan hadn't known and had done the first time Halt told him to peel and cut them.

"The knife is getting a bit dull," Gilan mused, frowning as the knife didn't slice through the vegetable quite as he liked.

Frowning, Halt watched him, normally any bit of praise would get Gilan to shine up like the sun. He had noticed that right away, he always tried his best, and he had a good head on his shoulders, but any time you told him he had done particularly good, or just gave him a bit of praise or encouragement he really drew himself up and the always present smile got wider. Now though, he almost seemed a little bothered by it.

"You can take care of that after supper," when it came to putting a fine edge on the knives he was almost better than Halt, which he suspected came from all the years doing that with his sword. The knife seemed good enough to Halt, at least for a kitchen knife, but Gilan was picky when it came to those things. He would not tolerate a dull edge. At least doing that should keep him occupied for a moment.

Gilan finished with the potatoes, and watched as Halt put them as well as the carrot in the skillet to fry.

"You can take one of the onions now," Halt nodded to the braid of onions that hung off to one side. "One of the smaller ones."

Nodding Gilan selected one of the onions from the braid and set about peeling and dicing it. He was a bit slow, sometimes Halt had to wait for the items but Gilan had had almost no experience in cooking and there was no use in rushing him. Better he was allowed to gain confidence in what he was doing. While they did not demand their apprentices to be master chefs, cooking was a required skill for a Ranger. At least well enough to feed themselves without having to worry about food poisoning. While he doubted Gilan was that bad, it was obviously one area where he needed more practice. He already had a fair amount of experience in knife fitting, including the two knife defense, having learned it in Battleschool. Though Halt didn't like admitting it, Gilan was probably better at that than he was himself. He was not as good at actually throwing the knives, but was picking it up well enough. Though he had only been apprenticed a little over six months, Halt had had no qualms of taking him with him to deal with a group of Highway men.

The boy had done good, really good, as Halt had told him. The men had refused to surrender, as Halt and Gilan had caught them during a robbery. Knowing they would most likely get hung, the five men had fought viciously, and Halt had been forced to kill one, while Gilan had killed another.

He had been impressed with how well the boy acted, how determined and focused he was. Though two men were killed on the spot, the other three were taken back to Baron Arald to stand trial. The other three had indeed been sentenced to death, and sometimes Halt wondered if that was what had bothered Gilan. Watching someone get hung could be quite difficult and he did not know if the boy had witnessed it before. Well, there wasn't much use wondering about it, until the boy actually told him what the matter was, there was not much Halt could do.

The boy was skilled, reliable and very well trained in his own way, but he was still rather young and it was not so surprising that there should be times he was wrestling with something. Halt only wished he would see sense and spit it out before it affected his training.

TBC

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