Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup Read online

  ‘That’s right! Run away, Will No-Name! You’re a no-name and nobody will want you as an apprentice!’

  In the anteroom outside, Will heard the parting sally and felt blood flush to his cheeks. It was the taunt he hated most, although he had tried never to let Horace know that, sensing that he would provide the bigger boy with a weapon if he did.

  The truth was, nobody knew Will’s second name. Nobody knew who his parents had been. Unlike his yearmates, who had lived in the fief before their parents had died and whose family histories were known, Will had appeared, virtually out of nowhere, as a newborn baby. He had been found, wrapped in a small blanket and placed in a basket, on the steps of the Ward building fifteen years ago. A note had been attached to the blanket, reading simply:

  His mother died in childbirth.

  His father died a hero.

  Please care for him. His name is Will.

  That year, there had been only one other ward. Alyss’s father was a cavalry lieutenant who had died in the battle at Hackham Heath, when Morgarath’s Wargal army had been defeated and driven back to the mountains. Alyss’s mother, devastated by her loss, succumbed to a fever some weeks after giving birth. So there was plenty of room in the Ward for the unknown child, and Baron Arald was, at heart, a kindly man. Even though the circumstances were unusual, he had given permission for Will to be accepted as a ward of Castle Redmont. It seemed logical to assume that, if the note were true, Will’s father had died in the war against Morgarath, and since Baron Arald had taken a leading part in that war, he felt duty bound to honour the unknown father’s sacrifice.

  So Will had become a Redmont ward, raised and educated by the Baron’s generosity. As time passed, the others had gradually joined him and Alyss until there were five in their year group. But while the others had memories of their parents or, in Alyss’s case, people who had known them and who could tell her about them, Will knew nothing of his past.

  That was why he had invented the story that had sustained him throughout his childhood in the Ward. And, as the years passed and he added detail and colour to the story, he eventually came to believe it himself.

  His father, he knew, had died a hero’s death. So it made sense to create a picture of him as a hero – a knight warrior in full armour, fighting against the Wargal hordes, cutting them down left and right until eventually he was overcome by sheer weight of numbers. Will had pictured the tall figure so often in his mind, seeing every detail of his armour and his equipment but never being able to visualise his face.

  As a warrior, his father would expect him to follow in his footsteps. That was why selection for Battleschool was so important to Will. And that was why, the more unlikely it became that he would be selected, the more desperately he clung to the hope that he might.

  He exited from the Ward building into the darkened castle yard. The sun was long down and the torches placed every twenty metres or so on the castle walls shed a flickering, uneven light. He hesitated a moment. He would not return to the Ward and face Horace’s continued taunts. To do so would only lead to another fight between them – a fight Will knew he would probably lose. George would probably try to analyse the situation for him, looking at both sides of the question and thoroughly confusing the issue. Alyss and Jenny might try to comfort him, he knew – Alyss particularly since they had grown up together. But at the moment he didn’t want their sympathy and he couldn’t face Horace’s taunts, so he headed for the one place where he knew he could find solitude.

  The huge fig tree growing close by the castle’s central tower had often afforded him a haven. Heights held no fear for Will and he climbed smoothly into the tree, keeping going long after another might have stopped, until he was in the lighter branches at the very top – branches which swayed and dipped under his weight. In the past, he had often escaped from Horace up here. The bigger boy couldn’t match Will’s speed in the tree and he was unwilling to follow as high as this. Will found a convenient fork and wedged himself in it, his body giving slightly to the movement of the tree as the branches swayed in the evening breeze. Below, the foreshortened figures of the watch made their rounds of the castle yard.

  He heard the door of the Ward building open and, looking down, saw Alyss emerge, looking around the yard for him in vain. The tall girl hesitated a few moments then, seeming to shrug, turned back inside. The elongated rectangle of light that the open door threw across the yard was cut off as she closed the door softly behind her. Strange, he thought, how seldom people tend to look up.

  There was a rustle of soft feathers and a barn owl landed on the next branch, its head swivelling, its huge eyes catching every last ray of the faint light. It studied him without concern, seeming to know it had nothing to fear from him. It was a hunter. A silent flyer. A ruler of the night.

  ‘At least you know who you are,’ he said softly to the bird. It swivelled its head again, then launched itself off into the darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Gradually, as he sat there, the lights in the castle windows went out, one by one. The torches burnt down to smouldering husks and were replaced at midnight by the change of watch. Eventually, there was only one light left burning and that, he knew, was in the Baron’s study, where the Lord of Redmont was still presumably at work, poring over reports and papers. The study was virtually level with Will’s position in the tree and he could see the burly figure of the Baron seated at his desk. Finally Baron Arald rose, stretched and leaned forward to extinguish the lamp as he left the room, heading for his sleeping quarters on the floor above. Now the castle was asleep, except for the guards on the walls, who kept constant watch.

  In less than nine hours, Will realised, he would face the Choosing. Silently, miserably, fearing the worst, he climbed down from the tree and made his way to his bed in the darkened boys’ dormitory in the Ward.

  ‘All right, candidates! This way! And look lively!’.. The speaker, or more correctly the shouter, was Martin, secretary to Baron Arald. As his voice echoed around the anteroom, the five wards rose uncertainly from the long wooden benches where they had been seated. Suddenly nervous now that the day had finally arrived, they began to shuffle forward, each one reluctant to be the first through the great ironbound door that Martin now held open for them.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Martin bellowed impatiently and Alyss finally elected to lead the way, as Will had guessed she would. The others followed the willowy blonde girl.

  Now that someone had decided to lead, the rest of them were content to follow.

  Will looked around curiously as he entered the Baron’s study. He’d never been in this part of the castle before.

  This tower, containing the administrative section, and the Baron’s private apartments, was seldom visited by those of low rank – such as castle wards. The room was huge. The ceiling seemed to tower above him and the walls were constructed of massive stone blocks, fitted together with only the barest lines of mortar between them. On the eastern wall was a huge window space – open to the elements but with massive wooden shutters that could be closed in the event of bad weather. It was the same window he had seen through last night, he realised. Today, sunlight streamed in and fell on the huge oak table that Baron Arald used as a desk.

  ‘Come on now! Stand in line, stand in line!’ Martin seemed to be enjoying his moment of authority. The group shuffled slowly into line and he studied them, his mouth twisted in disapproval.

  ‘In size place! Tallest this end!’ He indicated the end where he wanted the tallest of the five to stand. Gradually, the group rearranged itself. Horace, of course, was the tallest. After him, Alyss took her position. Then George, half a head shorter than she and painfully thin. He stood in his usual stoop-shouldered posture. Will and Jenny hesitated. Jenny smiled at Will and gestured for him to go before her, even though she was possibly an inch taller than he was. That was typical of Jenny. She knew how Will agonised over the fact that he was the smallest of all the castle wards. As Will moved into th
e line, Martin’s voice stopped him.

  ‘Not you! The girl’s next.’

  Jenny shrugged apologetically and moved into the place Martin had indicated. Will took the last place in the line, wishing Martin hadn’t made his lack of height so apparent.

  ‘Come on! Smarten up, smarten up! Let’s see you at attention there,’ Martin continued, then broke off as a deep voice interrupted him.

  ‘I don’t believe that’s totally necessary, Martin.’

  It was Baron Arald, who had entered, unobserved, by way of a smaller door behind his massive desk. Now it was Martin who brought himself to what he considered to be a position of attention, with his skinny elbows held out from his sides, his heels forced together so that his unmistakably bowed legs were widely separated at the knees, and his head thrown back.

  Baron Arald raised his eyes to heaven. Sometimes his secretary’s zeal on these occasions could be a little overwhelming. The Baron was a big man, broad in shoulder and waist and heavily muscled, as was necessary for a knight of the realm. It was well known, however, that Baron Arald was fond of his food and drink, so his considerable bulk was not totally attributable to muscle.

  He had a short, neatly trimmed black beard that, like his hair, was beginning to show the traces of grey that went with his forty-two years. He had a strong jaw, a large nose and dark, piercing eyes under heavy brows. It was a powerful face, but not an unkind one, Will thought. There was a surprising hint of humour in those dark eyes. Will had noted it before, on the occasions when Arald had made his infrequent visits to the wards’ quarters to see how their lessons and personal development were progressing.

  ‘Sir!’ Martin said at top volume, causing the Baron to wince slightly. ‘The candidates are assembled!’

  ‘I can see that,’ Baron Arald replied patiently. ‘Perhaps you might be good enough to ask the Craftmasters to step in as well?’

  ‘Sir!’ Martin responded, making an attempt to click his heels together. As he was wearing shoes of a soft, pliable leather, the attempt was doomed to failure. He marched towards the main door of the study, all elbows and knees. Will was reminded of a rooster. As Martin laid his hand on the door handle, the Baron stopped him once more.

  ‘Martin?’ he said softly. As the secretary turned an inquiring look back at him, he continued in the same quiet tone, ‘Ask them. Don’t bellow at them. Craftmasters don’t like that.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Martin, looking somewhat deflated. He opened the door and, making an obvious effort to speak in a lower tone, said, ‘Craftmasters. The Baron is ready now.’

  The Craftschool heads entered the room in no particular order of precedence. As a group, they admired and respected each other and so rarely stood on strict ceremonial procedure. Sir Rodney, head of the Battleschool, came first. Tall and broad-shouldered like the Baron, he wore the standard battledress of chain mail shirt under a white surcoat emblazoned with his own crest, a scarlet wolfshead. He had earned that crest as a young man, fighting the wolfships of the Skandian sea raiders who constantly harried the Kingdom’s east coast. He wore a sword belt and sword, of course. No knight would be seen in public without one. He was around the Baron’s age, with blue eyes and a face that would have been remarkably handsome if it weren’t for the massively broken nose. He sported an enormous moustache but, unlike the Baron, he had no beard.

  Next came Ulf, the Horsemaster, responsible for the care and training of the castle’s mighty battlehorses. He had keen brown eyes, strong, muscular forearms and heavy wrists. He wore a simple leather vest over his woollen shirt and leggings. Tall riding boots of soft leather reached up past his knees.

  Lady Pauline followed Ulf. Slim, grey-haired and elegant, she had been a considerable beauty in her youth and still had the grace and style to turn men’s heads. Lady Pauline, who had been awarded the title in her own right for her work in foreign policy for the Kingdom, was head of the Diplomatic Service in Redmont. Baron Arald regarded her abilities highly and she was one of his close confidants and advisers. Arald often said that girls made the best recruits to the Diplomatic Service. They tended to be more subtle than boys, who gravitated naturally to Battleschool. And while boys constantly looked to physical means as the way of solving problems, girls could be depended on to use their wits.

  It was perhaps only natural that Nigel, the Scribemaster, followed close behind Lady Pauline. They had been discussing matters of mutual interest while they waited for Martin to summon them. Nigel and Lady Pauline were close friends as well as professional colleagues. It was Nigel’s trained scribes who prepared the official documents and communiqués that were so often delivered by Lady Pauline’s diplomats. He also advised on the exact wording of such documents, having an extensive background in legal matters. Nigel was a small, wiry man with a quick, inquisitive face that reminded Will of a ferret. His hair was glossy black, his features were thin and his dark eyes never ceased roaming the room.

  Master Chubb, the Head Chef, came in last of all. Inevitably, he was a fat, round-bellied man, wearing a cook’s white jacket and tall hat. He was known to have a terrible temper that could flare as quickly as oil spilt on a fire, and most of the wards treated him with considerable caution. Florid-faced and with red, rapidly receding hair, Master Chubb carried a wooden ladle with him wherever he went. It was an unofficial staff of office. It was also used quite often as an offensive weapon, landing with a resounding crack on the heads of careless, forgetful or slow-moving kitchen apprentices. Alone among the wards, Jennifer saw Chubb as something of a hero. It was her avowed intention to work for him and learn his skills, wooden ladle or no wooden ladle.

  There were other Craftmasters, of course. The Armourer and the Blacksmith were two. But only those Craftmasters who currently had vacancies for new apprentices would be represented today.

  ‘The Craftmasters are assembled, sir!’ Martin said, his voice rising in volume. Martin seemed to equate volume and the importance of the occasion in direct proportion. Once again, the Baron raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘So I see,’ he said quietly, then added, in a more formal tone, ‘Good morning, Lady Pauline. Good morning, gentlemen.’

  They replied and the Baron turned to Martin once more. ‘Perhaps we might proceed?’

  Martin nodded several times, consulted a sheaf of notes he held in one hand and marched to confront the line of candidates.

  ‘Right, the Baron’s waiting! The Baron’s waiting! Who’s first?’

  Will, eyes down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, suddenly had the strange sensation that someone was watching him. He looked up and actually started with surprise as he met the dark, unfathomable gaze of Halt, the Ranger.

  Will hadn’t seen him come into the room. He realised that the mysterious figure must have slipped in through a side door while everyone’s attention was on the Craftmasters as they made their entrance. Now he stood, behind the Baron’s chair and slightly to one side, dressed in his usual brown and grey clothes and wrapped in his long, mottled grey and green Ranger’s cloak. Halt was an unnerving person. He had a habit of coming up on you when you least expected it – and you never heard his approach. The superstitious villagers believed that Rangers practised a form of magic that made them invisible to ordinary people. Will wasn’t sure if he believed that – but he wasn’t sure he disbelieved it either. He wondered why Halt was here today. He wasn’t recognised as one of the Craftmasters and, as far as Will knew, he hadn’t attended a Choosing session prior to this one.

  Abruptly, Halt’s gaze cut away from him and it was as if a light had been turned off. Will realised that Martin was talking once more. He noticed that the secretary had a habit of repeating statements, as if he were followed by his own personal echo.

  ‘Now then, who’s first? Who’s first?’

  The Baron sighed audibly. ‘Why don’t we take the first in line?’ he suggested in a reasonable tone, and Martin nodded several times.

  ‘Of course, my lord. Of course. First in line,
step forward and face the Baron.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Horace stepped forward out of the line and stood at attention. The Baron studied him for a few seconds.

  ‘Name?’ he said, and Horace answered, stumbling slightly over the correct method of address for the Baron.

  ‘Horace Altman, sir … my lord.’

  ‘And do you have a preference, Horace?’ the Baron asked, with the air of one who knows what the answer is going to be before hearing it.

  ‘Battleschool, sir!’ Horace said firmly. The Baron nodded. He’d expected as much. He glanced at Rodney, who was studying the boy thoughtfully, assessing his suitability.

  ‘Battlemaster?’ the Baron said. Normally he would address Rodney by his first name, not his title. But this was a formal occasion. By the same token, Rodney would usually address the Baron as ‘sir’. But on a day like today, ‘my lord’ was the proper form.

  The big knight stepped forward, his chain mail and spurs chinking slightly as he moved closer to Horace. He eyed the boy up and down, then moved behind him. Horace’s head started to turn with him.

  ‘Still,’ Sir Rodney said, and the boy ceased his movement, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Looks strong enough, my lord, and I can always use new trainees.’ He rubbed one hand over his chin. ‘You ride, Horace Altman?’

  A look of uncertainty crossed Horace’s face as he realised this might be a hurdle to his selection. ‘No, sir. I …’

  He was about to add that castle wards had little chance to learn to ride but Sir Rodney interrupted him.

  ‘No matter. That can be taught.’ The big knight looked at the Baron and nodded. ‘Very well, my lord. I’ll take him for Battleschool, subject to the usual three-month probationary period.’

  The Baron made a note on a sheet of paper before him and smiled briefly at the delighted, and very relieved, youth before him.