The Burning Bridge Page 4

  “How did your father take it when you told him?” Will asked. “Surely he wanted you to be a knight like him. I guess he was disappointed.”

  “Not at all,” said Gilan. “The strange thing was, Halt had told him that I’d probably be following him into the forest. My father had already agreed that I could serve as Halt’s apprentice, before I even knew I wanted to.”

  Horace frowned. “How could Halt have known that?”

  Gilan shrugged and looked at Will meaningfully. “Halt has a way of knowing things, doesn’t he, Will?” he asked, grinning. Will remembered that dark night in the Baron’s office, and the hand that had shot out of the darkness to seize his wrist. Halt had been waiting for him that night. Just as he’d obviously waited for Gilan to follow him.

  He looked deep into the low embers of the fire before he answered. “Maybe, in his own way, he is a kind of a sorcerer,” he said.

  The three companions sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, thinking about what had been discussed. Then Gilan stretched and yawned.

  “Well, I’m for sleep,” he said. “We’re on a war footing these days, so we’ll set watches. Will, you’re first, then Horace, then me. ’Night, you two.”

  And so saying, he rolled himself into his gray-green cloak and was soon breathing deeply and evenly.

  5

  THEY WERE ON THE ROAD AGAIN BEFORE THE SUN WAS barely clear of the horizon. The clouds had cleared now, blown away by a fresh southerly wind, and the air was crisp and cold as their trail started to wind higher into the rocky foothills leading to the border with Celtica.

  The trees grew more stunted and gnarled. The grass was coarse and the thick forest was replaced by short, windblown scrub.

  This was a part of the land where the winds blew constantly, and the land itself reflected its constant scouring action. The few houses they saw in the distance were huddled into the side of hills, built of stone walls and rough thatch roofs. It was a cold, hard part of the kingdom and, as Gilan told them, it would become harder as they entered Celtica itself.

  That evening, as they relaxed around the campfire, Gilan continued with Horace’s instruction in swordsmanship.

  “Timing is the essence of the whole thing,” he said to the sweating apprentice. “See how you’re parrying with your arm locked and rigid?”

  Horace looked at his right arm. Sure enough, it was locked, stiff as a board. He looked pained.

  “But I have to be ready to stop your stroke,” he explained.

  Gilan nodded patiently, then demonstrated with his own sword. “Take a swing at me.” As Horace did so, Gilan said, “Look…see how I’m doing it? As your stroke is coming, my hand and arm are relaxed. Then, just before your sword reaches the spot where I want to stop it, I make a small counterswing, see?”

  He did so, using his hand and wrist to swing the blade of his sword in a small arc. “My grip tightens at the last moment, and the greater part of the energy of your swing is absorbed by the movement of my own blade.”

  Horace nodded doubtfully. It seemed so easy for Gilan.

  “But…what if I mistime it?”

  Gilan smiled widely. “Well, in that case, I’ll probably just lop your head off your shoulders.” He paused. Horace obviously wasn’t too pleased with that answer. “The idea is not to mistime it,” Gilan added gently.

  “But…” the boy began.

  “And the way to develop your timing is?” Gilan interrupted. Horace nodded wearily.

  “I know. I know. Practice.”

  Gilan beamed at him again. “That’s right. So, ready? One and two and three and four, that’s better, and three and four…No! No! Just a small movement of the wrist…and one and two…”

  The ring of their blades echoed through the campsite.

  Will watched with some interest, heightened by the fact that he wasn’t the one who was working up a sweat.

  After a few days of this, Gilan noticed that Will seemed a little too relaxed. He was sitting, running a stone down the edge of his sword after a practice session with Horace, when he glanced quizzically at the apprentice Ranger.

  “Has Halt shown you the double knife sword defense yet?” he asked suddenly. Will looked up in surprise.

  “The double knife…what?” he asked uncertainly. Gilan sighed deeply.

  “Sword defense. Damn! I should have realized that there’d be more for me to do. Serves me right for taking two apprentices along with me.” He stood up with an exaggerated sigh, and motioned for Will to follow him. Puzzled, the boy did.

  Gilan led the way to the clear ground where he and Horace had been practicing their swordsmanship. Horace was still there, making shadow lunges and cuts at an imaginary foe as he counted time to himself under his breath. Sweat ran freely down his face and his shirt was dark with it.

  “Right, Horace,” called Gilan. “Take a break for a few minutes.”

  Gratefully, Horace complied. He lowered the sword and sank onto the trunk of a fallen tree.

  “I think I’m getting the feel of it,” he said. Gilan nodded approvingly.

  “Good for you. Another three or four years and you might just have it mastered.” He spoke cheerfully, but Horace’s face dropped as the prospect of long years of weary practice stretched out in front of him.

  “Look on the bright side, Horace,” Gilan said. “By that time, there’d be less than a handful of swordsmen in the kingdom who could best you in a duel.”

  Horace’s face brightened somewhat, then sagged again as Gilan added: “The only trick is knowing who those handful are. Be most uncomfortable if you accidentally challenged one of them and then found out, wouldn’t it?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to the smaller boy.

  “Now, Will,” he said. “Let’s see those knives of yours.”

  “Both of them?” Will hesitated and Gilan rolled his eyes to heaven. The expression was remarkably like the one that Halt used when Will asked one question too many.

  “Sorry,” Will mumbled, unsheathing his two knives and holding them out to Gilan. The older Ranger didn’t take them. He quickly inspected their edges and checked to see that the fine layer of rust-proofing oil was on them. He nodded, satisfied, when he saw everything was as it should be.

  “Right,” he said. “Saxe knife goes in your right hand, because that’s the one you use to block a sword cut—”

  Will frowned. “Why would I need to block a sword cut?”

  Gilan leaned forward and rapped him none too gently on the top of his head with his knuckles.

  “Well, perhaps to stop it from splitting your skull might be a good reason,” he suggested.

  “But Halt says Rangers don’t fight at close quarters,” Will protested. Gilan nodded agreement.

  “It’s certainly not our role. But, if the occasion arises when we have to, it’s a good idea to know how to go about it.”

  As they’d been talking, Horace had risen from his spot on the log and moved closer to watch them. He interrupted, a trifle scornfully.

  “You don’t think a little knife like that is going to stop a proper sword, do you?” he asked. Gilan raised one eyebrow at him.

  “Take a closer look at that ‘little knife’ before you sound so certain,” he invited. Horace held out his hand for the knife. Will quickly reversed it and placed its hilt into Horace’s hand.

  Will had to agree with Horace. The saxe knife was a large knife. Almost a short sword, in fact. But compared to a real sword, like Horace’s or Gilan’s, it seemed woefully inadequate.

  Horace swung the knife experimentally, testing its balance.

  “It’s heavy,” he said finally.

  “And hard. Very, very hard,” Gilan told him. “Ranger knives are made by craftsmen who’ve perfected the art of hardening steel to an amazing degree. You’d blunt your sword edge against that, and barely leave a nick on it.”

  Horace pursed his lips. “Even so, you’ve been teaching me the idea of movement and leverage all week. Th
ere’s a lot less leverage in a short blade like this.”

  “That’s true,” Gilan agreed. “So we have to find another source of leverage, don’t we? And that’s the shorter knife. The throwing knife.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Horace, the frown deepening between his eyebrows. Will didn’t either, but he was glad the other boy had admitted his ignorance first. He adopted a knowing look as he waited for Gilan to explain. He should have known better. The Ranger’s sharp eyes missed very little.

  “Well, perhaps Will could explain it for you?” Gilan said pleasantly.

  He cocked his head at Will expectantly. Will hesitated.

  “Well…it’s the…ah…um…the two knife defense,” he stammered. There was a long pause as Gilan said nothing, so Will added, just a little doubtfully: “Isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is!” Gilan replied. “Now would you care to demonstrate?” He didn’t even wait for Will’s reply, but went on with barely a pause, “I thought not. So, please, allow me.”

  He took Will’s saxe knife and withdrew his own throwing knife from its sheath. Then he gestured to Horace’s sword with the smaller knife.

  “Right, then,” he said, all business. “Pick up your sticker.”

  Horace did so, doubtfully. Gilan gestured him out to the center of the practice area, then took a ready stance. Horace did the same, sword point up.

  “Now,” said Gilan, “try an overhand cut at me.”

  “But…” Horace gestured unhappily to the two smaller weapons in Gilan’s grasp. Gilan rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  “When will you two learn?” he asked. “I do know what I’m doing. Now get on with it!”

  He actually shouted the last words at Horace. The big apprentice, galvanized into action, and conditioned to instant obedience to shouted commands by his months spent on the drill field, swung his sword in a murderous overhand cut at Gilan’s head.

  There was a ringing clash of steel and the blade stopped dead in the air. Gilan had crossed the two Ranger knives in front of it, the throwing knife supporting the saxe knife blade, and blocked the cut easily. Horace stepped back, a little surprised.

  “See?” said Gilan. “The smaller knife provides the support, or the extra leverage, for the bigger weapon.” He addressed these remarks mainly to Will, who looked on with great interest. Then he spoke to Horace again. “Right. Underhand cut, please.”

  Horace swung underhand. Again, Gilan locked the two blades and blocked the stroke. He glanced at Will, who nodded his understanding.

  “Now, side cut,” Gilan ordered. Again, Horace swung. Again, the sword was stopped cold.

  “Getting the idea?” Gilan asked Will.

  “Yes. What about a straight thrust?” he asked. Gilan nodded approvingly.

  “Good question. That’s a little different.” He turned back to Horace. “Incidentally, if you’re ever facing a man using two knives, thrusting is your safest and most effective form of attack. Now, thrust, please.”

  Horace lunged with the point of his sword, his right foot leading the way in a high-stepping stamp to deliver extra momentum to the stroke. This time, Gilan used only the saxe knife to deflect the blade, sending it gliding past his body with a slither of steel.

  “We can’t stop this one,” he instructed Will. “So we simply deflect it. On the positive side, there’s less force behind a thrust, so we can use just the saxe knife.”

  Horace, meeting no real resistance to the thrust, had stumbled forward as the blade was deflected. Instantly, Gilan’s left hand was gripping a handful of his shirt and had pulled him closer, until their shoulders were almost touching. It happened so quickly and casually that Horace’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “And this is where a short blade comes in very handy indeed,” Gilan pointed out. He mimed an underarm thrust with the saxe knife into Horace’s exposed side. The boy’s eyes widened even further as he realized the full implications of what he had just been shown. His discomfort increased as Gilan continued his demonstration.

  “And of course, if you don’t want to kill him, or if he’s wearing a mail shirt, you can always use the saxe blade to cripple him.”

  He mimed a short swing to the back of Horace’s knee, bringing the heavy, razor-sharp blade to a halt a few inches from his leg.

  Horace gulped. But the lesson still wasn’t over.

  “Or remember,” Gilan added cheerfully, “this left hand, holding his collar, also has a rather nasty, rather sharp stabbing blade attached to it.” He waggled the short, broad-bladed throwing knife to bring their attention to it.

  “A quick thrust up under the jaw and it’s good night swordsman, isn’t it?”

  Will shook his head in admiration. “That’s amazing, Gilan!” he breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gilan released his grip on Horace’s shirt and the boy stepped back quickly, before any more demonstrations of his vulnerability might be made.

  “We don’t make a lot of noise about it,” the Ranger admitted. “It’s preferable to run into a swordsman who doesn’t know the dangers involved in the double knife defense.” He glanced apologetically at Horace. “Naturally, it’s taught in the kingdom’s Battleschools,” he added. “But it’s a second-year subject. Sir Rodney would have shown you next year.”

  Will stepped forward into the practice ground. “Can I try it?” he asked eagerly, unsheathing his throwing knife.

  “Of course,” said Gilan. “You two may as well practice together in the evenings from now on. But not with real weapons. Cut some practice sticks to use.”

  Horace nodded at the wisdom of this. “That’s right, Will,” he said. “After all, you’re just starting to learn this and I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” He thought about it, then added with a grin, “Well, not too badly, anyway.”

  The grin faded as Gilan corrected him. “That’s one reason, of course,” said the Ranger. “But we also don’t have the time for you to be resharpening your sword every night.”

  He glanced meaningfully down at Horace’s blade. The apprentice followed his gaze and let out a low moan. There were two deep nicks in the edge of his blade, obviously from the overhand and underhand cuts that Gilan had blocked. One glance told Horace that he’d spend at least an hour honing and sharpening to get rid of them. He looked questioningly at the saxe knife, hoping to see the same result there. Gilan shook his head cheerfully and brought the heavy blade up for inspection.

  “Not a mark,” he said, grinning. “Remember, I told you that Ranger knives are specially made.”

  Ruefully, Horace rummaged in his pack for his sharpening steel and, sitting down on the hard-packed sand, began to draw it along the edge of his sword.

  “Gilan,” Will said. “I’ve been thinking…”

  Gilan raised his eyebrows to heaven in mock despair. Again, the expression reminded Will forcefully of Halt. “Always a problem,” said the Ranger. “And what, pray tell, have you been thinking?”

  “Well,” began Will slowly, “this double knife business is all well and good. But wouldn’t it be better just to shoot the swordsman before he got to close quarters?”

  “Yes, Will. It certainly would,” Gilan agreed patiently. “But what if you were about to do that and your bowstring broke?”

  “I could run and hide,” he suggested, but Gilan pressed him.

  “What if there were nowhere to run? You’re trapped against a sheer cliff. Nowhere to go. Your bowstring just broke and an angry swordsman is coming at you. What then?”

  Will shook his head. “I suppose then I’d have to fight,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Exactly,” Gilan agreed. “We avoid close combat wherever possible. But if the time comes when there’s no other choice, it’s a good idea to be prepared, isn’t it?”

  “I guess,” Will said. Then Horace chimed in with a question.

  “What about an axman?” he said. Gilan looked at him, nonplussed for a moment.

  “An axman?” he asked.
>
  “Yes,” said Horace, warming to his theme. “What about if you’re facing an enemy with a battleax? Do your knives work then?”

  Gilan hesitated. “I wouldn’t advise anyone to face a battleax with just two knives,” he said carefully.

  “So what should I do?” Will joined in. Gilan glared from one boy to the other. He had the feeling he was being set up.

  “Shoot him,” he said shortly. Will shook his head, grinning.

  “Can’t,” he said. “My bowstring’s broken.”

  “Then run and hide,” said Gilan, between gritted teeth.

  “But there’s a cliff,” Horace pointed out. “A sheer drop behind him and an angry axman coming at him.”

  “What do I do?” prompted Will.

  Gilan took a deep breath and looked them both in the eye, one after the other.

  “Jump off the cliff. It’ll be less messy that way.”

  6

  BARON ARALD SHOVED THE HEAVY PARCHMENT SCROLL TO one side and looked up at Lady Pauline in exasperation.

  “Pauline, do you understand what this idiot is getting at?” he asked. The head of Castle Redmont’s Diplomatic Corps nodded.

  “In principle, I do, my lord,” she said. Arald made a frustrated gesture.

  “Then in principle, please explain it to me,” he said, adding in an undertone, “as if I don’t have enough on my plate planning for war without this sort of nonsense.”

  Lady Pauline suppressed a smile. Arald had a well-known dislike of legal documents with their whereifs, wheretofores and notwithstandings.

  “Sir Montague of Cobram Keep is obliged to supply a draft of four knights and thirty men-at-arms when called upon,” she began.

  “And I take it he is refusing to do so?” said the Baron wearily.

  “Not exactly, sir,” she replied. “He is willing to supply the men. He is unwilling to place them, or himself, under your command.”

  Arald frowned. There was no trace of his customary good humor evident at that statement.