The Ruins of Gorlan ra-1 Read online

  "Now try it again," said Halt.

  Will chose another arrow and placed it on the string. As he went to draw it back again, Halt stopped him.

  "Not with the thumb and finger," he said. "Let the arrow rest between the first and second fingers on the string… like this." He showed Will how the nock – the notch at the butt end of the arrow – actually clipped to the string and held the arrow in place. Then he demonstrated how to let the string rest on the first joint of the first, second and third fingers, with the first finger above the nock point and the others below it. Finally, he showed him how to allow the string to slip loose so that the arrow was released.

  "That's better," he said and, as Will brought the arrow back, continued, "Try to use your back muscles, not just your arms. Feel as if you're pushing your shoulder blades together…" Will tried it and the bow seemed to draw a little easier. He found he could hold it steadier than before.

  He fired again. This time, he just missed the tree trunk he'd been aiming for.

  "You need to practice," said Halt. "Put it down for now" Carefully, Will laid the bow down on the ground. He was eager now to see what Halt would produce next from the bundle.

  "These are a Ranger's knives," said Halt. He handed Will a double scabbard, like the one he wore on the left-hand side of his own belt.

  Will took the double scabbard and examined it. The knives were set one above the other. The top knife was the shorter of the two. It had a thick, heavy grip made of a series of leather discs set one above the other. There was a brass crosspiece between the hilt and the blade and it had a matching brass pommel.

  "Take it out," said Halt. "Do it carefully." Will slid the short knife from the scabbard. It was an unusual shape. Narrow at the hilt, it tapered out sharply, becoming thicker and wider for three quarters of its length to form a broad blade with the weight concentrated toward the tip, then a steep reverse taper created a razor-sharp point. He looked curiously at Halt.

  "It's for throwing," said the Ranger. "The extra width at the tip balances the weight of the hilt. And the combined weight of the two helps drive the knife home when you throw it. Watch." His hand moved smoothly and swiftly to the broad-bladed knife at his own waist. He flicked it free from the scabbard and, in one smooth action, sent it spinning toward a nearby tree.

  The knife thudded home into the wood with a satisfying thock!

  Will looked at Halt, impressed with the Ranger's skill and speed. "How do you learn to do that?" he asked.

  Halt looked at him. "Practice." He gestured for Will to inspect the second knife.

  This one was longer. The handle was the same leather disc construction, and there was a short, sturdy crosspiece. The blade was heavy and straight, razor-sharp on one side, thick and heavy on the other.

  "This is in case your enemy gets to close quarters," said Halt. "Although if you're any sort of an archer, he never will. It's balanced for throwing, but you can also block a sword stroke with that blade. It's made by the finest steelsmiths in the kingdom. Look after it and keep it sharp."

  "I will," the apprentice said softly, admiring the knife in his hands. "It's similar to what the Skandians call a saxe knife," Halt told him. Will frowned at the unfamiliar name and Halt went on to explain further.

  "It's both weapon and tool – a sea ax, originally. But over the years the words sort of slid together to become saxe. Mind you," he added, "the quality of the steel in ours is a long way superior to the Skandian ones." Will studied the knife more closely, seeing the faint blue tint in the blade, feeling the perfect balance. With its leather and brass hilt, the knife might be plain and functional in appearance. But it was a fine weapon and, Will realized, far superior to the comparatively clumsy swords worn by castle Redmont's warriors.

  Halt showed him how to strap the double scabbard to his belt so that his hand fell naturally to the knife hilts. "Now," he said, "all you have to do is learn to use them. And you know what that means, don't you?" Will nodded his head, grinning. "A lot of practice," he said.

  Chapter 11

  Sir Rodney leaned on the timber fence surrounding the practice area as he watched the new Battleschool cadets going through their weapons drill. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the twenty new recruits, but always returning to one in particular – the broad-shouldered, tall boy from the Ward, whom Rodney had selected at the Choosing. He thought for a moment, searching for the boy's name.

  Horace. That was it.

  The drill was a standard format. Each boy, wearing a chain mail shirt and helmet and carrying a shield, stood before a padded hardwood post the height of a man. There was no point practicing sword work unless you were burdened with shield, helmet and armor, as would be the case in a battle, Rodney believed. He thought it was best that the boys became used to the restrictions of the armor and weight of the equipment right from the start.

  In addition to shield, helmet and mail, each boy also held a drill sword issued by the armorer. The drill swords were made of wood and bore little resemblance to a real sword, aside from the leatherbound hilt and crosspiece on each. In fact, they were long batons, made of seasoned, hardened hickory. But they weighed much the same as a slender steel blade, and the hilts were weighted to approximate the heft and balance of a real sword.

  Eventually, the recruits would progress to drilling with actual swords – albeit with blunted edges and points. But that was still some months away, by which time the less suitable recruits would have been weeded out. It was quite normal for at least a third of the Battleschool applicants to drop out of the harsh training in the first three months. Sometimes it was the boy's choice. For others, it was at the discretion of his instructors or, in extreme cases, Sir Rodney himself. Battleschool was harsh and standards were strict.

  The practice yard rang with the thudding of wood against the thick, sun-hardened leather padding on the practice posts. At the head of the yard, drillmaster Sir Karel called the standard strokes that were being practiced.

  Five third-year cadets, under the direction of Sir Morton, an assistant drill instructor, moved among the boys, attending to the detail of the basic sword strokes: correcting a wrong movement here, changing the angle of a stroke there, making sure another boy's shield wasn't dropping too far as he struck.

  It was boring, repetitive work under the hot afternoon sun. But it was necessary. These were the basic moves by which these boys might well live or die at some later date and it was vital that they should be so totally ingrained as to be instinctive.

  It was that thought that had Rodney watching Horace now. As Karel called the basic cadence, Rodney had noticed that Horace was adding an occasional stroke to the sequence, and yet managing to do so without falling behind in his timing.

  Karel had just begun another sequence and Sir Rodney leaned forward attentively, his eyes fixed on Horace.

  "Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand!" called the drillmaster. "Overhead backhand!"

  And there it was again! As Karel called for the overhead backhand cut, Horace delivered it, but then almost instantly switched to a backhanded side cut as well, allowing the first cut to bounce off the post to prepare him instantly for the second. The stroke was delivered with such stunning speed and force that, in real combat, the result would have been devastating. His opponent's shield, raised to block the overhead cut, could never have responded quickly enough to protect uncovered ribs from the rapid side cut that followed. Rodney had become aware over the past few minutes that the trainee was adding these extra strokes to the routine. He had seen it first from the corner of his eye, noticing a slight variation in the strict pattern of the drill, a quick flicker of extra movement that was there and gone almost too quickly to be noticed.

  "Rest!" called Karel now, and Rodney noted that, while most of the others let their weapons drop and stood flatfooted, Horace maintained his ready position, the sword tip slightly above waist height, moving on his toes in the break so as not to lose his own natural rhythm.


  Apparently, someone else had noticed Horace's extra stroke as well. Sir Morton beckoned over one of the senior cadets and spoke to him, gesturing quickly toward Horace. The first-year trainee, his attention still focused on the training post that was his enemy, didn't see the exchange. He looked up, startled, as the senior cadet approached and called to him.

  "You there! At post fourteen. What d'you think you're doing?" The look on Horace's face was one of bewilderment – and worry. No first-year recruit enjoyed gaining the attention of any of the drillmasters or their assistants. They were all too conscious of that thirty percent attrition rate.

  "Sir?" he said anxiously, not understanding the question. The senior cadet continued.

  "You're not following the pattern. Follow Sir Karel's call, understand?" Rodney, watching carefully, was convinced that Horace's bewilderment was genuine. The tall boy made a small movement of the shoulders, almost a shrug but not quite. He was at attention now, the sword resting over his right shoulder and the shield up in the parade position.

  "Sir?" he said again, uncertainly. The senior cadet was getting angry now. He hadn't noticed Horace's extra moves himself and obviously assumed the younger boy was simply following a random sequence of his own devising. He leaned forward, his face only a few centimeters away from Horace's, and said, in a voice far too loud for that small amount of separation: "Sir Karel calls the sequence he wants performed! You perform it! Understand?"

  "Sir, I… did," Horace replied, very red in the face now. He knew it was a mistake to argue with an instructor, but he also knew that he had performed every one of the strokes Karel had called.

  The senior cadet, Rodney saw, was now at a disadvantage. He hadn't actually seen what Horace had done. He covered his uncertainty with bluster. "Oh, you did, did you? Well, perhaps you might just repeat the last sequence for me. What sequence did Sir Karel call?"

  Without hesitation, Horace replied. "Sequence five, sir: Thrust. Side cut. Backhand side. Overhand. Overhead backhand." The senior cadet hesitated. He'd assumed that Horace had simply been in a dream, hacking away at the post any way he chose. But, as far as he could remember, Horace had just repeated the previous sequence perfectly. At least, he thought he had. The senior cadet wasn't altogether sure of the sequence himself by now, but the trainee had replied with no hesitation at all. He was conscious that all the other trainees were watching with considerable interest. It was a natural reaction. Trainees always enjoyed seeing somebody else being berated for a mistake. It tended to draw attention away from their own deficiencies.

  "What's going on here, Paul?" Sir Morton, the assistant drillmaster, sounded none too pleased with all this discussion. He'd originally ordered the senior cadet to reprimand the trainee for lack of attention. That reprimand should have been delivered by now and the matter ended. Instead, the class was being disrupted. Senior Cadet Paul came to attention.

  "Sir, the trainee says he performed the sequence," he replied. Horace was about to reply to the implication obvious in the emphasis the senior cadet placed on the word says.

  Then he thought better of it and shut his mouth firmly.

  "Just a moment." Paul and Sir Morton looked around, a little surprised. They hadn't seen Sir Rodney approaching. Around them, the other trainees also came to stiff attention. Sir Rodney was held in awe by all members of Battleschool, particularly the newer ones. Morton didn't quite come to attention but he straightened a little, squaring his shoulders.

  Horace bit his lip in an agony of concern. He could see the prospect of dismissal from Battleschool looming before him. First, he seemed to have alienated the three second-year cadets who were making his life a misery. Then he had drawn the unwelcome attention of Senior Cadet Paul and Sir Morton. Now this-the Battlemaster himself. And to make matters worse, he had no idea what he had done wrong. He searched his memory and he could distinctly remember performing the sequence as it had been called.

  "Do you remember the sequence, Cadet Horace?" said the Battlemaster.

  The cadet nodded emphatically, then, realizing that this wasn't regarded as an acceptable response to a question from a senior officer, he said: "Yes, sir. Sequence five, sir." That was the second time he had identified the sequence, Rodney noted. He would have been willing to bet that not one of the other cadets could have said which sequence from the drill manual they had just completed. He doubted that the senior cadets would have been any better informed. Sir Morton went to say something, but Rodney held up a hand to stop him.

  "Perhaps you could repeat it for us now," he said, his stern voice giving no hint of the growing interest he was feeling in this recruit. He gestured to the practice post.

  "Take your position. Calling the cadence… begin!"

  Horace performed the sequence flawlessly, calling the strokes as he went.

  "Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand! Overhead backhand!" The drill sword thudded into the leather padding in strict timing. The rhythm was perfect. The execution of the strokes was faultless. But this time, Rodney noticed, there was no additional stroke. The lightning-fast reverse side cut didn't appear. He thought he knew why. Horace was concentrating on getting the sequence correct this time. Previously, he had been acting instinctively.

  Sir Karel, attracted by Sir Rodney's intervention into a standard drill session, strolled through the ranks of trainees standing by their practice posts. His eyebrows arched a question at Sir Rodney. As a senior knight, he was entitled to such informality. The Battlemaster held up his hand again. He didn't want anything to break Horace's attention right now. But he was glad Karel was here to witness what he was sure was about to happen.

  "Again," he said, in the same stern voice and, once again, Horace went through the sequence. As he finished, Rodney's voice cracked like a whip:

  "Again!" And again Horace performed the fifth sequence. This time, as he finished, Rodney snapped: "Sequence three!"

  "Thrust! Thrust! Backstep! Cross parry! Shield block! Side cut!" Horace called as he performed the moves.

  Now Rodney could see that the boy was moving lightly on his toes, the sword a flickering tongue that danced out and in and across. And without realizing it, Horace was calling the cadence for the moves nearly half as quickly again as the drillmaster had been, Karel caught Rodney's eye. He nodded appreciatively. But Rodney wasn't finished yet. Before Horace had time to think, he called the fifth sequence again and the boy responded." Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand! Overhead backhand!"

  "Backhand side!" snapped Sir Rodney instantly and, in response, almost of its own will, Horace's sword flickered in that extra, deadly move. Sir Rodney heard the small sounds of surprise from Morton and Karel. They realized the significance of what they had seen. Senior Cadet Paul, perhaps understandably, wasn't quite so fast to grasp it. As far as he was concerned, the trainee had responded to an extra order from the Battlemaster. He'd done it well, admittedly, and he certainly seemed to know which end of a sword was which. But that was all the cadet had seen.

  "Rest!" Sir Rodney ordered, and Horace allowed the sword point to drop to the dust, hand on the pommel, standing feet apart with the sword hilt centered against his belt buckle, in the parade rest position.

  "Now, Horace," said the Battlemaster quietly, "do you remember adding that backhand side cut to the sequence the first time?"

  Horace frowned, then understanding dawned in his eyes. He wasn't sure, but now that the Battlemaster had prompted his memory, he thought that maybe he had.

  "Uh… yes, sir. I think so. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to. It just sort of… happened."

  Rodney glanced quickly at his drillmasters. He could see they understood the significance of what had happened here. He nodded at them, passing a silent message that he wanted nothing made of this – yet.

  "Well, no harm done. But pay attention for the rest of the period and just perform the strokes Sir Karel calls for, all right?" Horace came to attention. "Yes, sir." He snapped his eyes toward the drillmaster. "Sorry, sir!" he ad
ded, and Karel dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

  "Pay closer attention in future." Karel nodded to Sir Rodney, sensing that the Battlemaster wanted to be on his way. "Thank you, sir. Permission to continue?"

  Sir Rodney nodded assent. "Carry on, drillmaster." He began to turn away, then, as if he'd remembered something else, he turned back, and added casually, "Oh, by the way, could I see you in my quarters after classes are dismissed this evening?"

  "Of course, sir," said Karel, equally casually, knowing that Sir Rodney wanted to discuss this phenomenon, but didn't want Horace to be aware of his interest.

  Sir Rodney strolled slowly back to the Battleschool headquarters. Behind him, he heard Karel's preparatory orders, then the repetitive thud, thud, thud-thud-thud of wood on leather padding began once more.

  Chapter 12

  Halt examined the target Will had been shooting at, and nodded.

  "Not bad at all," he said. "Your shooting is definitely improving." Will couldn't help grinning. That was high praise indeed from Halt. Halt saw the expression and immediately added, "With more practice – a lot more practice – you might even achieve mediocrity."

  Will wasn't absolutely sure what mediocrity was, but he sensed it wasn't good. The grin faded and Halt dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand.

  "That's enough shooting for now. Let's go," he said and set off, striding down a narrow path through the forest.

  "Where are we going?" Will asked, half running to keep up with the Ranger's longer strides.

  Halt looked up at the trees above him.

  "Why does this boy ask so many questions?" he asked the trees. Naturally, they didn't answer.