The Ruins of Gorlan ra-1 Page 8

  They walked for an hour before they came to a small collection of buildings buried deep in the forest.

  Will was aching to ask more questions. But he'd learned by now that Halt wasn't going to answer them, so he held his tongue and bided his time. Sooner or later, he knew, he'd learn why they'd come here. Halt led the way up to the largest of the ramshackle huts, then stopped, signaling for Will to do likewise.

  "Hullo, Old Bob!" he called.

  Will heard someone moving inside the hut, then a wrinkled, bent figure appeared in the doorway. His beard was long and matted and a dirty white color. He was almost completely bald. As he moved toward them, grinning and nodding a greeting to Halt, Will caught his breath. Old Bob smelled like a stable. And a none too clean one at that.

  "Morning to you, Ranger!" said Old Bob. "Who's this you've brung to see me?" He looked keenly at Will. The eyes were bright and very alert, despite his dirty, unkempt appearance.

  "This is Will, my new apprentice," said Halt. "Will, this is Old Bob"

  "Good morning, sir," said Will politely. The old man cackled. "Calls me sir! Hear that, Ranger, calls me sir! Make a fine Ranger, this one will!" Will smiled at him. Dirty as he might be, there was something likable about Old Bob – perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to be in no way overawed by Halt. Will couldn't remember seeing anyone speaking to the grim-faced Ranger in quite this familiar tone before. Halt grunted impatiently.

  "Are they ready?" he asked. The old man cackled again and nodded several times.

  "Ready they are indeed!" he said. "Step this way and see them." He led them to the back of the hut, where a small paddock was fenced off. At the far side, there was a lean-to shed. Just a roof and supporting posts. No walls. Old Bob let out a piercing whistle that made Will jump.

  "There they are, see?" he said, pointing to the lean-to.

  Will looked and saw two small horses trotting across the yard to greet the old man. As they came closer, he realized that one was a horse, the other was a pony. But both were small, shaggy animals, nothing like the fierce, sleek battlehorses that the Baron and his knights rode to war.

  The larger of the two trotted immediately to Halt's side. He patted its neck and handed it an apple from a bin close by the fence. The horse crunched it gratefully. Halt leaned forward and said a few words into its ear. The horse tossed its head and neighed, as if it were sharing some private joke with the Ranger.

  The pony waited by Old Bob until he had given it an apple to crunch as well. Then it turned one large, intelligent eye on Will. "This 'un's called Tug," said the old man. "He looks about your size, don't he?" He passed the rope bridle to Will, who took it and looked into the horse's eyes. He was a shaggy little beast. His legs were short, but sturdy. His body was barrel shaped. His mane and tail were ragged and unbrushed. All in all, as horses went, he wasn't a very impressive sight, thought Will.

  He'd always dreamt of the horse he would one day ride into battle: in those dreams, the horse was tall and majestic. It was fierce and jet black, combed and brushed until it shone like black armor.

  This horse almost seemed to sense what he was thinking and butted its head gently against his shoulder.

  I may not be very big, its eyes seemed to say, but I might just surprise you.

  "Well," said Halt. "What do you think of him?" He was fondling the other horse's soft nose. They were obviously old friends. Will hesitated. He didn't want to offend anyone.

  "He's sort of… small," he said finally.

  "So are you," Halt pointed out. Will couldn't think of an answer to that. Old Bob wheezed with laughter.

  "He ain't no battlehorse, are he, boy?" he asked.

  "Well… no, he isn't," Will said awkwardly. He liked Bob and he felt any criticism of the pony might be taken personally. But Old Bob simply laughed again.

  "But he'll run any of those fine fancy-looking battlehorses into the ground!" he said proudly. "He's a strong'un, this 'un. He'll keep going all day, long after them fancy horses have laid down and died." Will looked at the shaggy little animal doubtfully.

  "I'm sure he will," he said politely.

  Halt leaned against the paddock fence.

  "Why don't you see?" he suggested. "You're fast on your feet. Turn him loose and see if you can capture him again." Will sensed the challenge in the Ranger's voice. He dropped the rope bridle. The horse, as if realizing that this was some sort of test, skipped lightly away into the center of the small enclosure. Will ducked under the fence rails and walked softly toward the pony. He held out his hand invitingly. "Come on, boy," he said. "Stand still there." He reached out his hand for the bridle and the little horse suddenly wheeled away. It shied to one side, then the other, then sidestepped neatly around Will and danced backward out of reach.

  He tried again. Again, the horse evaded him easily. Will was beginning to feel foolish. He advanced on the horse and it backed away, moving closer and closer to one of the corners. Then, just when Will thought he had it, it nimbly danced to one side and was away again.

  Will lost his temper now and ran after it. The horse whinnied in amusement and romped easily out of his reach. It was enjoying this game.

  And so it went. Will would approach, the horse would duck and dodge and escape. Even in the close confines of the small paddock, he couldn't catch it.

  He stopped. He was conscious of the fact that Halt was watching him carefully. He thought for a moment or two. There must be a way to do it. He'd never catch a horse as light on its feet and fast-moving as this one. There must be another way…His gaze fell on the bin of apples outside the fence. Quickly, he ducked under the rail and seized an apple. Then he went back into the paddock and stood stock-still, holding the apple out.

  "Come on, boy," he said.

  Tug's ears shot up. He liked apples. He also thought he liked this boy-he played this game well. Tossing his head approvingly, he trotted forward and took the apple delicately. Will seized hold of the bridle and the pony crunched the apple. If a horse could be said to look blissful, this one did.

  Will looked up and saw Halt nodding approval.

  "Well thought out," said the Ranger. Old Bob elbowed the gray-cloaked man in the ribs.

  "Clever boy, that!" he cackled. "Clever and polite! That 'un'll make a good team with Tug, won't he?" Will patted the shaggy neck and the pricked-up ears. He looked now at the old man.

  "Why do you call him Tug?" he asked.

  Instantly, Will's arm was nearly torn from its socket as the pony jerked its head back. Will staggered, then regained his balance. Old Bob's braying laugh rang out around the clearing.

  "See if you can guess!" he said delightedly.

  His laughter was infectious and Will couldn't help smiling himself. Halt glanced up at the sun, which was fast disappearing behind the trees that fringed Old Bob's clearing and the meadows beyond.

  "Take him over to the lean-to and Bob can show you how to groom him and look after his tack," he said, then added to the old man, "We'll stay with you tonight, Bob, if that's not inconvenient?" The old horse handler nodded his head in pleasure. "I'll be glad of the company, Ranger. Sometimes I spend so much time with the horses that I start to think I'm one myself." Unconsciously, he dipped a hand into the apple barrel and selected one, absentmindedly crunching into it-much as Tug had done a few minutes earlier. Halt watched him, one eyebrow raised.

  "We might be just in time," he observed dryly. "Then, tomorrow, we'll see if Will can ride Tug as well as catch him," he said, guessing as he said it that his apprentice would get very little sleep that night.

  He was right. Old Bob's tiny cabin had only two rooms, so after their supper, Halt stretched out on the floor by the fireplace and Will bedded down in the warm, clean straw of the barn, listening to the gentle whiffling sounds of the two horses. The moon rose and fell as he lay wide awake, wondering and worrying over what the next day might bring. Would he be able to ride Tug? He'd never ridden a horse. Would he fall off the minute he tried? Would he be hurt? Worse
still, would he embarrass himself? He liked Old Bob and he didn't want to look foolish in front of him. Nor in front of Halt, he realized, with a little surprise. He was still wondering when Halt's good opinion had come to mean so much to him when he finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 13

  "So, you saw it. What did you think?" Sir Rodney asked.

  Karel reached across and poured himself another tankard from the jug of beer that was on the table between them. Rodney's quarters were simple enough – even Spartan when it was remembered that he was head of the Battleschool. Battlemasters in other fiefs took advantage of the position to surround themselves with the trappings of luxury, but that wasn't Rodney's style. His room was simply furnished, with a pinewood table for a desk and six straight-backed pine chairs around it.

  There was a fireplace in the corner, of course. Rodney might have preferred to live in a simple style, but that didn't mean he enjoyed discomfort, and winters in Castle Redmont were cold. Right now it was late summer and the thick stone walls of the castle buildings served to keep the interiors cool. When the cold weather came, those same thick walls would retain the heat of the fire. On one wall, a large bay window looked out over the Battleschool's drill field. Facing the window, on the opposite wall, was a doorway, screened by a thick curtain, leading to Rodney's sleeping quarters-a simple soldier's bed and more wooden furniture. It had been a little more ornate when his wife Antoinette was still alive, but she had died some years previously and the rooms were now unmistakably masculine in character, without any item in them that wasn't functional and with an absolute minimum of decoration.

  "I saw it," Karel agreed. "Not sure that I believed it, but I saw it."

  "You saw it only once," said Rodney. "He was doing it constantly throughout the session – and I'm convinced that he was doing it unconsciously."

  "As fast as the one I saw?" Karel asked. Rodney nodded emphatically.

  "If anything, faster. He was adding an extra stroke to the routines but staying in time with the call." He hesitated, then finally said what they were both thinking. "The boy is a natural." Karel inclined his head thoughtfully. Based on what he'd seen, he wasn't prepared to dispute the fact. And the Battlemaster had been watching the boy for some time during the session, he knew. But naturals were few and far between. They were those unique people for whom the skill of swordplay moved into an entirely different dimension. It became not so much a skill as an instinct to them,

  They were the ones who became the champions. The sword masters. Experienced warriors like Sir Rodney and Sir Karel were expert swordsmen, but naturals took the skill to a higher plane. It was as if for them, the sword in their hand became a true extension not just of their bodies, but of their personalities as well. The sword seemed to act in instant communion and harmony with the natural's mind, acting even faster than conscious thought. Naturals were possessed of unique skills in timing and balance and rhythm.

  As such, they presented a heavy responsibility to those who were entrusted with their training. For those natural skills and abilities had to be carefully nurtured and developed in a long-term training program to allow the warrior, already highly proficient as a matter of course, to develop his true potential for genius.

  "You're sure?" Karel said eventually and Rodney nodded again, his gaze out the window. In his mind he was seeing the boy training, seeing those extra flickers of lightning-fast movement.

  "I'm sure," he said simply. "We'll have to let Wallace know that he'll have another pupil next semester."

  Wallace was the sword master at the Redmont Battleschool. He was the one who had the responsibility for adding the final polish to the basic skills that Karel and the others taught. In the event of an outstanding trainee-as Horace obviously was-he would give them private instruction in advanced techniques. Karel curled his bottom lip thoughtfully as he thought about the time frame Rodney had suggested.

  "Not until then?" he said. The next semester was almost three months away. "Why not get him started straightaway? From what I saw, he's already mastered the basic stuff." But Rodney shook his head.

  "We haven't really assessed his personality yet," he said. "He seems a nice enough lad, but you never know. If he turns out to be a misfit of some kind, I don't want to give him the sort of advanced instruction that Wallace can provide."

  Once he thought of it, Karel agreed with the Battlemaster. After all, if it should turn out that Horace had to be disqualified from Battleschool because of some other failing, it might be embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, if he were already on the road to being a highly trained swordsman. Disqualified trainees often reacted with resentment.

  "And another thing," Rodney added. "Let's keep this to ourselves – and tell Morton the same. I don't want the boy hearing any word of this yet. It might make him cocky and that could be dangerous for him."

  "That's true enough," Karel agreed. He finished the last of his beer in two quick drafts, set his tankard down on the table and stood. "Well, I'd better be getting along. I've got reports to finish."

  "Who hasn't?" the Battlemaster said with some feeling, and the two old friends exchanged rueful grins. "I never knew there was so much paper involved in running a Battleschool." Karel snorted in derision.

  "Sometimes I think we should forget the weapons training and just throw all the paper at the enemy – bury them in it." He gave an informal salute just touching one finger to his forehead-that was in keeping with his seniority. Then he turned and headed for the door. He paused as Rodney added one last point to their discussion.

  "Keep an eye on the boy, of course," he said. "But don't let him become aware of it."

  "Of course," Karel replied. "We don't want him to start thinking there's something special about him."

  At that moment, there was no chance that Horace would think there was anything special about him – at least, not in any positive sense. What he did feel was that there was something about him that attracted trouble.

  Word had gone around about the strange scene at the training ground. His classmates, not understanding what had happened, all assumed that Horace had somehow annoyed the Battlemaster and now waited for the inevitable retribution. They knew that the rule during the first semester was that, when one member of a class made a mistake, the entire class paid for it. As a result, the atmosphere in their dormitory had been strained, to say the least. Horace had finally made his way out of the room, intending to head for the river to escape the condemnation and blame he could feel from the others. Unfortunately, when he did so, he walked straight into the waiting arms of Alda, Bryn and Jerome.

  The three older boys had heard a garbled version of the scene at the practice yard. They assumed that Horace had been criticized for his sword work and decided to make him suffer for it.

  However, they knew that their attentions would not necessarily meet with the approval of the Battleschool staff. Horace, as a newcomer, had no way of knowing that this sort of systematic bullying was totally disapproved of by Sir Rodney and the other instructors. Horace simply assumed that was the way things were supposed to be and, not knowing any better, went along with it, allowing himself to be bullied and insulted.

  It was for this reason that the three second-year cadets marched Horace to the riverside, where he had been heading anyway, and away from the sight of instructors. Here, they made him wade thigh-deep into the river, then stand to attention.

  "Baby can't use his sword properly," said Alda.

  Bryn took up the refrain. "Baby made the Battlemaster angry. Baby doesn't belong in Battleschool. Babies shouldn't be given swords to play with."

  "Baby should throw stones instead," Jerome concluded the sarcastic litany. "Pick up a stone, Baby." Horace hesitated, then glanced around, The riverbed was full of stones and he bent to get one. As he did so, his sleeve and the upper part of his jacket became soaked.

  "Not a small stone, Baby," Alda said, smiling evilly at him. "You're a big baby, so you need a big stone."

  "
A great big stone," Bryn added, indicating with his hands that he wanted Horace to pick up a large rock. Horace looked around him and saw several larger pieces in the crystal-clear water. He bent and retrieved one of them. In doing so, he made a mistake. The rock he chose was easy to lift under the water, but as he brought it above the surface, he grunted with the weight of it.

  "Let's see it, Baby," Jerome said. "Hold it up." Horace braced himself-the swiftly running current of the river made it difficult to keep his balance and hold the heavy rock at the same time-then he lifted it to chest height so his tormentors could see it.

  "Right up, Baby," Alda commanded. "Right over your head." Painfully, Horace obeyed. The rock was feeling heavier by the second, but he held it high above his head and the three boys were satisfied.

  "That's good, Baby," Jerome said, and Horace, with a relieved sigh, began to let the rock down again.

  "What are you doing?" demanded Jerome angrily. "I said that's good. So that's where I want the rock to stay."

  Horace struggled and lifted the rock above his head once more, holding it at arm's length. Alda, Bryn and Jerome nodded their approval.

  "Now you can stay there," Alda told him, "while you count to five hundred. Then you can go back to the dormitory."

  "Start counting," Bryn ordered him, grinning at the idea.

  "One, two, three…" began Horace, but they all shouted at him almost immediately.

  "Not so fast, Baby! Nice and slowly. Start again."

  "One… two… three…" Horace counted, and they nodded their approval.

  "That's better. Now a nice slow count to five hundred and you can go." Alda told him.

  "Don't try to fudge it, because we'll know," threatened Jerome. "And you'll be back here counting to one thousand."

  Laughing among themselves, the three students headed back to their quarters. Horace remained in midstream, arms trembling with the weight of the rock, tears of frustration and humiliation filling his eyes. Once, he lost his balance and fell full length in the water. After that, his heavy, sodden clothing made it all the harder to hold the rock above his head, but he kept at it.