Bryn staggered away and dropped to his hands and knees in the dirt, sobbing with pain and fear.
Jerome had watched the proceedings in horror, knowing his turn was coming. He began to edge away, hoping to escape while the Ranger’s attention was distracted.
‘Take one more step and I’ll put an arrow through you.’
Will tried to model his voice on the quiet, threatening tone Halt had used. He had retrieved several of his arrows from the nearest target and now he had one of them ready, laid on the bowstring. Halt glanced round approvingly.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Aim for the left calf. It’s a very painful wound.’ He glanced over to where Bryn lay, sobbing, on the ground at Horace’s feet. ‘I think he’s had enough,’ he said. Then he jerked a thumb at Jerome.
‘Your turn,’ he said briefly. Horace retrieved the cane that Bryn had dropped and moved towards Jerome, holding it out to him. Jerome backed away.
‘No!’ Jerome yelled, wide-eyed. ‘It’s not fair! He …’
‘Well, of course it’s not fair,’ Halt agreed in a reasonable tone. ‘I gather you think three against one is fair. Now get on with it.’
Will had often heard the saying that a cornered rat will eventually show fight. Jerome proved it now. He went onto the attack and to his surprise, Horace gave ground before the rain of blows aimed at him. The bully’s confidence began to grow as he advanced. He failed to notice that Horace was blocking every stroke with consummate ease, almost with contempt. Jerome’s best strokes never even looked like breaking through Horace’s defence. The second year apprentice might as well have been hitting a stone wall.
Then, Horace stopped retreating. He stood fast, blocking Jerome’s latest stroke with an iron wrist. They stood chest to chest for a few seconds and then Horace began to push Jerome back. His left hand gripped Jerome’s right wrist, keeping their weapons locked together. Jerome’s feet skidded on the soft grass as Horace forced him backwards, further and further. Then he gave a final heave and sent Jerome sprawling on the ground.
Jerome had seen what happened to Bryn. He knew that surrender wasn’t an option. He scrambled to his feet and defended desperately as Horace began his own attack. Jerome was driven back by a whirlwind of forehands, backhands, side and overhead cuts. He managed to block some of the strokes but the blistering speed of Horace’s attack defeated him. Blows rained on his shins, elbows and shoulders almost at will. Horace seemed to concentrate on the bony spots that would hurt most. Occasionally, he used the rounded point of the sword to thrust into Jerome’s ribs – just hard enough to bruise, without breaking bones.
Finally, Jerome had had enough. He wheeled away from the onslaught, dropped the cane and fell to the ground, hands clasped protectively over his head. His backside was raised invitingly in the air and Horace paused and looked a question at Halt. The Ranger made a little gesture towards Jerome.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘An opportunity like that doesn’t come every day.’
But even he winced at the thundering kick in the backside that Horace delivered. Jerome, nose down in the dirt, skidded at least a metre from the force of it.
Halt retrieved the cane that Jerome had dropped. He studied it for a moment, testing its weight and balance.
‘Really not much of a weapon,’ he said. ‘You have to wonder why they chose it.’ Then he tossed the cane to Alda. ‘Get busy,’ he ordered.
The blond boy, still crouched on the grass nursing his injured ankle, looked at the cane in disbelief. Blood streamed down his face from his shattered nose. He’d never be quite so good looking again, Will thought.
‘But … but … I’m injured!’ he protested, hobbling awkwardly to his feet. He couldn’t believe that Halt would require him to go through the punishment he’d just witnessed.
Halt paused, studying him as if that fact hadn’t occurred to him. For a moment, a ray of hope shone in Alda’s mind.
‘So you are,’ the Ranger said. ‘So you are.’ He looked a little disappointed and Alda began to believe that Halt’s sense of fair play would spare him the sort of punishment that had been handed out to his friends. Then the Ranger’s face cleared.
‘But just a minute,’ he said, ‘so is Horace. Isn’t that right, Will?’
Will grinned. ‘Definitely, Halt,’ he said and Alda’s brief hope vanished without trace.
Halt now turned to Horace, asking with mock concern, ‘Are you sure you’re not too badly injured to continue, Horace?’
Horace smiled. It was a smile that never reached his eyes. ‘Oh, I think I can manage,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s settled then!’ Halt said cheerfully. ‘Let’s continue, shall we?’
And Alda knew there was to be no escape for him either. He faced up to Horace and the final duel began.
Alda was the best swordsman of the three bullies, and at least he gave Horace some competition for a few minutes. But as they felt each other out with stroke and counterstroke, thrust and parry, he quickly realised that Horace was his master. His only chance, he felt, was to try something unexpected.
He disengaged, then changed his grip on the cane, holding it in both hands like a quarterstaff and launching a series of rapid left and right hooking blows with it.
For a second, Horace was caught by surprise and he fell back. But he recovered with cat-like speed and aimed an overhead blow at Alda. The second year student attempted the standard quarterstaff parry, holding the staff at either end, to block the sword stroke with the middle section. In theory, it was the right tactic. In practice, the hardened hickory drill sword simply sheared through the cane, leaving Alda holding two useless, shortened sticks. Totally unnerved, he let them drop and stood defenceless before Horace.
Horace looked at his long-time tormentor, then at the sword in his hand.
‘I don’t need this,’ he muttered, and let the sword drop.
The right-hand punch that he threw travelled no more than twenty centimetres to the point of Alda’s jaw. But it had his shoulder and body weight and months of suffering and loneliness behind it – the loneliness that only a victim of bullying can know.
Will’s eyes widened slightly as Alda came off his feet and hurtled backwards, to come crashing down in the dirt beside his two friends. He thought about the times in the past when he had fought with Horace. If he’d known the other boy was capable of throwing a punch like that, he never would have done so.
Alda didn’t move. Odds were, he wouldn’t move for some time, Will thought. Horace stepped back, shaking his bruised knuckles and heaving a sigh of satisfaction.
‘You have no idea how good that felt,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Ranger.’
Halt nodded acknowledgement. ‘Thank you for taking a hand when they attacked Will. And by the way, my friends call me Halt.’
In the weeks following his final encounter with the three bullies, Horace noticed a definite change in life at the Battleschool.
The most important factor in the change was that Alda, Bryn and Jerome were all expelled from the school – and from the castle and its neighbouring village. Sir Rodney had been suspicious for some time that there had been a problem among the ranks of his junior students. A quiet visit from Halt alerted him as to where it lay and the resultant investigation soon brought to light the full story of the way Horace had been victimised. Sir Rodney’s judgement was swift and uncompromising. The three second year students were given a half day to prepare and pack. They were supplied with a small amount of money and a week’s supplies and were transported to the fief’s boundaries, where they were told, in no uncertain terms, not to return.
Once they were gone, Horace’s lot improved considerably. The daily routine of the Battleschool was still as harsh and challenging as ever. But without the added burden that Alda, Bryn and Jerome had laid upon him, Horace found he could easily cope with the drills, the discipline and the studies. He rapidly began to achieve the potential that Sir Rodney had seen in him. In addition, his roommates, without the fear of
incurring the bullies’ vengeance, began to be more welcoming and friendly.
In short, Horace felt things were definitely looking up.
His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to thank Halt properly for the improvement in his life. After the events in the meadow, Horace had been placed in the infirmary for several days while his bruises and contusions were attended to. By the time he was released, he found that Halt and Will had already left for the Rangers’ Gathering.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Will asked, for perhaps the tenth time that morning.
Halt gave vent to a small sigh of exasperation. Other than that, he made no reply. They had been on the road now for three days and it seemed to Will that they must be close to the Gathering Ground. Several times in the past hour, he had noticed an unfamiliar scent on the air. He mentioned it to Halt, who said briefly, ‘It’s salt. We’re getting close to the sea,’ then refused to elaborate any further. Will glanced sidelong at his teacher, hoping that perhaps Halt might deign to share a little more information with him, but the Ranger’s keen eyes were scanning the ground in front of them. From time to time, Will noticed, he looked up into the trees that flanked the road.
‘Are you looking for something?’ Will asked and Halt turned in his saddle.
‘Finally, a useful question,’ he said. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. The Chief Ranger will have sentries out around the Gathering Ground. I always like to try to fool them as I’m approaching.’
‘Why?’ asked Will and Halt allowed himself a tight little grin.
‘It keeps them on their toes,’ he explained. ‘They’ll try to slip behind us and follow us in, just so they can say they’ve ambushed me. It’s a silly game they like to play.’
‘Why is it silly?’ asked Will. It sounded exactly like the sort of skill exercises that he and Halt practised regularly. The grizzled Ranger turned in his saddle and fixed Will with an unblinking stare.
‘Because they never succeed,’ he said. ‘And this year they’ll be trying even harder because they know I’m bringing an apprentice. They’ll want to see how good you are.’
‘Is this part of the testing?’ Will asked and Halt nodded.
‘It’s the start of it. Do you remember what I told you last night?’
Will nodded. For the past two nights, around the camp fire, Halt’s soft voice had given Will advice and instructions on how to conduct himself at the Gathering. Last night, they’d devised tactics for use in case of an ambush – just the sort of thing that Halt had mentioned now.
‘When will we …’ he began, but suddenly Halt was alert. He held up a warning finger for silence and Will stopped speaking instantly. The Ranger’s head was turned slightly. The two horses continued without hesitation.
‘Hear it?’ Halt asked.
Will craned his head too. He thought that, just maybe, he could hear soft hoof beats behind them. But he wasn’t sure. The gait of their own horses masked any real sound from the trail behind. If there was someone there, his horse was moving in step with their own.
‘Change gait,’ Halt whispered. ‘On three. One, two, three.’
Simultaneously, they both nudged their left toes into the horses’ shoulders. It was just one of many signals to which Tug and Abelard were trained to respond.
Instantly, both horses hesitated in their stride. They seemed to skip a pace, then continued in their even gait.
But the hesitation had changed the pattern of their hoof beats and for an instant, Will could hear another set of horse’s hooves behind them, like a slightly delayed echo. Then the other horse changed gait as well to match their own and the sound was gone.
‘Ranger horse,’ Halt said softly. ‘It’ll be Gilan, for sure.’
‘How can you tell?’ Will asked.
‘Only a Ranger horse could change his pace as quickly as that. And it’ll be Gilan because it’s always Gilan. He loves trying to catch me out.’
‘Why?’ asked Will and Halt looked sternly at him.
‘Because he was my last apprentice,’ he explained. ‘And for some reason, former apprentices just love to catch their former masters with their breeches down.’ He looked accusingly at his current apprentice. Will was about to protest that he would never behave in such a fashion after he graduated, then realised that he probably would, and at the very first opportunity. The protest died unspoken.
Halt signalled for silence, and scanned the trail ahead of them. Then he pointed. ‘That’s the spot there,’ he said. ‘Ready?’
There was a large tree close to the side of the trail, with branches hanging out just above head height. Will studied it for a moment, then nodded. Tug and Abelard continued their even pacing towards the tree. As they came closer, Will kicked his feet from the stirrups and rose to stand, crouching, on Tug’s back. The horse didn’t vary his pace as his master shifted position.
As they passed under the branches, Will reached up and seized the lowest one, swinging himself up onto it. The instant his weight left Tug’s back, the little horse began to pace more vigorously, forcing his hooves into the ground with each step so that there would be no sign to a tracker behind them that his load had suddenly lightened.
Silently, Will climbed higher into the tree until he found a spot where he had a solid perch and a clear view. He could see Halt and the two horses moving slowly down the trail.
As they reached the next bend, Halt urged Tug to keep going, then halted Abelard and swung down from the saddle. He dropped to his knees, seeming to study the ground for signs of tracks.
Now Will could hear the other horse behind them. He looked back the way they had come but another bend hid their follower from sight.
Then, the soft hoof beats ceased.
Will’s mouth was dry and his heart beat faster and faster inside his ribcage. He was sure the sound must be audible to anyone within fifty metres or so. But his training asserted itself and he stood motionless on the tree branch, among the leaves and dappled shadows, watching the trail behind them.
A movement!
He saw it from the corner of his eye, then it was gone. He peered closely at the spot for a second or two, then remembered Halt’s lessons: Don’t focus your attention on one spot. Keep a wide focus all the time and keep scanning. You’ll see him as a movement, not as a figure. Remember, he’s a Ranger too and he’s been trained in the art of not being seen.
Will widened his focus and scanned the forest behind them. Within seconds, he was rewarded by another sign of movement. A branch swung back into place as an unseen figure passed silently by.
Then, ten metres further on, a bush swayed slightly. Then he saw a clump of tall grass springing slowly back into position from where a passing foot had crushed it momentarily.
Will stayed stock-still. He marvelled at the fact that their pursuer could move through the forest without his seeing him. Obviously, the other Ranger had left his horse behind and was stalking Halt on foot. Will’s eyes swivelled for a quick glance at Halt. His teacher still seemed to be preoccupied with some sign on the ground.
Another movement came from the forest. The unseen Ranger had passed Will’s hiding place now and was moving back towards the trail, intent on surprising Halt from behind.
Suddenly, a tall figure in a grey-green cloak seemed to rise out of the ground in the middle of the trail, some twenty metres behind the kneeling figure of Halt. Will blinked. One moment the figure hadn’t been there. Next, he seemed to materialise out of thin air. Will’s hand began to move towards the quiver of arrows slung over his back, then he halted the movement. Halt had told him the night before: Wait until we’re talking. If he’s not talking, he’ll hear the slightest movement you make.
Will gulped, hoping that the tall figure hadn’t heard the movement of his hand towards the quiver. But it seemed that he’d stopped in time. Below him, he heard a cheerful voice call out.
‘Halt, Halt!’
Halt turned and rose slowly to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees as he r
ose. He put his head on one side and studied the figure in the middle of the trail, who was leaning easily on a longbow identical to Halt’s own.
‘Well, Gilan,’ he called, ‘I see you’re still making that old joke.’
The tall Ranger shrugged and replied cheerfully, ‘The joke appears to be on you this year, Halt.’
As Gilan spoke, Will’s hand moved quickly but quietly to his quiver and selected an arrow, laying it ready on the bowstring. Halt was speaking again now.
‘Really, Gilan? And what joke would that be, I wonder?’
The amusement was evident in Gilan’s voice as he replied to his old master.
‘Come now, Halt. Admit it. For once I’ve got the best of you – and you know how many years I’ve been trying.’
Halt rubbed one hand over his grizzled beard thoughtfully.
‘It beats me why you keep on trying, Gilan, as a matter of fact.’
Gilan laughed. ‘You should know how much pleasure it gives an ex-apprentice to get the better of his master, Halt. Now come on. Admit it. This year, I’ve won.’
As the tall figure spoke, Will carefully drew back the arrow, sighting on a tree trunk some two metres to Gilan’s left. Halt’s instructions echoed in his ears: Choose a target close enough to startle him when you shoot. But for pity’s sake not too close. If he moves, I don’t want you putting an arrow through him!
Halt hadn’t moved from his position in the centre of the trail. Gilan was now shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to another. Halt’s unperturbed manner was beginning to bother him. It appeared that, all of a sudden, he wasn’t totally sure that Halt was merely trying to bluff his way out of the trap.
Halt’s next words added to his suspicions.
‘Ah yes … apprentices and masters. They’re a strange combination, all right. But tell me, Gilan, my old apprentice, aren’t you forgetting something this year?’
Perhaps it was the way Halt laid a little extra stress on the word ‘apprentice’, but suddenly Gilan became aware that he had made a mistake. His head began to turn, searching for the apprentice that he’d forgotten.