The Kalkara screamed its victory to the night sky. Black blood streamed down its face. Never in its life had it felt such pain as these three puny men had inflicted on it. And now they would die for presuming to stand against it. But the primitive intelligence that drove it wanted its moment of triumph and it screamed again and again over the three helpless men.
Will watched, horrified. A thought was forming, an idea was lurking somewhere at the edge of his mind. He looked to one side, saw the flickering torch that Baron Arald had discarded. Fire. The one weapon that could defeat the Kalkara. But he was forty metres away …
He whipped an arrow from his quiver, slipping from the saddle and running lightly to the flickering torch. A good supply of sticky, melted pitch had run down the handle of the torch and he quickly rolled the arrowhead in the soft, clinging stuff, forming a huge gobbet of it on the arrow. Then he placed it in the flame until it flared to life.
Forty metres away, the huge evil creature was satisfying its need for triumph, its screams rolling and echoing through the night as it stood over the two bodies – Halt unconscious, Baron Arald in a daze of pain. Sir Rodney still stood, frozen in place, hands dangling helplessly by his side as he waited for his death. Now the Kalkara raised one massive, taloned paw to strike him down and all the knight could feel was the paralysing terror of its gaze.
Will brought the arrow back to full draw, wincing at the pain as the flames singed against his bow hand. He raised his aim point a little to allow for the extra weight of the pitch, and released.
The arrow soared in a spark-trailing arc, the wind of its passage subduing the flame to a mere coal. The Kalkara saw the flash of light coming and turned to look, sealing its own fate as the arrow struck it square in its massive chest.
It barely penetrated into the hard, scale-like hair. But as the arrow came to a halt, the little flame flared again, the bonding material in the hair around it caught, and the flame began to spread with incredible speed.
Now the Kalkara’s screams had terror in them as it felt the touch of fire – the one thing in life it feared.
The monster beat at the flames on its chest with its paws but that served only to spread the fire to its arms. There was a sudden rush of red flame and in seconds the Kalkara was engulfed, burning from head to toe, rushing blindly in circles in a vain attempt to escape. The screams were nonstop, piercing, reaching higher and higher into a scale of agony that the mind could barely comprehend as the rush of flames grew fiercer with each second.
And then the screaming stopped and the creature was dead.
The inn at Wensley Village was full of music and laughter and noise. Will sat at a table with Horace, Alyss and Jenny, while the innkeeper plied them with a succulent dinner of roast goose and farm fresh vegetables, followed by a delicious blueberry pie whose flaky pastry won even Jenny’s approval.
It had been Horace’s idea to celebrate Will’s return to Castle Redmont with a feast. The two girls had agreed immediately, eager for a break in their day-to-day lives, which now seemed rather humdrum compared to the events that Will had been part of.
Naturally, word of the battle with the Kalkara had gone round the village like wildfire – an appropriate simile, Will thought as it occurred to him. As he entered the inn with his friends that evening, an expectant hush had fallen over the room and every eye had turned towards him. He was grateful for the deep cowl on his cloak, which concealed his rapidly reddening features. His three companions sensed his embarrassment. Jenny, as ever, was the quickest to react, and to break the silence that filled the inn.
‘Come on, you solemn lot!’ she cried to the musicians by the fireplace. ‘Let’s have some music in here! And some chatter if you please!’ She added the second suggestion with a meaningful glace at the other occupants in the room.
The musicians took their cue from her. Jenny was a difficult person to refuse. They quickly struck up a popular local folk tune and the sound filled the room. The other villagers gradually realised that their attention was making Will uncomfortable. They remembered their manners and began talking among themselves again, only occasionally casting glances his way, marvelling that one so apparently young could have been part of such momentous events.
The four former wardmates took their seats at a table at the back of the room, where they could talk without interruption.
‘George sent his apologies,’ Alyss said as they took their seats. ‘He’s snowed under with paperwork – the entire Scribeschool is working day and night.’
Will nodded his understanding. The impending war with Morgarath, and the need to mobilise troops and call in old alliances, must have created a mountain of paperwork.
So much had happened in the ten days since the battle with the Kalkara.
Making camp by the ruins, Rodney and Will had tended to the wounds of Baron Arald and Halt, finally settling the two men into a restful sleep. Soon after first light, Abelard trotted into the camp, anxiously searching for his master. Will had only just managed to soothe the horse when a leg-weary Gilan arrived, riding a sway-backed plough horse. The tall Ranger gratefully reclaimed Blaze. Then, after being reassured that his former master was in no danger, he set off almost immediately for his own fief, after Will promised to return the plough horse to its owner.
Later in the day, Will, Halt, Rodney and Arald had returned to Castle Redmont, where they were all plunged into the nonstop activity of preparing the castle’s fighting men for war. There were a thousand and one details to be handled, messages to be delivered and summonses sent out. With Halt still recuperating from his wound, a great deal of this work had fallen to Will.
In times like these, he realised, a Ranger had little chance for relaxation, which made this evening such a welcome diversion. The innkeeper bustled importantly to their table and set down four glass tankards and a jug of the non-alcoholic beer he brewed from ginger root before them.
‘No charge for this table tonight,’ he said. ‘We’re privileged to have you in our establishment, Ranger.’
He moved away, calling to one of his serving boys to come and attend the Ranger’s table, ‘And be quick smart about it!’ Alyss raised one eyebrow in amazement.
‘Nice to be with a celebrity,’ she said. ‘Old Skinner usually holds onto a coin so tight the king’s head suffocates.’
Will made a dismissive gesture. ‘People exaggerate things,’ he said. But Horace leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
‘So tell us about the fight,’ he said, eager for details. Jenny looked wide-eyed at Will.
‘I can’t believe how brave you were!’ she said admiringly. ‘I would have been terrified.’
‘Actually, I was petrified,’ Will told them with a rueful grin. ‘The Baron and Sir Rodney were the brave ones. They charged in and took those creatures on at close quarters. I was forty or fifty metres away the whole time.’
He described the events of the battle, without going into too much detail in his description of the Kalkara. They were dead and gone now, he thought, and best forgotten as soon as possible. Some things didn’t need dwelling on. The three others listened, Jenny wide-eyed and excited, Horace eager for details of the fight and Alyss, calm and dignified as ever, but totally engrossed in his story. As he described his solo ride to summon help, Horace shook his head in admiration.
‘Those Ranger horses must be a breed apart,’ he said. Will grinned at him, unable to resist the jibe that rose to his mind.
‘The trick is staying on them,’ he said, and was pleased to see a matching grin spread over Horace’s face as they both remembered the scene at the Harvest Day Fair. He realised, with a small glow of pleasure, that his relationship with Horace had evolved into a firm friendship, with each viewing the other as an equal. Eager to slip out of the spotlight, he asked Horace how life was progressing in Battleschool. The grin on the bigger boy’s face widened.
‘A lot better these days, thanks to Halt,’ he said and, as Will adroitly plied him with more questions, h
e described life in the Battleschool for them, joking about his mistakes and shortcomings, laughing as he described the many punishment details he attracted. Will noticed how Horace, once inclined to be boastful and a little arrogant, was far more self-effacing these days. He suspected that Horace was doing better as an apprentice warrior than he let on.
It was a pleasant evening, all the more so after the strain and terror of the hunt for the Kalkara. As the servers cleared their plates, Jenny smiled expectantly at the two boys.
‘Right! Now who’s going to dance with me?’ she said brightly and Will was just too slow in responding, Horace claiming her hand and leading her to the dance floor. As they joined the dancers, Will glanced uncertainly at Alyss. He was never quite sure what the tall girl was thinking. He thought that perhaps it might be good manners to ask her to dance as well. He cleared his throat nervously.
‘Um … would you like to dance too, Alyss?’ he said awkwardly. She favoured him with the barest trace of a smile.
‘Perhaps not, Will. I’m no great shakes as a dancer. I seem to be all legs.’
In fact, she was an excellent dancer but, a diplomat to the core, she sensed that Will had only asked her out of politeness. He nodded several times and they lapsed into silence – but a friendly sort of silence.
After some minutes, she turned towards him, placing her chin on her hand to consider him closely.
‘A big day for you tomorrow,’ she said and he flushed. He had been summoned to appear before the Baron’s entire court the following day.
‘I don’t know what that’s all about,’ he muttered. Alyss smiled at him.
‘He possibly wants to thank you in public,’ she said. ‘I’m told barons tend to do that to people who have saved their lives.’
He began to say something but she laid one soft cool hand over his and he stopped. He looked into those calm, smiling grey eyes. Alyss had never struck him as pretty. But now he realised that her elegance and grace and those grey eyes, framed by her fine blonde hair, created a natural beauty that far surpassed mere prettiness. Surprisingly, she leaned closer to him and whispered.
‘We’re all proud of you, Will. And I think I’m proudest of all.’
And she kissed him. Her lips on his were incredibly, indescribably soft.
Hours later, before he finally fell asleep, he could still feel them.
Will stood, transfixed by stage fright, just inside the massive doors to the Baron’s audience hall.
The building itself was enormous. It was the main room of the castle, the room where the Baron conducted all his official business with the members of his court. The ceiling seemed to stretch upwards forever. Shafts of light poured down into the room from windows set high in the massive walls. At the far end of the room, seeming to be an immense distance away, the Baron sat, wearing his finest robes, on a raised, throne-like chair.
Between him and Will was the biggest crowd Will had ever seen. Halt propelled his apprentice gently forward with a shove in the back.
‘Get on with it,’ he muttered.
There were hundreds of people in the Great Hall and every eye was turned towards Will. All of the Baron’s Craftmasters were there, in their official robes. All of his knights and all the ladies of the court – every one in their best and finest clothes. Further down the hall were the men at arms from the Baron’s army, the other apprentices and the trademasters from the village. He saw a flutter of colour as Jenny, uninhibited as ever, waved a scarf at him. Alyss, standing beside her, was a little more discreet. She unobtrusively kissed her fingertips to him.
He stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He wished that Halt had let him wear his Ranger’s cloak, so he could blend into the background and disappear.
Halt shoved him again.
‘Get a move on!’ he hissed.
Will turned to him. ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ he asked. Halt shook his head.
‘Not invited. Now get going!’
He shoved Will once more, then limped, favouring his injured leg, to a seat. Finally, realising he had no other course to follow, Will began to walk down the long, long aisle. He heard the muttering voices as he went. Heard his name being whispered from one mouth to another.
And then the clapping started.
It began with one knight’s lady and rapidly spread throughout the entire hall as everyone joined in. It was deafening, a thundering, echoing roar of applause that continued until he reached the foot of the Baron’s chair.
As Halt had instructed him, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head forward.
The Baron stood up and raised his hand for silence and the clapping died away to echoes.
‘Stand up, Will,’ he said softly, and reached out a hand to help the boy to his feet.
In a daze, Will obeyed. The Baron rested a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face the huge throng before them. His deep voice carried effortlessly to the farthest corner of the hall when he spoke.
‘This is Will. Apprentice to the Ranger Halt of this fiefdom. See him now and know him, all of you. He has proven his fidelity, courage and initiative to this fief and to the Kingdom of Araluen.’
There was a murmur of appreciation from the people watching. Then the clapping began again, this time accompanied by cheering. Will realised the cheers had begun in the section of the crowd where the Battleschool apprentice warriors stood. He could make out Horace’s grinning face, leading the chorus.
The Baron held up a hand for silence, wincing as the movement brought pain to his cracked ribs and the carefully bandaged and sutured gashes in his back. The cheering and clapping slowly died away.
‘Will,’ he said, in a voice that echoed to the farthest corners of the massive room, ‘I owe you my life. There can be no thanks adequate for that. However, it is in my power to grant you a wish that you once made of me …’
Will looked up at him, frowning.
‘A wish, sir?’ he said, more than a little puzzled by the Baron’s words.
The Baron nodded. ‘I made a mistake, Will. You asked me if you could train as a warrior. It was your wish to become one of my knights and I refused you.
‘Now, I can rectify that mistake. It would do me honour to have one so brave and resourceful as one of my knights. Say the word now and you have my permission to transfer to the Battleschool as one of Sir Rodney’s apprentices.’
Will’s heart pounded in his ribs. He thought how, all his life, he had yearned to be a knight. He remembered his deep and bitter disappointment on the day of the Choosing, when Sir Rodney and the Baron had refused his request.
Sir Rodney stepped forward, and the Baron gestured for him to speak.
‘My lord,’ said the Battlemaster, ‘it was I who refused this boy as an apprentice, as you know. Now, I want all here to know that I was wrong to do so. I, my knights and my apprentices all agree that there could be no more worthy member of the Battleschool than Will!’
There was a great roar of approval from the assembled knights and apprentice warriors. With a slithering clash of steel they unsheathed their swords and clashed them together above their heads, shouting Will’s name. Again, Horace was one of the first to do so, and the last to stop.
Gradually, the tumult died down and the knights resheathed their swords. At a sign from Baron Arald, two pages stepped forward, bearing with them a sword and a beautifully enamelled shield which they laid at Will’s feet. The shield was painted with a representation of a fierce boar’s head.
‘This will be your coat of arms when you graduate, Will,’ said the Baron gently, ‘to remind the world of the first time we learned of your courage and loyalty to a comrade.’
The boy went down on one knee and touched the smooth, enamelled surface of the shield. He drew the sword slowly and reverently from its scabbard. It was a beautiful weapon, a masterpiece of the swordsmith’s art.
The blade was razor keen, and slightly blued. The hilt and crosspiece were inlaid with gold and the boar’s
head symbol was repeated on the pommel. The sword itself seemed to have a life of its own. Perfectly balanced, it seemed light as a feather in his grasp. He glanced from the beautiful, jewelled sword to the plain leather grip of his Ranger knife.
‘They’re a knight’s weapons, Will,’ the Baron urged. ‘But you’ve proved over and again that you’re worthy of them. Just say the word and they’re yours.’
Will slid the sword back into its scabbard and stood slowly up. Here was everything he had ever wished for. And yet …
He thought of the long days in the forest with Halt. The fierce satisfaction that he felt when one of his arrows struck home, exactly where he had aimed it, exactly as he had seen it in his mind before releasing it. He thought of the hours spent learning to track animals and men. Learning the art of concealment. He thought of Tug, of the pony’s courage and devotion.
And he thought of the sheer pleasure that came when he heard Halt’s simple ‘Well done’ as he completed a task to his satisfaction. And suddenly, he knew. He looked up at the Baron and said in a firm voice:
‘I am a Ranger, my lord.’
There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd.
The Baron stepped closer and said in a low voice, ‘Are you sure, Will? Don’t turn this down just because you think Halt might be offended or disappointed. He insisted that this is up to you. He’s already agreed to abide by your decision.’
Will shook his head. He was more certain than ever.
‘I thank you for the honour, my lord.’ He glanced at the Battlemaster, and saw, to his surprise, that Sir Rodney was smiling and nodding his head in approval. ‘And I thank the Battlemaster and his knights for their generous offer. But I am a Ranger.’ He hesitated. ‘I mean no offence by this, my lord,’ he finished awkwardly.
A huge smile creased the Baron’s features and he gripped Will’s hand in his enormous grip.
‘And I take none, Will. None at all! Your loyalty to your craft and your Craftmaster does honour to you and to all of us who know you!’ He gave Will’s hand one final, firm shake and released him.