The Burning Bridge, Page 3

  The young Ranger was grinning all over his face as he eyed the apprentice. He shook his head in mock sorrow.

  “Joking, Will. Joking.”

  Will realized his leg was being pulled again, and this time with Horace’s full knowledge.

  “I knew that,” he replied huffily. Horace laughed out loud and this time, Gilan joined in.

  They traveled south all day, finally making camp in the first line of foothills on the road to Celtica. Around midafternoon, the rain had slowly begun to peter out, but the ground around them was still sodden.

  They searched under the thickest-foliaged trees for dry, dead wood, and gradually collected enough for a small campfire. Gilan joined in with the two apprentices, sharing the work among the three of them, and they ate their meal in an atmosphere of friendship and shared experience.

  Horace, however, was still a little in awe of the tall young Ranger. Will eventually realized that, by teasing him, Gilan was doing his best to set Horace at ease, making sure that he didn’t feel left out. Will found himself warming to Halt’s former apprentice even more than before. He reflected thoughtfully that he still had a lot to learn about managing people.

  He knew that he faced at least another four years’ training before he finished his apprenticeship. Then, he supposed, he’d be expected to carry out clandestine missions, gather intelligence about the kingdom’s enemies and perhaps lead elements of the army, just as Halt did. The thought that one day he would have to depend on his own wits and skill was a daunting one.

  He sighed. Sometimes, it seemed that life was determined to be confusing. Less than a year ago, he had been a nameless, unknown orphan in Castle Redmont’s Ward. Since then, he had begun to learn the skills of a Ranger, and basked in the admiration and praise of everyone at Redmont Fief when he had helped the Baron, Sir Rodney and Halt defeat the terrifying beasts known as the Kalkara.

  He glanced across at Horace, the childhood enemy who had become his friend, and wondered if he felt the same bewildering conflict of emotions. The memory of their days in the Ward together reminded him of his other friends—George, Jenny and Alyss, now apprenticed to their own Craftmasters. He wished he’d had time to say good-bye to them before leaving for Celtica. Particularly Alyss. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of her. Alyss had kissed him after his homecoming dinner at the inn and he still remembered the soft touch of her lips.

  Yes, he thought, particularly Alyss.

  Across the campfire, Gilan observed Will through half-closed eyes. It wasn’t easy being Halt’s apprentice, he knew. Halt was a near-legendary figure and that laid a heavy burden on anyone apprenticed to him. There was a lot to live up to. He decided that Will needed a little distraction.

  “Right!” he said, springing lithely to his feet. “Lessons!”

  Will and Horace looked at each other.

  “Lessons?” said Will, in a pleading tone of voice. After a day in the saddle, he was hoping more for his bedroll.

  “That’s right,” Gilan said cheerfully. “Even though we’re on a mission, it’s up to me to keep up the instruction for you two.”

  Now it was Horace’s turn to be puzzled. “For me?” he asked. “Why should I be taught any Ranger skills?”

  Gilan picked up his sword and scabbard from where they lay beside his saddle. He withdrew the slender, shining blade from its plain leather receptacle. There was a faint hiss as it came free and the blade seemed to dance in the shifting firelight.

  “Not Ranger skills, my boy. Combat skills. Heaven knows, we’ll need them as sharp as possible before too long. There’s a war coming, you know.” He regarded the heavyset boy before him with a critical eye. “Now, let’s see what you know about that toothpick you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, right!” said Horace, sounding a little more pleased about this turn of events. He never minded a little sword practice and he knew it wasn’t a Ranger’s skill. He drew his own sword confidently and stood before Gilan, point politely lowered to the ground. Gilan stuck his own sword point-first into the soft earth, and held out his hand for Horace’s.

  “May I see that, please?” he asked. Horace nodded and handed it to Gilan hilt-first.

  Gilan hefted it, tossed it lightly, then swung it experimentally a few times.

  “See this, Will? This is what you look for in a sword.”

  Will looked at the sword, unimpressed. It looked plain to him. The blade was slightly blued steel, simple and straight. The hilt was leather wrapped around the steel tang and the crosspiece was a chunky piece of brass. He shrugged.

  “It doesn’t look special,” he said apologetically, not wanting to hurt Horace’s feelings.

  “It’s not how they look that counts,” said Gilan. “It’s how they feel. This one, for example. It’s well balanced, so you can swing it all day without getting overtired, and the blade is light but strong. I’ve seen blades twice this thick snapped in half by a good blow from a cudgel. Fancy ones too,” he added, with a smile, “with engravings and inlays and jewels.”

  “Sir Rodney says jewels in the hilt are just unnecessary weight,” said Horace. Gilan nodded agreement.

  “What’s more, they tend to encourage people to attack you and rob you,” he said. Then, all business again, he returned Horace’s sword and took up his own.

  “Very well, Horace, we’ve seen that the sword is good quality. Let’s see about its owner.”

  Horace hesitated, not sure what Gilan intended.

  “Sir?” he said awkwardly.

  Gilan gestured to himself with his left hand. “Attack me,” he said cheerfully. “Have a swing. Take a whack. Lop my head off.”

  Still Horace stood uncertainly. Gilan’s sword wasn’t in the guard position. He held it negligently in his right hand, the point downward. Horace made a helpless gesture.

  “Come on, Horace,” Gilan said. “Let’s not wait all night. Let’s see what you can do.”

  Horace put his own sword point-first into the earth.

  “But you see, sir, I’m a trained warrior,” he said. Gilan thought about this and nodded.

  “True,” he said. “But you’ve been training for less than a year. I shouldn’t think you’ll chop too much off me.”

  Horace looked to Will for support. Will could only shrug. He assumed that Gilan knew what he was doing. But he hadn’t known him long, and he’d never seen him so much as draw his sword, let alone practice with it. Gilan shook his head in mock despair.

  “Come on, Horace,” he said. “I do have a vague idea what this is all about.”

  Reluctantly, Horace swung a halfhearted blow at Gilan. Obviously, he was worried that, if he should penetrate the Ranger’s guard, he was not sufficiently experienced to pull the blow and avoid injuring him. Gilan didn’t even raise his sword to protect himself. Instead, he swayed easily to one side and Horace’s blade passed harmlessly clear of him.

  “Come on!” he said. “Do it as if you mean it!”

  Horace took a deep breath and swung a full-blooded roundhouse stroke at Gilan.

  It was like poetry, Will thought. Like dancing. Like the movement of running water over smooth rocks. Gilan’s sword, seemingly propelled only by his fingers and wrist, swung in a flashing arc to intercept Horace’s blow. There was a ring of steel and Horace stopped, surprised. The parry had jarred his hand through to the elbow. Gilan raised his eyebrows at him.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Try again.”

  And Horace did. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings.

  Each time, Gilan’s sword flicked into position to block the stroke with a resounding clash. As they continued, Horace swung harder and faster. Sweat broke out on his forehead and soon his shirt was soaked. Now he had no thought of trying not to hurt Gilan. He cut and slashed freely, trying to break through that impenetrable defense.

  Finally, as Horace’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, Gilan changed from the blocking movement that had been so effective against Horace’s strongest blows. His sword clashe
d against Horace’s, then whipped around in a small, circular motion so that his blade was on top. Then, with a slithering clash, he ran his blade down Horace’s, forcing the apprentice’s sword point down to the ground. As the point touched the damp earth, Gilan swiftly put one booted foot on it to hold it there.

  “Right, that’ll do,” he said calmly. Yet his eyes were riveted on Horace’s, making sure the boy knew that the practice session was over. Sometimes, Gilan knew, in the heat of the moment, the losing swordsman could try for just one more cut—at a time when his opponent had assumed the fight was over.

  And then, all too often, it was.

  He saw now that Horace was aware. He stepped back lightly from him, moving quickly out of the reach of the sword.

  “Not bad,” said Gilan approvingly. Horace, mortified, let his sword drop to the turf.

  “Not bad?” he exclaimed. “It was terrible! I never once looked like…” He hesitated. Somehow, it didn’t seem polite to admit that for the last three or four minutes, he’d been trying to hack Gilan’s head from his shoulders. He finally managed to compromise by saying: “I never once managed to break through your guard.”

  “Well,” Gilan said modestly, “I have done this sort of thing before, you know.”

  “Yes,” panted Horace. “But you’re a Ranger. Everyone knows Rangers don’t use swords.”

  “Apparently, this one does,” said Will, grinning. Horace, to his credit, smiled wearily in return.

  “You can say that again.” He turned respectfully to Gilan. “May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship, sir? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gilan shook his head in mock reproof. “There you go again with the ‘sir,’” he said. Then, in answer: “My Swordmaster was an old man. A northerner named MacNeil.”

  “MacNeil!” Horace whispered in awe. “You don’t mean the MacNeil? MacNeil of Bannock?”

  Gilan nodded. “He’s the one,” he replied. “You’ve heard of him then?”

  Horace nodded reverently. “Who hasn’t heard of MacNeil?”

  And at that stage, Will, tired of not knowing what was going on, decided to speak up.

  “Well, I haven’t, for one,” he said. “But I’ll make tea if anyone chooses to tell me about him.”

  4

  “SO TELL ME ABOUT THIS NEIL PERSON,” SAID WILL, AS THE three of them settled comfortably by the fire, steaming mugs of herb tea warming their cupped hands.

  “MacNeil,” Horace corrected him. “He’s a legend.”

  “Oh, he’s real enough,” said Gilan. “I should know. I practiced under him for five years. I started when I was eleven, then, at fourteen, I was apprenticed to Halt. But he always gave me leave of absence to continue my work with the Swordmaster.”

  “But why did you continue to learn the sword after you started training as a Ranger?” Horace asked.

  Gilan shrugged. “Maybe people thought it was a shame to waste all that early training. I certainly wanted to continue, and my father is Sir David of Caraway Fief, so I suppose I was given some leeway in the matter.”

  Horace sat up a little straighter at the mention of the name.

  “Battlemaster David?” he said, obviously more than a little impressed. “The new supreme commander?”

  Gilan nodded, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “The same,” he agreed. Then, seeing that Will was still in the dark, he explained further: “My father has been appointed supreme commander of the King’s armies, since Lord Northolt was murdered. He commanded the cavalry at the Battle of Hackham Heath.”

  Will’s eyes widened. “When Morgarath was defeated and driven into the mountains?”

  Both Horace and Gilan nodded. Horace continued the explanation enthusiastically.

  “Sir Rodney says his coordination of the cavalry with flanking archers in the final stage of the battle is a classic of its kind. He still teaches it as an example of perfect tactics. No wonder your father was chosen to replace Lord Northolt.”

  Will realized that the conversation had moved away from its original gambit.

  “So what did your father have to do with this MacNeil character?” he asked, returning to the subject.

  “Well,” said Gilan, “my father was a former pupil as well. It was only natural that MacNeil should gravitate to his Battleschool, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Will agreed.

  “And it was only natural that I should come under his tutelage as soon as I could swing a sword. After all, I was the Battlemaster’s son.”

  “So how was it that you became a Ranger?” Horace asked. “Weren’t you accepted as a knight?”

  Both Rangers looked at him quizzically, somewhat amused by his assumption that a person only became a Ranger after failing to become a knight or a warrior. In truth, it was only a short time since Will had felt the same way, but now he conveniently overlooked the fact. Horace became aware of the extended lull in the conversation, then of the looks they were giving him. All of a sudden, he realized his gaffe, and tried to recover.

  “I mean…you know. Well, most of us want to be knights, don’t we?”

  Will and Gilan exchanged glances. Gilan raised an eyebrow. Horace blundered on.

  “I mean…no offense or anything…but everyone I know wants to be a warrior.” His embarrassment lessened as he pointed a forefinger at Will. “You did yourself, Will! I remember when we were kids, you used to always say you were going to Battleschool and you’d become a famous knight!”

  Now it was Will’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “And you always sneered at me, didn’t you, and said I’d be too small?” he said.

  “Well, you were!” said Horace, with some heat.

  “Is that right?” Will replied angrily. “Well, does it occur to you that maybe Halt had already spoken to Sir Rodney and said he wanted me as an apprentice? And that’s the reason why I wasn’t selected for Battleschool? Has that ever occurred to you?”

  Gilan interrupted at this point, gently stopping the argument before it got any further out of hand.

  “I think that’s enough of childhood squabbles,” he said firmly. Both boys, each ready with another verbal barb, subsided a little awkwardly.

  “Oh…yes. Right,” mumbled Will. “Sorry.”

  Horace nodded several times, embarrassed at the petty scene that had just occurred. “Me too,” he said. Then, curiosity piqued, he added: “Is that how it happened, Will? Did Halt tell Sir Rodney not to pick you because he wanted you for a Ranger?”

  Will dropped his gaze and picked at a loose thread on his shirt.

  “Well…not exactly,” he said, then admitted, “and you’re right. I always did want to be a knight when I was a kid.” Then, turning quickly to Gilan, he added, “But I wouldn’t change now, not for anything!”

  Gilan smiled at the two of them. “I was the opposite,” he said. “Remember, I grew up in the Battleschool. I may have started my training with MacNeil when I was eleven, but I began my basic training at around nine.”

  “That must have been wonderful,” Horace said with a sigh. Surprisingly, Gilan shook his head.

  “Not to me. You know what they say about distant pastures always looking greener?”

  Both boys looked puzzled by this.

  “It means you always want what you haven’t got,” he said, and they both nodded their understanding. “Well, that’s the way I was. By the time I was twelve, I was sick to death of the discipline and drills and parades.” He glanced sidelong at Horace. “There’s a bit of that goes on in Battleschool, you know.”

  The heavyset boy sighed. “You’re telling me,” he agreed. “Still, the horsemanship and practice combats are fun.”

  “Maybe,” said Gilan. “But I was more interested in the life the Rangers led. After Hackham Heath, my father and Halt had become good friends and Halt used to come visiting. I’d see him come and go. So mysterious. So adventurous. I started to think what it might be like to come and go as you please. To live in the forests. People know so li
ttle about Rangers, it seemed like the most exciting thing in the world to me.”

  Horace looked doubtful. “I’ve always been a little scared of Halt,” he said. “I used to think he was some kind of sorcerer.”

  Will snorted in disbelief. “Halt? A sorcerer?” he said. “He’s nothing of the kind!”

  Horace looked at him, pained once again. “But you used to think the same thing!” he said.

  “Well…I suppose so. But I was only a kid then.”

  “So was I!” replied Horace, with devastating logic.

  Gilan grinned at the two of them. They were both still boys. Halt had been right, he thought. It was good for Will to be spending some time in company with someone his own age.

  Will turned to the older Ranger. “So did you ask Halt to take you as an apprentice?” he asked. Then, before receiving any answer, continued, “What did he say to that?”

  Gilan shook his head. “I didn’t ask him anything. I followed him one day when he left our castle and headed into the forest.”

  “You followed him? A Ranger? You followed a Ranger into the forest?” said Horace. He didn’t know whether to be impressed by Gilan’s courage or appalled at his foolhardiness. Will sprang to Gilan’s defense.

  “Gil’s one of the best unseen movers in the Ranger Corps,” he said quickly. “The best, probably.”

  “I wasn’t then,” said Gilan ruefully. “Mind you, I thought I knew a bit about moving without being seen. I found out how little I actually did know when I tried to sneak up on Halt when he stopped for a noon meal. Next thing I knew, his hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me in a stream.”

  He smiled at the memory of it.

  “I suppose he sent you home in disgrace then?” asked Horace, but Gilan shook his head again, a distant smile still on his face as he remembered that day.

  “On the contrary, he kept me with him for a week. Said I wasn’t too bad at sneaking around the forest and I might have some talent as an unseen mover. He started to teach me about being a Ranger—and by the end of the week, I was his apprentice.”