‘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 co-ordination 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 realised 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 realised 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 offence 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 be 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 heavy-set 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 little 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 defence.
‘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 as he stopped for a noon meal. First thing I knew was 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.’
‘How did your father take it when you told him?’ Will asked. ‘Surely he wanted you to be a knight like him? I guess he was disappointed.’
‘Not at all,’ said Gilan. ‘The strange thing was, Halt had told him that I’d probably be following him into the forest. My father had already agreed that I could serve as Halt’s apprentice, before I even knew I wanted to.’
Horace frowned. ‘How could Halt have known that?’
Gilan shrugged and looked at Will meaningfully.
‘Halt has a way of knowing things, doesn’t he, Will?’ he asked, grinning. Will remembered that dark night in the Baron’s office, and the hand that had
shot out of the darkness to seize his wrist. Halt had been waiting for him that night. Just as he’d obviously waited for Gilan to follow him.
He looked deep into the low embers of the fire before he answered.
‘Maybe, in his own way, he is a kind of a sorcerer,’ he said.
The three companions sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, thinking about what had been discussed. Then Gilan stretched and yawned.
‘Well, I’m for sleep,’ he said. ‘We’re on a war footing these days so we’ll set watches. Will, you’re first, then Horace, then me. ’Night, you two.’
And so saying, he rolled himself into his grey-green cloak and was soon breathing deeply and evenly.
They were on the road again before the sun was barely clear of the horizon. The clouds had cleared now, blown away by a fresh southerly wind, and the air was crisp and cold as their trail started to wind higher into the rocky foothills leading to the border with Celtica.
The trees grew more stunted and gnarled. The grass was coarse and the thick forest was replaced by short, windblown scrub.
This was a part of the land where the winds blew constantly, and the land itself reflected its constant scouring action. The few houses they saw in the distance were huddled into the side of hills, built of stone walls and rough thatch roofs. It was a cold, hard part of the Kingdom and, as Gilan told them, it would become harder as they entered Celtica itself.
That evening, as they relaxed around the camp fire, Gilan continued with Horace’s instruction in swordsmanship.
‘Timing is the essence of the whole thing,’ he said to the sweating apprentice. ‘See how you’re parrying with your arm locked and rigid?’
Horace looked at his right arm. Sure enough, it was locked, stiff as a board. He looked pained.
‘But I have to be ready to stop your stroke,’ he explained.
Gilan nodded patiently, then demonstrated with his own sword. ‘Look … see how I’m doing it? As your stroke is coming, my hand and arm are relaxed. Then, just before your sword reaches the spot where I want to stop it, I make a small counterswing, see?’
He did so, using his hand and wrist to swing the blade of his sword in a small arc. ‘My grip tightens at the last moment, and the greater part of the energy of your swing is absorbed by the movement of my own blade.’
Horace nodded doubtfully. It seemed so easy for Gilan.
‘But … what if I mistime it?’
Gilan smiled widely. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll probably just lop your head off your shoulders.’ He paused. Horace obviously wasn’t too pleased with that answer. ‘The idea is not to mistime it,’ Gilan added gently.
‘But …’ the boy began.
‘And the way to develop your timing is?’ Gilan interrupted. Horace nodded wearily.
‘I know. I know. Practice.’
Gilan beamed at him again. ‘That’s right. So, ready? One and two and three and four, that’s better, and three and four … No! No! Just a small movement of the wrist …and one and two …’
The ring of their blades echoed through the camp site. Will watched with some interest, heightened by the fact that he wasn’t the one who was working up a sweat.
After a few days of this, Gilan noticed that Will seemed a little too relaxed. He was sitting running a stone down the edge of his sword after a practice session with Horace when he glanced quizzically at the apprentice Ranger.
‘Has Halt shown you the double knife sword defence yet?’ he asked suddenly. Will looked up in surprise.
‘The double knife … what?’ he asked uncertainly. Gilan sighed deeply.
‘Sword defence. Damn! I should have realised that there’d be more for me to do. Serves me right for taking two apprentices along with me.’ He stood up with an exaggerated sigh, and motioned for Will to follow him. Puzzled, the boy did.
Gilan led the way to the clear ground where he and Horace had been practising their swordsmanship. Horace was still there, making shadow lunges and cuts at an imaginary foe as he counted time to himself under his breath. Sweat ran freely down his face and his shirt was dark with it.
‘Right, Horace,’ called Gilan. ‘Take a break for a few minutes.’
Gratefully, Horace complied. He lowered the sword, and sank onto the trunk of a fallen tree.
‘I think I’m getting the feel of it,’ he said. Gilan nodded approvingly.
‘Good for you. Another three or four years and you might just have it mastered.’ He spoke cheerfully, but Horace’s face dropped as the prospect of long years of weary practice stretched out in front of him.
‘Look on the bright side, Horace,’ Gilan said. ‘By that time, there’d be less than a handful of swordsmen in the Kingdom who could best you in a duel.’
Horace’s face brightened somewhat, then sagged again as Gilan added: ‘The only trick is, knowing who those handful are. Be most uncomfortable if you accidentally challenged one of them and then found out, wouldn’t it?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to the smaller boy.
‘Now, Will,’ he said. ‘Let’s see those knives of yours.’
‘Both of them?’ Will hesitated and Gilan rolled his eyes to heaven. The expression was remarkably like the one that Halt used when Will asked one question too many.
‘Sorry,’ Will mumbled, unsheathing his two knives and holding them out to Gilan. The older Ranger didn’t take them. He quickly inspected their edges and checked to see that the fine layer of rust proofing oil was on them. He nodded, satisfied, when he saw everything was as it should be.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Saxe knife goes in your right hand, because that’s the one you use to block a sword cut …’
Will frowned. ‘Why would I need to block a sword cut?’
Gilan leaned forward and rapped him none too gently on the top of his head with his knuckles.
‘Well, perhaps to stop it splitting your skull might be a good reason,’ he suggested.
‘But Halt says Rangers don’t fight at close quarters,’ Will protested. Gilan nodded agreement.
‘It’s certainly not our role. But, if the occasion arises when we have to, it’s a good idea to know how to go about it.’
As they’d been talking, Horace had risen from his spot on the log and moved closer to watch them. He interrupted, a trifle scornfully.
‘You don’t think a little knife like that is going to stop a proper sword, do you?’ he asked. Gilan raised one eyebrow at him.
‘Take a closer look at that “little knife” before you sound so certain,’ he invited. Horace held out his hand for the knife. Will quickly reversed it and placed its hilt into Horace’s hand.
Will had to agree with Horace. The saxe knife was a large knife. Almost a short sword, in fact. But compared to a real sword, like Horace’s or Gilan’s, it seemed woefully inadequate.
Horace swung the knife experimentally, testing its balance.
‘It’s heavy,’ he said finally.
‘And hard. Very, very hard,’ Gilan told him. ‘Ranger knives are made by craftsmen who’ve perfected the art of hardening steel to an amazing degree. You’d blunt your sword edge against that, and barely leave a nick on it.’
Horace pursed his lips. ‘Even so, you’ve been teaching me the idea of movement and leverage all week. There’s a lot less leverage in a short blade like this.’
‘That’s true,’ Gilan agreed. ‘So we have to find another source of leverage, don’t we? And that’s the shorter knife. The throwing knife.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Horace, the frown deepening between his eyebrows. Will didn’t either, but he was glad the other boy had admitted his ignorance first. He adopted a knowing look as he waited for Gilan to explain. He should have known better. The Ranger’s sharp eyes missed very little.
‘Well, perhaps Will could explain it for you?’ Gilan said pleasantly.
He cocked his head at Will expectantly. Will hesitated.
‘Well …it’s the …ah …um … the two knife
defence,’ he stammered. There was a long pause as Gilan said nothing, so Will added, just a little doubtfully: ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is!’ Gilan replied. ‘Now would you care to demonstrate?’ He didn’t even wait for Will’s reply, but went on with barely a pause: ‘I thought not. So, please, allow me.’
He took Will’s saxe knife and withdrew his own throwing knife from its sheath. Then he gestured to Horace’s sword with the smaller knife.
‘Right then,’ he said, all business. ‘Pick up your sticker.’
Horace did so, doubtfully. Gilan gestured him out to the centre of the practice area, then took a ready stance. Horace did the same, sword point up.
‘Now,’ said Gilan, ‘try an overhand cut at me.’
‘But …’ Horace gestured unhappily to the two smaller weapons in Gilan’s grasp. Gilan rolled his eyes in exasperation.
‘When will you two learn?’ he asked. ‘I do know what I’m doing. Now get on with it!’
He actually shouted the last words at Horace. The big apprentice, galvanised into action, and conditioned to instant obedience to shouted commands by his months spent on the drill field, swung his sword in a murderous overhand cut at Gilan’s head.
There was a ringing clash of steel and the blade stopped dead in the air. Gilan had crossed the two Ranger knives in front of it, the throwing knife supporting the saxe knife blade, and blocked the cut easily. Horace stepped back, a little surprised.
‘See?’ said Gilan. ‘The smaller knife provides the support, or the extra leverage, for the bigger weapon.’ He addressed these remarks mainly to Will, who looked on with great interest. Then he spoke to Horace again. ‘Right. Underhand cut please.’
Horace swung underhand. Again, Gilan locked the two blades and blocked the stroke. He glanced at Will, who nodded his understanding.
‘Now, side cut,’ Gilan ordered. Again, Horace swung. Again, the sword was stopped cold.
‘Getting the idea?’ Gilan asked Will.
Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup Page 25
