The Ruins of Gorlan ra-1

by John Flanagan

  "Yes, Martin?" he said. "What is it?" Martin had the grace to look embarrassed. He knew that his master was intentionally misunderstanding his interruption. He took a deep breath, and said in an apologetic tone, "I… simply wanted to inform you that the candidate's name is Jennifer Dalby, sir."

  The Baron nodded at him, and Martin, a devoted servant of the heavy bearded man, saw the look of approval in his lord's eyes. "Thank you, Martin. Now, Jennifer Dalby…"

  "Jenny, sir," said the irrepressible girl, and he shrugged resignedly. "Jenny, then. I assume that you are applying to be apprenticed to Master Chubb?"

  "Oh, yes, please, sir!" Jenny replied breathlessly, turning adoring eyes on the portly, red-haired cook. Chubb scowled thoughtfully and considered her. "Mmmmm… could be, could be," he muttered, walking back and forth in front of her. She smiled winningly at him, but Chubb was beyond such feminine wiles.

  "I'd work hard, sir," she told him earnestly.

  "I know you would!" he replied with some spirit. "I'd make sure of it, girl. No slacking or lollygagging in my kitchen, let me tell you." Fearing that her opportunity might be slipping away, Jenny played her trump card.

  "I have the right shape for it," she said. Chubb had to agree that she was well rounded. Arald, not for the first time that morning, hid a smile. "She has a point there, Chubb," he put in, and the cook turned to him in agreement. "Shape is important, sir. All great cooks tend to be… rounded." He turned back to the girl, still considering. It was all very well for the others to accept their trainees in the wink of an eye, he thought. But cooking was something special.

  "Tell me," he said to the eager girl, "what would you do with a turkey pie?"

  Jenny smiled dazzlingly at him. "Eat it," she answered immediately. Chubb rapped her on the head with the ladle he carried. "I meant what would you do about cooking it?" he asked.

  Jenny hesitated, gathered her thoughts, then plunged into a lengthy technical description of how she would go about constructing such a masterpiece. The other four wards, the Baron, his Craftmasters and Martin listened in some awe, with absolutely no comprehension of what she was saying. Chubb, however, nodded several times as she spoke, interrupting as she detailed the rolling of the pastry.

  "Nine times, you say?" he said curiously and Jenny nodded, sure of her ground.

  "My mother always said: 'Eight times to make it flaky and once more for love,'" she said. Chubb nodded thoughtfully.

  "Interesting. Interesting," he said, then, looking up at the Baron, he nodded. "I'll take her, my lord."

  "What a surprise," the Baron said mildly, then added, "Very well, report to the kitchens in the morning, Jennifer."

  "Jenny, sir," the girl corrected him again, her smile lighting up the room.

  Baron Arald smiled. He glanced at the small group before him. "And that leaves us with one more candidate." He glanced at his list, then looked up to meet Will's agonized gaze, gesturing encouragement.

  Will stepped forward, nervousness suddenly drying his throat so that his voice came out in barely a whisper.

  "Will, sir. My name is Will."

  Chapter 4

  "Will? Will who?" Martin asked in exasperation, flicking through the sheets of paper with the candidates' details written on them. He had only been the Baron's secretary for five years and so knew nothing of Will's history. He realized now that there was no family name on the boy's papers and, assuming he had let this mistake slip past, he was annoyed at himself.

  "What's your family name, boy?" he asked severely. Will looked at him, hesitating, hating this moment.

  "I… don't have…" he began, but mercifully the Baron interceded.

  "Will is a special case, Martin," he said quietly, his look telling the secretary to let the matter go. He turned back to Will, smiling encouragement.

  "What school did you wish to apply for, Will?" he asked.

  "Battleschool, please, my lord," Will replied, trying to sound confident in his choice. The Baron allowed a frown to crease his forehead and Will felt his hopes sinking.

  "Battleschool, Will? You don't think you're… a little on the small side?" the Baron asked gently. Will bit his lip. He had all but convinced himself that if he wanted this badly enough, if he believed in himself strongly enough, he would be accepted-in spite of his obvious shortcomings.

  "I haven't had my growing spurt yet, sir," he said desperately. "Everybody says that." The Baron rubbed his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger as he considered the boy before him. He glanced to his Battlemaster.

  "Rodney?" he said.

  The tall knight stepped forward, studied Will for a moment or two, then slowly shook his head.

  "I'm afraid he's too small, my lord," he said. Will felt a cold hand clutch his heart.

  "I'm stronger than I look, sir," he said. But the Battlemaster was unswayed by the plea. He glanced at the Baron, obviously not enjoying the situation, and shook his head.

  "Any second choice, Will?" the Baron asked. His voice was gentle, even concerned.

  Will hesitated for a long moment. He had never considered any other selection.

  "Horseschool, sir?" he asked finally.

  Horseschool trained and cared for the mighty battlehorses that the castle's knights rode. It was at least a link to Battleschool, Will thought. But Ulf, the Horsemaster, was shaking his head already, even before the Baron asked his opinion.

  "I need apprentices, my lord," he said, "but this one's too small. He'd never control one of my battlehorses. They'd stomp him into the ground as soon as look at him."

  Will could only see the Baron through a watery blur now. He fought desperately to keep the tears from sliding down his cheeks. That would be the ultimate humiliation: to be rejected from Battleschool and then to break down and cry like a baby in front of the Baron, all the Craftmasters and his wardmates.

  "What skills do you have, Will?" the Baron was asking him.

  Will racked his brain. He wasn't good at lessons and languages, as Alyss was. He couldn't form neat, perfect letters, the way George did. Nor did he have Jenny's interest in cooking.

  And he certainly didn't have Horace's muscles and strength.

  "I'm a good climber, sir," he said finally, seeing that the Baron was waiting for him to say something. It was a mistake, he realized instantly. Chubb, the cook, glared at him angrily.

  "He can climb, all right. I remember when he climbed up a drainpipe into my kitchen and stole a tray of sweetcakes that were cooling on the windowsill."

  Will's jaw dropped with the unfairness of it all. That had been two years ago! He was a child then and it was a mere childish prank, he wanted to say. But now the Scribemaster was talking too.

  "And just this last spring he climbed up to our third-floor study and turned two rabbits loose during one of our legal debates. Most disruptive. Absolutely!"

  "Rabbits, you say, Scribemaster?" said the Baron, and Nigel nodded emphatically.

  "A male and a female rabbit, my lord, if you take my meaning?" he replied. "Most disruptive indeed!" Unseen by Will, the very serious Lady Pauline put one elegant hand in front of her mouth. She might have been concealing a yawn. But when she removed the hand, the corners of her mouth were slightly uptilted still.

  "Well, yes," said the Baron. "We all know how rabbits are."

  "And, as I said, my lord, it was spring." Nigelwent on, in case the Baron had missed the point. Lady Pauline gave vent to an unladylike cough. The Baron looked in her direction, in some surprise.

  "I think we get the picture, Scribemaster," he said, then returned his gaze to the desperate figure who stood in front of him. Will kept his chin up and stared straight ahead. The Baron felt for the young lad in that moment. He could see the tears welling up in those lively brown eyes, held back only by an infinite determination. Willpower, he thought abstractedly, recognizing the play on the boy's name. He didn't enjoy putting the boy through all this, but it had to be done. He sighed inwardly.

  "Is there any one of you who coul
d use this boy?" he said.

  Despite himself, Will allowed his head to turn and gaze pleadingly at the line of Craftmasters, praying that one of them would relent and accept him. One by one, silently, they shook their heads.

  Surprisingly, it was the Ranger who broke the awful silence in the room.

  "There is something you should know about this boy, my lord," he said. Will had never heard Halt speak before. His voice was deep and soft-spoken, with the slightest burr of a Hibernian accent still noticeable.

  He stepped forward now and handed the Baron a sheet of paper, folded double. Arald unfolded it, studied the words written there and frowned.

  "You're sure of this, Halt?" he said.

  "Indeed, my lord."

  The Baron carefully refolded the paper and placed it on his desk. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desktop, then said:

  "I'll have to think on this overnight."

  Halt nodded and stepped back, seeming to fade into the background as he did so. Will stared anxiously at him, wondering what information the mysterious figure had passed on to the Baron. Like most people, Will had grown up believing that Rangers were people who were best avoided. They were a secretive, arcane group, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty, and that uncertainty led to fear.

  Will didn't like the thought that Halt knew something about him-something that he felt was important enough to bring to the Baron's attention today, of all days. The sheet of paper lay there, tantalizingly close, yet impossibly far away.

  He realized that there was movement around him and the Baron was speaking to the other people in the room.

  "Congratulations to those who were selected here today. It's a big day for all of you, so you're free to have the rest of the day off and enjoy yourselves. The kitchens will provide a banquet for you in your quarters and for the rest of the day you have free run of the castle and the village.

  "Tomorrow, you'll report to your new Craftmasters first thing in the morning. And if you'll take a tip from me, you'll make sure you're on time." He smiled at the other four, then addressed Will, with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

  "Will, I'll let you know tomorrow what I've decided about you." He turned to Martin and gestured for him to show the new apprentices out. "Thank you, everyone," he said, and left the room through the door behind his desk.

  The Craftmasters followed his lead, then Martin ushered the former wards to the door. They chatted together excitedly, relieved and delighted that they had been selected by the Craftmasters of their choice.

  Will hung back behind the others, hesitating as he passed the desk where that sheet of paper still lay. He stared at it for a moment, as if somehow he could see through to the words written on the reverse side. Then he felt that same sensation that he had felt earlier, that someone was watching him. He looked up and found himself staring into the dark eyes of the Ranger, who remained behind the Baron's high-backed chair, almost invisible in that strange cloak of his.

  Will shuddered in a sudden frisson of fear and hurried out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  It was long after midnight. The flickering torches around the castle yard, already replaced once, had begun to burn low again. Will had watched patiently for hours, waiting for this moment – when the light was uncertain and the guards were yawning, in the last hour of their shift.

  The day had been one of the worst he could remember. While his yearmates celebrated, enjoying their feast and then spending their time in lighthearted horseplay through the castle and the village, Will had slipped away to the silence of the forest, a kilometer or so from the castle walls. There, in the dim green coolness beneath the trees, he had spent the afternoon reflecting bitterly on the events of the Choosing, nursing the deep pain of disappointment and wondering what the Ranger's paper said.

  As the long day wore on, and the shadows began to lengthen in the open fields beside the forest, he came to a decision.

  He had to know what was on the paper. And he had to know tonight.

  Once night fell, he made his way back to the castle, avoiding villagers and castle folk alike, and secreted himself in the branches of the fig tree again. On the way, he slipped unnoticed into the kitchens and helped himself to bread, cheese and apples. He munched moodily on these, barely tasting them, as the evening passed and the castle began to settle down for the night.

  He observed the movements of the guards, getting a feeling for their timing as they went on their regular rounds. In addition to the guard troop, there was a sergeant on duty at the doorway of the tower that led to Baron Arald's quarters. But he was overweight and sleepy and there was little chance that he would pose a risk to Will. After all, he had no intention of using the door or the stairway.

  Over the years, his insatiable curiosity, and a penchant for going places where he wasn't supposed to, had developed within him the skill of moving across seemingly open space without being seen.

  As the wind stirred the upper branches of the trees, they created moving patterns in the moonlight – patterns that Will now used to great effect. He instinctively matched his movement to the rhythm of the trees, blending easily into the pattern of the yard, becoming part of it and so being concealed by it. In a way, the lack of obvious cover made his task a little easier. The fat sergeant didn't expect anyone to be moving across the open space of the yard. So, not expecting to see anyone, he failed to do so.

  Breathless, Will flattened himself against the rough stone of the tower wall. The sergeant was barely five meters away and Will could hear his heavy breathing, but a small buttress in the wall hid him from the man's sight. He studied the wall in front of him, craning back to look up. The Baron's office window was a long way up, and farther around the tower. To reach it, he would have to climb up, then work his way across the face of the wall, to a spot beyond the point where the sergeant stood guard, then up again to the window. He licked his lips nervously. Unlike the smooth inner walls of the tower, the huge blocks of stone that comprised the tower's outer wall had large gaps between them. Climbing would be no problem. He'd have plenty of foot- and handholds all the way up. In some places, the stone would have been worn smooth by the weather over the years, he knew, and he'd have to go carefully. But he'd climbed all the other three towers at some time in the past and he expected no real difficulty with this one.

  But this time, if he were seen, he wouldn't be able to pass it off as a prank. He would be climbing in the middle of the night to a part of the castle where he had no right to be. After all, the Baron didn't post guards on this tower for the fun of it. People were supposed to stay away unless they had business here.

  He rubbed his hands together nervously. What could they do to him? He had already been passed over in the Choosing. Nobody wanted him. He was condemned to a life in the fields already. What could be worse than that?

  But there was a nagging doubt at the back of his mind: He wasn't absolutely sure that he was condemned to that life. A faint spark of hope still remained. Perhaps the Baron would relent. Perhaps, if Will pleaded with him in the morning, and explained about his father and how important it was for him to be accepted for Battleschool, there was a very faint chance that his wish would be granted. And then, once he was accepted, he could show how his eagerness and dedication would make him a worthy student, until his growing spurt happened.

  On the other hand, if he were caught in the next few minutes, not even that small chance would remain. He had no idea what they would do to him if he were caught, but he could be reasonably sure that it wouldn't involve being accepted into Battleschool.

  He hesitated, needing some slight extra push to get him going. It was the fat sergeant who provided it. Will heard the heavy intake of breath, the shuffling of the man's studded boots against the flagstones as he gathered his equipment together, and he realized that the sergeant was about to make one of his irregular circuits of his beat. Usually, this entailed going a few meters around the tower to either side of the doorway, then returning to
his original position. It was more for the purpose of staying awake than anything else, but Will realized that it would bring them face-to-face within the next few seconds if he didn't do something.

  Quickly, easily, he began to swarm up the wall. He made the first five meters in a matter of seconds, spread out against the rough stone like a giant, four-legged spider. Then, hearing the heavy footsteps directly below him, he froze, clinging to the wall in case some slight noise might alert the sentry.

  In fact, it seemed that the sergeant had heard something. He paused directly below the point where Will clung, peering into the night, trying to see past the dappled, moving shadows cast by the moon and the swaying trees. But, as Will had thought the night before, people seldom look up. The sergeant, eventually satisfied that he had heard nothing significant, continued to march slowly around the tower.

  That was the chance Will needed. It also gave him the opportunity to move across the tower face so that he was directly below the window he wanted. Hands and feet finding purchase easily, he moved almost as fast as a man could walk, all the time going higher and higher up the tower wall.

  At one point, he looked down and that was a mistake. Despite his good head for heights, his vision swam slightly as he saw how far he had come, and how far below him the hard flagstones of the castle yard were. The sergeant was coming back into view – a tiny figure when seen from this height. Will blinked the moment of vertigo away and continued to climb, perhaps a little more slowly and with a little more care than before.

  There was a heart-stopping moment when, stretching his right foot to a new foothold, his left boot slipped on the weather-rounded edge of the massive building blocks, and he was left clinging by his hands alone as he desperately scrabbled for a foothold. Then he recovered and kept moving.

  He felt a surge of relief as his hands finally closed over the stone window ledge and he heaved himself up and into the room, swinging his legs over the sill and dropping lightly inside.

  The Baron's office was deserted, of course. The three-quarter moon streamed light in through the big window.