Ranger's Apprentice, Book 8: The Kings of Clonmel: Book 8

by John Flanagan

  Halt heard the scrape of flint on steel and raised his eyes a fraction. The man was hunkered behind the boat, his back to Halt. As the Ranger watched, he heard another scrape and saw the brief blue flash of light from the flint.

  On elbows and knees, he slithered forward like a giant, silent snake, rising to a crouch as he reached the unsuspecting man.

  The first moment the raider knew he wasn’t alone was when an iron bar of an arm clamped across his throat while a powerful hand forced his head forward to complete the choke hold. He managed one small gasp of surprise before his air supply was cut off.

  “What’s wrong?” The whispered call came from the other boat. Halt, continuing to apply the choke hold on the rapidly weakening man, replied in a similar whisper.

  “Nothing. Dropped the flint.”

  He saw the reflection of another flint striking steel from the other boat as he heard the angry whispered reply.

  “Well, shut up and get on with it.”

  The choke hold had taken full effect now, and the man he had surprised slumped unconscious. Halt laid him down in the sand. There had been no further sound of flint striking steel from the far side of the boat, which meant the first raider had succeeded in getting a flame lit. There wasn’t any time to waste. The sun-dried timbers of the boat, coated with varnish and paint, and the heavily tarred rigging would burn quickly. The fastest way to reach the man was over the boat between them. Halt crept over the bulwark, crossed to the far side and rolled over onto the sand.

  As he came to his feet, he saw the tiny glow of a flame in the tinder held by the man. The raider was looking at the flame as he heard the slight noise behind him. He glanced up, his eyes dazzled by the tiny patch of flame, and saw only a dark figure a few meters away. Logically enough, he assumed it was his companion.

  “What are you doing? Have you finished?”

  The time for concealment was over, Halt thought. In his normal voice, he replied, “Not quite.”

  Too late, the other man realized this was a stranger. He rose from his crouch. But as he did, Halt slapped the burning pile of tinder out of his hand, scattering it onto the sand. Then he followed through with his other hand, his left, in a hooking palm strike that had all the power of his twisting body and shoulder behind it.

  The heel of his hand slammed into the man’s chin, snapping his head back and sending him crashing into the hull of the boat with a cry of pain. As the man slid to the sand, half conscious, Halt yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “Fire! Fire in the boats! Fire!”

  He heard a chorus of startled exclamations from the other four raiders as they tried to figure out what had happened. There was no plan to start yelling once the fires were lit. Yet as far as they knew, only their two companions were at the boats.

  “Fire!” Halt yelled again. “Get to the boats! Fire!”

  His voice was startlingly loud in the peaceful night, and already there were lights showing in the houses of the village. The four men realized now that things had gone seriously wrong and they rose, running toward the boats. Halt broke from cover, angling up the beach and away from them. Instinctively, they turned to pursue him, which was what he’d intended. He didn’t want them trying to finish the job of setting fire to the boats.

  “Get him!” he heard someone yelling, and the soft thud of feet in the sand was close behind him.

  But now there were other voices shouting in the distance as the villagers awoke and raised the alarm, and he heard the running feet behind him hesitate.

  “Let him go! Get Morris and Scarr and let’s get out of here!” he heard the same voice yell. Morris and Scarr would be the two who had tried to burn the boats, and the raiders wouldn’t want to leave them for the villagers to question. The running feet behind him turned away, heading back to the boats. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the four men heading back to drag their companions clear. Several hundred meters farther down the beach, lanterns indicated the villagers heading for the boats, although their initial sense of urgency was gone as they could see no sign of fire at the boats.

  The raiding party would have time to get away, he thought. But there was little he could do about that now. The large pavilion where the Outsiders were camped was slowly coming to life as well. Doubtless they’d been awake all along, watching for their accomplices to carry out their plan. Now, of course, they could hardly pretend to have slept through the racket.

  Halt slowed his pace to a jog as he reached the trees at the edge of the beach. He stopped inside the shadows they cast and took several deep breaths. Like all Rangers, he was in excellent physical condition. But it never hurt to rest when you had the chance, and he could feel the adrenaline surging through his system, making his breath come faster and his heart beat more rapidly.

  Calm down, he told his racing body, and he felt his pulse begin to slow to a more normal rate.

  All in all, it had been a successful night, he thought. He would have preferred it if one or two of the raiders had been left behind for the villagers to question. But at least he’d thwarted their plan to burn the boats.

  And he would have thrown a large doubt into their minds as they tried to work out what had gone wrong with their plan and who had interfered.

  He smiled grimly to himself. He liked the idea that the Outsiders might have something to worry about. Perhaps it was that small satisfaction that took the edge off his natural sense of caution. As he turned to head for the spot where he had left Abelard, he blundered into a man who stepped from behind a tree.

  “Who the blazes are you?” the man demanded. He had a heavy spiked club in his hand and he swung it up now, preparing for a crushing blow to this stranger’s head.

  The immediate act of aggression told Halt that this was another of the Outsiders’ gang. Recovering quickly from his shock, he flat-kicked sideways at the inside of the man’s left knee. The leg buckled and the man collapsed with a cry of pain, holding his injured knee and yelling.

  “Help! Help! Over here!”

  Halt heard answering cries and the sound of bodies running through the trees and bushes. Moving like a wraith, he sped away. He had to reach Abelard before the pursuers caught up with him.

  7

  THE GATHERING WAS COMING TO A CLOSE. THE TWO FINAL-YEAR apprentices were being given the usual initiation into the ranks. Will grinned as he watched, feeling Gilan’s elbow dig into his ribs. Not too long ago, he had been in a similar position, feeling dumbfounded as Crowley bumbled and mumbled and hurled bits of paper around, making light of the whole process.

  He watched the two new Rangers as they mirrored his own bemusement. After five years’ hard work and faithful application, a graduating apprentice expected some kind of ceremony. Something to mark what was undoubtedly the most important day of his life to date. And so the Ranger Corps, in its own unique style, went out of its way to avoid any such thing. Because, as Will realized now, graduation wasn’t an end. It was the beginning of a much larger and more important phase of life.

  Ostensibly, only Crowley, the two apprentices and their mentors were present. But in fact, they were surrounded by a group of silent, unseen spectators as the rest of the Rangers stood concealed among the trees, ready to leap out with their cries of congratulation and welcome, just as they did at every induction.

  The boys’ parents and several family members had been admitted to the area to see their sons graduate, traveling the last ten kilometers of the trip blindfolded, as the location of the Gathering Ground was a closely guarded secret. They too watched with anticipation and amusement from the shadow of the trees.

  Only the younger apprentices were absent. It was a strict rule that nobody would ever tell an apprentice what lay in store for him at his graduation, and so three of the Corps’ older Rangers had taken the first- and third-year apprentices (there were no second- or fourth-year trainees this Gathering) to a site well away from the Gathering Ground for a final series of lectures. They would return in time for t
he feast that followed the inductions.

  Crowley was coming to the end of his usual, masterful performance.

  “So,” he said, eyes down and reading at breakneck pace as if he wanted to get through the entire matter as quickly as possible, “you, Clarke of Caraway Fief, and you, Skinner of wherever it is you come from . . . yes . . . hang on a minute, where is it . . . Martinsyde Fief, of course . . . have completed all aspects of your training and are ready to be inducted as full members of the Ranger Corps. So I hereby induct you, by the authority granted to me as Commandant of the Ranger Corps and blah blah blah and so on and so on, and why don’t you both shake hands and that should just about do it.”

  He stood quickly, gathering his papers, and shook hands perfunctorily with the two startled graduates.

  “Bit like a wedding, really, isn’t it?”

  The two boys looked at one another, then at Crowley. He seemed to notice their bewilderment for the first time and hesitated, looking at them with a puzzled expression. “Was there something else? Did I miss something?” He scratched his head and did a quick review of events. Will couldn’t help grinning as enlightenment seemed to dawn on the Ranger Commandant.

  “Oh, of course! You’ll want your silver geegaws, won’t you?” Crowley beckoned to Skinner and Clarke’s two mentors, who stepped forward with the tiny, glittering objects that every Ranger held dear. “Well, might as well hand ’em over!” he said.

  Then, as the two Rangers went to hang the silver oakleaf amulets around the necks of their former apprentices, the other Rangers stepped out into the clearing, throwing back the cloaks that had concealed them and surrounding the little group.

  “Congratulations!”

  The massive shout went up through the trees, waking the birds who were roosting among the branches, frightening them into a chorus that echoed the roar of approval. As the Rangers surged forward to congratulate their newest members, pounding their backs, laughing and shaking their hands, Will saw the two surprised faces transformed as Clarke and Skinner realized they had been the victims of a giant practical joke. He also saw the quick tears of pleasure and pride that sprang to their eyes as they understood that now they were fully fledged members of this elite group. He felt his own eyes sting slightly in memory of his moment of pride, then he stepped forward to take his turn at welcoming the new members.

  “Congratulations. It’s been a long five years, hasn’t it?”

  Skinner was currently being hugged by his tearful mother, a rather massively built woman who dwarfed her slim, dark-haired son.

  “I’m so proud of you! So proud! If only your father could be here!” she was saying. Skinner managed to extricate himself from her bear hug long enough to shake Will’s hand.

  “There, there, Mother,” he said. “It’s all right.” Then to Will, he admitted, “Sometimes I thought I’d never make it.”

  Will nodded. “Particularly over the last few months?” he asked, and Skinner’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “How did you know that?”

  “We all feel that way at the end,” Will told him. “You realize what a big task lies in front of you.”

  “You mean . . . you felt that way too?” Skinner said in disbelief. Skinner found it difficult to believe that a legend like Will Treaty could ever feel self-doubt.

  Will smiled. “I was terrified,” he admitted. “But trust your training. When you get your assignment, you’ll find you know a lot more than you think.”

  He left Skinner engulfed by a further explosion of motherly pride and moved on to Clarke, who was surrounded by a small group consisting of his parents, his brother and his mentor. After offering his congratulations, Will asked, “Any idea where you’ll be assigned yet?”

  Clarke shook his head. Will could see the sudden uncertainty in his eyes as he registered the fact that he would be moving away from the protective wings of his mentor and striking out in his own fief.

  “It’ll be somewhere nice and peaceful, I’m sure,” Andross, his mentor, said reassuringly. “We don’t usually throw new Rangers in at the deep end.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Will told him.

  Clarke grinned. “Anywhere would be peaceful without Andross’s snoring,” he said.

  Andross raised his eyebrows and looked sidelong at the younger man. “Is that so? Well, just pray that you’re not in the fief next to mine or you might still hear me.”

  Will joined in the general chorus of laughter. Then Clarke’s younger brother, looking admiringly at his newly elevated sibling, asked, “Will you be allowed to come home and visit for a few days before you go?”

  Clarke looked to Andross, who nodded. “New Rangers get a week’s leave with their families before taking up their posts.”

  As he looked around the circle of happy faces, Will felt a small twinge of regret. There had been no happy, admiring family to wish him well when he graduated. Then he shook the moment of melancholy away. There’d been Halt, he thought. And Halt was family enough for anyone.

  Crowley was shoving his way through the crowd now to put an arm around the shoulders of each of the new apprentices.

  “Why are we all standing here talking?” he cried. “Let’s eat!”

  The meal was a simple one, but none the less delicious for that. A venison haunch had been turning on a spit over a bed of glowing coals for some hours, the juices and fat spluttering into the fire and raising sudden bursts of flame, filling the clearing with the succulent smell of roasting meat. Two of the Rangers now carved it expertly, placing slices of the juice-laden meat on platters with a fresh green salad tossed with a tangy vinegar and oil dressing. Mounds of fresh fruit were placed along the table for dessert.

  After the meal, the Rangers sat back as jugs of steaming hot coffee were set out. Will grinned at Gilan across the table as the tall Ranger reached for a honey pot a few spaces down the table.

  “Don’t take it all,” he warned. A couple of the older Rangers sitting near them shook their heads in mock condemnation.

  “I see Halt’s still passing on his bad habits,” said one.

  Crowley announced that the entertainment was about to begin, and Berrigan, a former Ranger who had lost a leg in battle and now traveled the country as a minstrel (and an undercover agent for the Corps), stepped forward with his gitarra. He sang three songs to increasingly boisterous applause, then beckoned to Will.

  “Come and join me, Will Treaty!” he called. “Let’s see if you remember what I taught you.” The former Ranger had coached Will in his role as a jongleur when he had gone on his mission to Norgate Fief.

  Will flushed with pleasure as he rose from his seat to a chorus of friendly catcalls. He made his way to the cleared space at the head of the table where Berrigan was performing. One of the junior apprentices had been sent to fetch Will’s mandola from his tent—he rarely traveled anywhere without it—and passed the instrument to him now. Will strummed a chord experimentally.

  “I tuned it,” Berrigan told him, and Will frowned as he adjusted the top string.

  “So I see,” he replied, straight-faced, and a ripple of amusement went through the audience. Berrigan nodded appreciation of the gibe.

  “What shall we start with?” he demanded. But Will was ready for that. It was the first trick of the trade Berrigan had taught him. A professional entertainer is always ready with a song, he had told him. Hesitation marks you as an amateur.

  “ ‘Jenny on the Mountain,’ ” he said promptly.

  Berrigan smiled at him. “I see you’ve remembered some things, then.”

  They performed together for three songs. Will had a pleasant voice, and Berrigan slipped effortlessly into a harmony as the younger man sang the melody. Will had to admit that they sounded pretty good together. But after the third song, he laid the mandola down.

  “You also taught me not to overstay my welcome,” he said and he took his seat to a round of appreciative applause, content to watch the master performer for the rest of the evening.


  He rejoined Berrigan for the final song. It was the unofficial Ranger anthem, a haunting ballad called “Cabin in the Trees,” and those assembled all joined in, singing softly along to the chorus.

  “Going back to the cabin in the trees

  Going back to the creek beneath the hill.

  There’s a girl used to live there when I left

  But I doubt she’ll be waiting for me still.”

  The gentle, simple song of lost love and country living was a marked contrast to the harsh and dangerous life that Rangers led. Maybe that’s why they loved it as much as they did, Will thought. As he and Berrigan strummed the final soft chord, there was a sigh from the audience, then silence fell over them. Will glanced down the table and saw that the faces of his comrades, so often set in stern, harsh lines, had softened as they thought of old friends and times gone by.

  “Right, everyone! Attention, please!” Crowley let the moment of reflection extend for a decent interval, then brought everyone back to the present. “Last official piece of business for this Gathering. Assignments and reassignments for the coming year.”

  As Crowley took his place at the head of the table, Will resumed his seat opposite Gilan. There was a tightness in his stomach as he waited for Crowley’s next words. He’d been assigned to the sleepy backwater of Seacliff Fief for long enough, he felt.

  Perhaps it was time for something more challenging.

  “As some of you know already,” Crowley began, “Alun has decided to retire.”

  Alun was the Ranger of Whitby Fief. Now he would move to Castle Araluen, as was the custom for retired Rangers, where he would assist with administrative tasks, taking some of the paperwork burden from Crowley’s shoulders.

  He was a popular figure, and there was a round of warm applause as he stepped forward to receive his Gold Oakleaf—symbol of a retired Ranger—from Crowley.

  There was also a scroll of commendation from King Duncan, thanking Alun for his many years of loyal service to the crown.