The Burning Bridge ra-2

by John Flanagan

  "So you're taking dispatches to King Swyddned of the Celts," he said. "I assume you're invoking the mutual defense treaty that Duncan signed with him some years ago?"

  Gilan nodded, sipping appreciatively at the fragrant coffee. "The King feels we're going to need all the troops we can muster."

  Halt nodded thoughtfully. "I can't fault his thinking there," he said softly. "But:?" He spread his hands in a questioning gesture. If Gilan were taking dispatches to Celtica, the sooner he got on with it the better, the gesture seemed to say.

  "Well," said Gilan, "it's an official embassy to Celtica. " He laid a little stress on the last word and suddenly Halt nodded his understanding.

  "Of course," he said. "The old Celtic tradition."

  "Superstition, more like it," Gilan answered, shaking his head. "It's a ridiculous waste of time as far as I'm concerned."

  "Of course it is," Halt replied. "But the Celts insist on it, so what can you do?"

  Will looked from Halt to Gilan and back again. The two Rangers seemed to understand what they were talking about. To Will, they might as well have been speaking Espanard.

  "It's all very well in normal times," Gilan said. "But with all these preparations for war, we're stretched thin in every area. We simply don't have the people to spare. So Crowley thought:"

  "I think I'm ahead of you," said Halt, and finally, Will could bear it no longer.

  "Well, I'm way behind you!" he burst out. "What on earth are you two talking about? You are speaking Araluen, aren't you, and not some strange foreign tongue that just sounds like it, but makes no sense at all?"

  2

  H ALT TURNED SLOWLY TO FACE HIS IMPULSIVE YOUNG APPRENTICE, and raised his eyebrows at the outburst. Will, subsiding, muttered, "Sorry, Halt," and the older Ranger nodded.

  "I should think so. It's more than obvious that Gilan is asking if I'll release you to accompany him to Celtica."

  Gilan nodded confirmation of the fact and Will frowned, puzzled by the sudden turn of events. "Me?" he said incredulously. "Why me? What can I do in Celtica?"

  The moment the words had left his mouth, he regretted them. He should have learned by now never to give Halt that sort of opening. Halt pursed his lips as he considered the question.

  "Ask interminable questions, interrupt your betters and forget to do your chores, I suppose. The real question is, Can you be spared from duty here? And the answer to that is 'Definitely.'"

  "Then why:" Will gave up. They would either explain or they wouldn't. And no amount of asking would make Halt deliver that explanation a second sooner than he chose to. In fact, he was beginning to think that the more questions he asked, the more Halt actually enjoyed keeping him dangling. It was Gilan who took pity on him, perhaps remembering how closemouthed Halt could be when he chose.

  "I need you to make up the numbers, Will," he said. "Tradition-ally, the Celts insist that an official embassy be made up of three people. And to be honest, Halt's right. You're one who can be spared from the main effort here in Araluen." He grinned a little ruefully. "If it makes you feel any better, I've been given the mission because I'm the most junior Ranger in the Corps."

  "But why three people?" Will asked, seeing that Gilan at least seemed disposed to answer questions. "Can't one deliver the message?"

  Gilan sighed. "As we were saying, it's a superstition among the Celts. It goes back to the old days of the Celtic Council, when the Celts, the Scotti and the Hibernians were one alliance. They were ruled then by a triumvirate."

  "The point is," Halt interrupted, "of course Gilan can take the message to them. But if he's a sole messenger, they'll keep him waiting and fob him off for days, or even weeks, while they dither over form and protocol. And we don't have that sort of time to waste. There's an old Celtic saying that covers it: One man may be deceit. Two can be conspiracy. Three is the number I trust. "

  "So you're sending me because you can do without me?" Will said, somewhat insulted by the thought.

  Halt decided that it was time to massage Will's young ego a little-but only a little. "Well, we can, as a matter of fact. But you can't send just anyone on these embassies. The three members have to have some sort of official status or position in the world. They can't be simple men-at-arms, for example."

  "And you, Will," Gilan added, "are a member of the Ranger Corps. That will carry a certain amount of weight with the Celts."

  "I'm only an apprentice," Will said, and was surprised when both men shook their heads in disagreement.

  "You wear the oak leaf," Halt told him firmly. "Bronze or silver, it doesn't matter. You're one of us."

  Will brightened visibly at his teacher's statement. "Well," he said, "when you put it like that, I'd be delighted to join you, Gilan."

  Halt regarded him dryly. It was obviously time for the ego-stroking to end, he thought. Deliberately, he turned to Gilan.

  "So," he said, "can you think of anyone else who's totally unnecessary to be the third member?"

  Gilan shrugged, smiling as he saw Will subside. "That's the other reason Crowley sent me here," he said. "Since Redmont is one of the larger fiefs, he thought you might be able to spare someone else from here. Any suggestions?"

  Halt rubbed his chin thoughtfully, an idea forming. "I think we might have just the person you need," he said. He turned to Will. "Perhaps you'd better get some sleep. I'll give Gilan a hand with the horses and then we'll go up to the castle."

  Will nodded. Now that Halt mentioned sleep, he felt an irresistible urge to yawn. He rose and headed for his small room.

  "See you in the morning, Gilan."

  "Bright and early." Gilan smiled, and Will rolled his eyes in mock horror.

  "I knew you'd say that," he replied.

  Halt and Gilan bedded the two horses down and strolled through the fields toward Castle Redmont in companionable silence. Gilan, attuned to his old teacher's ways, sensed that Halt had something he wanted to discuss, and before too long, the older Ranger broke the silence.

  "This embassy to Celtica could be just what Will needs," he said. "I'm a little worried about him."

  Gilan frowned. He liked the irrepressible young apprentice. "What's the problem?" he asked.

  "He had a bad time of it when we ran into those Wargals last week," Halt said. "He thinks he's lost his nerve."

  "And has he?"

  Halt shook his head decisively. "Of course not. He's got more courage than most grown men. But when the Wargals charged us, he rushed his shot and missed."

  Gilan shrugged. "No shame in that, is there? After all, he's not yet sixteen. He didn't run, I take it?"

  "No. Not at all. He stood his ground. Even got another shot away. Then Tug took a hand and backed the Wargal off so I could finish it. He's a good horse, that one."

  "He has a good master," Gilan said, and Halt nodded.

  "That's true. Still, I think a few weeks away from all of these war preparations will be good for the boy. It might get his mind off his troubles if he spends some time with you and Horace."

  "Horace?" Gilan asked.

  "He's the third member I'm suggesting. One of the Battleschool apprentices and a friend of Will's." Halt thought for a few moments, then nodded to himself. "Yes. A few weeks with people closer to his own age will do him good. After all, folk do say I can be a little grim from time to time."

  "You, Halt? Grim? Who could say such a thing?" Gilan said. Halt glanced at him suspiciously. Gilan was, all too obviously, just managing to keep a straight face.

  "You know, Gilan," he said, "sarcasm isn't the lowest form of wit. It's not even wit at all."

  Even though it was after midnight, the lights were still burning in Baron Arald's office when Halt and Gilan reached the castle. The Baron and Sir Rodney, Redmont's Battlemaster, had a lot of planning to do, preparing for the march to the Plains of Uthal, where they would join the rest of the kingdom's army. When Halt explained Gilan's need, Sir Rodney was quick to see where the Ranger's thinking was headed.

 
"Horace?" he said to Halt.

  The small, bearded Ranger nodded almost imperceptibly.

  "Yes, it's not a bad idea at all," the Battlemaster continued, pacing the room as he thought it over. "He has the sort of status you need for the task-he's a Battleschool member, even if he is only a trainee. We can spare him from the force leaving here at the end of the week and:"

  At this he paused and looked meaningfully at Gilan. "You might even find he's a useful person to have along."

  The younger Ranger looked at him curiously and Sir Rodney elaborated: "He's one of my best trainees-a real natural with a sword. He's already better than most members of the Battleschool. But he does tend to be a bit formal and inflexible in his approach to life. Perhaps an assignment with two undisciplined Rangers might teach him to loosen up a little."

  He smiled briefly to show that he meant no offense by the joke, then glanced at the sword Gilan wore at his hip. It was an unusual weapon for a Ranger. "You're the one who studied with MacNeil, is that right?"

  Gilan nodded. "The Swordmaster. Yes, that was me."

  "Hmmm," muttered Sir Rodney, regarding the tall young Ranger with new interest. "Well, you might see your way clear to giving Horace a few pointers while you're on the road. I'd take it as a favor and you'll find he's a quick learner."

  "I'd be glad to," Gilan replied. He thought that he'd like to see this apprentice warrior. He knew from his time at Redmont as Halt's apprentice that Sir Rodney wasn't given to overstating praise for any of the students in the Battleschool.

  "Well, that's settled then," Baron Arald said, anxious to get back to planning the thousand and one details of the march to Uthal. "What time will you be leaving, Gilan?"

  "As soon after sunup as I can, sir," Gilan replied.

  "I'll have Horace report to you before first light," Rodney told him and Gilan nodded, sensing that the meeting was over. The Baron's next words confirmed it for him.

  "Now, if you two will excuse us, we'll get back to the relatively simple business of planning a war," he said.

  3

  T HE SKY WAS HEAVY WITH SULLEN RAIN CLOUDS. S OMEWHERE the sun may have been rising, but here there was no sign of it, just a dull gray light that filtered through the overcast and gradually, reluctantly, filled the sky.

  As the little party crested the last ridge, leaving the massive shape of Castle Redmont behind them, the new day finally gave in to the clouds and it began to rain-a cold spring rain. It was light and misting, but persistent. At first, it ran off the riders' treated woolen cloaks. But, eventually, it began to soak into the fibers. After twenty minutes or so, all three were hunched in their saddles, trying to retain as much body warmth as they could.

  Gilan turned to his two companions as they plodded along, eyes down, hunched over their horses' necks. He smiled to himself, then addressed Horace, who was keeping a position slightly to the rear, alongside the pack pony Gilan was leading.

  "Well then, Horace," he said, "are we giving you enough adventure for the moment?"

  Horace wiped the misting rain from his face, and grimaced ruefully.

  "Less than I'd expected, sir," he replied. "But it's still better than close-order drill."

  Gilan nodded and grinned at him.

  "I imagine it is at that," he said. Then he added kindly: "There's no need to ride back there, you know. We Rangers don't stand on ceremony too much. Come and join us."

  He nudged Blaze with his knee and the bay mare stepped out to open a gap for him. Horace eagerly urged his horse forward, to ride level with the two Rangers.

  "Thank you, sir," he said gratefully. Gilan cocked an eyebrow at Will.

  "Polite, isn't he?" he mused. "Obviously manners are well taught in the Battleschool these days. Nice to be called 'sir' all the time."

  Will grinned at the kindly meant jibe. Then the smile faded from his face as Gilan continued thoughtfully.

  "Not a bad idea to have a bit of respect shown. Perhaps you could call me 'sir' as well," he said, turning his face away to study the tree line to one side so that Will couldn't see the faint trace of a grin that insisted on breaking through.

  Aghast, Will choked over his answer. He couldn't believe his ears.

  "Sir?" he said finally. "You really want me to call you 'sir,' Gilan?" Then, as Gilan frowned slightly at him, he amended hurriedly and in great confusion: "I mean, sir! You want me to call you 'sir':sir?"

  Gilan shook his head. "No. I don't think 'Sir-Sir' is suitable. Nor 'Sir Gilan.' I think just the one 'sir' would do nicely, don't you?"

  Will couldn't think of a polite way of phrasing what was in his mind, and gestured helplessly with his hands. Gilan continued.

  "After all, it'll do nicely to keep us all remembering who's in charge of this party, won't it?"

  Finally, Will found his voice. "Well, I suppose it will, Gil:I mean, sir." He shook his head, surprised at this sudden demand for formality from his friend. He rode in silence for a few minutes, then heard an explosive sneezing sound from beside him as Horace tried, unsuccessfully, to smother his giggling. Will glared at him, then turned suspiciously to Gilan.

  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 da
y 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."