The Lost Stories

by John Flanagan

  The Ranger’s actions were instinctive. He sidestepped the savage sword stroke, swaying to his right, and simultaneously drew the saxe knife with his left hand. He was bringing the big knife up to a defensive position when Kord’s momentum drove him onto the blade. Kord looked down in horror as the razor-sharp hardened steel slid easily through the rusty links of his chain-mail vest.

  He gasped and blood welled out of his mouth. His eyes went dull and his knees gave way. Halt jerked the knife free of the falling body and spun to face Jerrel, who was still trying to take in the rapid sequence of events. Then Jerrel’s eyes hardened and he drew his own sword, stepping deliberately forward, not rushing as Kord had done, presenting the sword point first and letting it sway back and forth, threatening the smaller man who faced him.

  The woman dropped back on her haunches beside the cot, watching in wide-eyed horror as the scene unfolded before her.

  Jerrel advanced another pace. Halt switched the saxe to his right hand and withdrew warily. He was confident that he could handle the soldier, in spite of the apparent disparity in their weapons. Swordsmen often underestimated the lethal potential of a saxe knife, he knew. Still, he was prepared to let Jerrel make the first move, and so draw him into closer range, where the saxe would be effective.

  Jerrel feinted with the blade. Halt, watching his eyes, saw no commitment there and ignored the movement. His apparent calm infuriated Jerrel. Halt saw the hot anger welling up in his eyes.

  “You’re a dead man, Arratay,” Jerrel said through clenched teeth.

  Halt smiled. “That’s been said before. Yet here I am.”

  He took another pace backward, conscious of Kord’s still body on the beaten earth floor of the farmhouse, just beside and behind him.

  Jerrel darted the sword blade out at him. This time it was no feint and Halt was ready for it. He flicked it aside with the saxe, the two blades ringing together for a second. The speed and ease of his response raised a worm of doubt in Jerrel’s mind. He had the longer weapon. He had the advantage. Yet this bearded figure in the strange mottled cloak seemed completely at ease.

  He was thinking about this when Arratay, as he knew him, lunged forward with the short, gleaming saxe. Jerrel leaped backward, yelping in surprise, and managed to swipe his sword across in a clumsy parry, just in time. For the first time, he realized that he might be outmatched. He was about to drop his weapon and plead for mercy when something totally unexpected happened.

  Halt felt an iron grip on his left ankle, then the leg was jerked from under him, sending him sprawling awkwardly on the farmhouse floor.

  As he fell, he turned and found himself looking into Kord’s face. The eyes were filled with hatred, the lips curled back in one last snarl of triumph. With his final breath, Kord had managed to take his revenge on the small man who had ruined everything for them. Now the eyes went blank as the life left his body.

  Jerrel, who was never too quick on the uptake, saw that his opponent was, for the moment, helpless before him. With a cry of triumph, he raised the sword in both hands, point down, and stepped forward, preparing to drive it into the prone body on the floor. Halt struggled to rise but knew it was too late. The gleaming sword point began to descend.

  Then a figure came from nowhere and crashed into Jerrel, clinging to him and knocking him sideways, sending the sword spinning out of his grasp. Halt dodged sideways as the weapon fell close to him, then realized what had happened.

  The woman had launched herself at Jerrel, landing on his back and clinging there like a wildcat as she raked at his face and eyes with her nails.

  The thief staggered under the impact, turning so that the two of them crashed into the kitchen table, sending it spinning, then cannoned into the wall, smashing halfway through the close-woven willow sticks daubed with mud. Unable to dislodge the grim, clinging figure on his back, Jerrel twisted so that he was facing her and, drawing his heavy-bladed dagger, struck out desperately at her.

  She cried out in pain and released her grip, falling back, hands clutching at the savage wound in her left side. Blood covered her hands instantly, soaking the white cotton material of her shift as she sank to one knee. Then Halt was upon Jerrel, grasping the man’s knife hand and forcing it upward while he drew his throwing knife and rammed it deep into his body. Jerrel gave a grunt of pain. The heavy dagger fell from his hand and for a moment he was supported only by Halt’s grip on his right wrist. Then, as the Ranger released him, he sagged to his knees, looking up at Halt, his eyes showing shock at the fact that this was the way his life was to end. He fell over sideways, his hands desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound. Halt stood warily for a second, making sure that Jerrel was truly finished. His recent experience with Kord had made him careful. Then, satisfied that Jerrel wasn’t about to rally for another attack, he knelt quickly beside the stricken woman.

  Her face was white and drawn with the savage pain of the wound. Halt looked at the amount of blood she had lost already and knew she had no chance of surviving. She looked up at the stranger who had tried to save her, whom she had saved with her desperate attack on Jerrel. She saw the sadness in the dark eyes looking down at her and knew the truth. She was dying. Yet there was something she had to know.

  “My . . . husband . . . ,” she managed to gasp. “Is he really dead?”

  Halt hesitated. He was tempted to lie to her, to comfort her. But he knew he could never carry off the lie. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You’ll soon be with him.”

  He saw the sudden look of anguish in her face as her eyes turned toward the cot in the corner of the room.

  “Our son . . . ,” she said, and coughed blood as she spoke. Then she made a massive effort and recovered herself. “Don’t leave him with the villagers . . . He’ll have no life with them . . . We’re strangers here . . . They’ll work him to death . . .”

  Halt nodded. Daniel and his wife were new arrivals in the area. They wouldn’t have friends in the village to take care of their infant son. An orphan would be a burden to most villagers. His only worth would be as a worker—a virtual slave.

  “I’ll take care of him,” he said gently, and the woman reached up and seized his hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Promise me,” she said, and he placed his other hand over hers.

  “I promise.”

  She studied his eyes for several seconds and seemed to find reassurance there. She released his hand and sank back onto the blood-soaked floor. She spoke again, but her voice was so soft, he didn’t hear the words. He bent to her, turning his ear to her mouth.

  “Tell me again,” he said, and this time he could make out the whispered words.

  “His name is Will.”

  “It’s a good name,” he told her. But she didn’t hear him. She was already dead.

  8

  HE BURIED THE WOMAN IN A SMALL CLEARING BEYOND THE HOME paddock, marking the grave with a stone. He didn’t know her name, or the family name. So he inscribed the stone with a simple legend: A BRAVE MOTHER.

  Kord and Jerrel deserved no such treatment. They had destroyed a happy, loving family, so he dragged their bodies into the woods, leaving them for the foxes and crows.

  The baby slept quietly in his cot while Halt attended to these matters. As Halt sat nursing a cup of coffee in the disarranged house, the infant woke and muttered quietly. Halt noted with approval that he didn’t cry.

  “I expect you’re hungry,” he said. He had a warmed bowl of cow’s milk and a clean linen cloth ready. He twisted the end of the cloth into a narrow shape and dipped it into the milk, then placed it by the baby’s mouth. The lips formed around the cloth twist and the baby sucked the milk from it. Halt dipped it into the bowl again and repeated the process. The system was time-consuming but it seemed to work. The baby watched him as it fed, big, serious brown eyes staring at him over the milk-soaked cloth.

  “The question is,” Halt said, “what am I to do with you?”

  The farm, he knew,
would revert to the baron of the fief, who would appoint another tenant family to work it. So there was nothing for the infant to inherit. He couldn’t leave him here—as the mother had so desperately pointed out. And he couldn’t raise the baby himself. He simply wasn’t equipped to look after a baby, nor was he in any position to do so. His work as a Ranger would keep him absent from home for long periods and the baby would be left alone and uncared for.

  But an idea was forming. Baron Arald had created a Ward at Castle Redmont where the orphans of men and women who died in his service were cared for. It was a bright, cheerful place, staffed by kind, affectionate people, and there were several recent additions to the ranks of children being cared for there. A baby girl called Alyss, and another boy—Horace, his name was.

  Will would know warmth and companionship there. And as he grew, he would be given a choice of different vocations to follow. All in all, it seemed like an ideal solution.

  “Problem is,” Halt told the watchful infant, “we can’t let on that I’ve brought you there. Folk are suspicious of Rangers. If they thought you were associated with me, they might tread warily around you.”

  Rangers had an aura of mystery and uncertainty about them. And that could have drawbacks for the child. People often feared things they didn’t understand, and he didn’t want that fear transferring itself to young Will. Better if his background remained a mystery.

  “Which it is,” Halt mused. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  He considered that. He could ask around the district. But as he had learned, the family was new to the area and people might not know their names. In addition, he would have to reveal his plans for the baby, and he wasn’t sure if what he was planning was exactly legal. Will was the child of two subjects of the local baron and Halt technically had no right to carry him off to another fief.

  But then, in his lifetime, Halt had often ignored what was technically legal. Technicalities didn’t appeal to him. All too often, they simply got in the way of doing the right thing.

  He dipped the cloth in the last of the milk and held it to the baby’s mouth. Will sucked eagerly, his eyes still fixed on the Ranger.

  “Yes, the Ward is the best place for you,” Halt told him. “And it’s best if you’re anonymous. I’ll tell Arald, of course, in confidence. But nobody else will know. Just the two of us. What do you say?”

  To his surprise, the baby emitted a loud burp, then smiled at him. A ghost of a smile touched Halt’s bearded face in reply.

  “I’ll take that as agreement,” he said.

  Four days later, just before the first gray streaks of light heralded the dawn, a dark figure carrying a basket stole across the courtyard of Castle Redmont, to the building that housed the Ward.

  Setting the basket down on the steps outside the door to the Ward, Halt reached in and moved the blanket away from the baby’s face. He placed the note that he had composed into the basket, at the baby’s feet.

  His mother died in childbirth.

  His father died a hero.

  Please care for him. His name is Will.

  A tiny hand emerged from the blankets and gripped his forefinger.

  “I’d swear you were shaking hands good-bye,” Halt whispered. Then, gently disengaging himself, he stroked the baby’s forehead.

  “You’ll be fine here, young Will. With the parents you had, I suspect you’ll grow to be quite a person.”

  He glanced around, saw no sign of anyone watching, then reached up and rapped sharply on the Ward door before melting away into the shadows of the courtyard.

  The Ward’s staff was already up and about, and he heard the door open a few minutes later, then the cry of surprise.

  “Why, it’s a baby! Mistress Aggie, come quick! Someone’s left a baby on the doorstep!”

  Wrapped in his cloak, hidden in the shadows of the huge wall, Halt watched as several women came bustling out, crying out in surprise at the sight of the baby. Then they took him inside, closing the door behind them. He felt an unfamiliar prickling sensation in his eyes and a strange sense of loss.

  “Good-bye for now, Will,” he whispered. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  Halt felt that same prickling sensation once more as he finished the story. He turned away slightly so that Will couldn’t see the tears that had formed in his eyes.

  “But, Halt, why didn’t you tell me for all those years? Why did you say my mother died in childbirth?”

  “I thought it would be easier on you,” Halt said. “I thought if you knew your mother had been murdered, it might make you bitter. And, as I said, I thought it would be easier on you if nobody knew of my involvement. If I’d said your mother was murdered, people would have started asking questions. I didn’t want that. I wanted you to be accepted.”

  Will nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose so.”

  The older Ranger shifted uncomfortably.

  “There was something else . . .”

  Will opened his mouth, then closed it. He sensed it would be better to let Halt speak in his own time.

  Eventually, his mentor said, in a low voice that Will could barely hear, “I was afraid you’d hate me.”

  Will recoiled in astonishment at the words. “Hate you? How could I hate you? Why would I hate you?”

  Now Halt turned back to face him, and Will could see the anguish in his eyes. “Because I was responsible for the deaths of both your parents!” The words came out violently, as if they were torn from him. “Daniel died saving my life in battle. Then your mother came to my aid when I was fighting Jerrel. If she hadn’t done so, she’d still be alive.”

  “And you’d be dead,” Will pointed out. But Halt shook his head.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But the fact remains, it was my fault that your family was destroyed, and up until now I was unable to tell you. I thought you might blame me.”

  “Halt, it wasn’t your fault. Who could blame you? You were keeping a promise you made to my father. Blame Morgarath. Blame the Wargals. Or blame Kord and Jerrel. That’s where the fault lies. Not on your shoulders.”

  Watching Halt, Will now saw those shoulders sag with relief.

  “That’s what Pauline said you’d say,” Halt whispered, and Will put an arm around him. It felt strange to be comforting the man who had comforted him so much over the years.

  “Halt, you didn’t destroy my family. That was fate. You gave me a second chance at having a family. You gave me a whole new life. How could I hate you for that? Besides,” he added, “can you imagine me as a farmer?”

  He felt Halt’s shoulders begin to shake, and for a moment he was afraid the older man was weeping. Then he realized with relief that he was laughing.

  “No,” his teacher said, “I certainly can’t see you as a farmer. Farmers are disciplined folk.”

  They both laughed at the thought of Will plowing and planting. Then, after a while, the young Ranger grew serious.

  “I would like to see my mother’s grave,” he said, and Halt nodded.

  “I’ll take you there.”

  And then they said nothing more, but sat together in companionable silence as the shadows lengthened and the sun finally set.

  THE INKWELL AND THE DAGGER

  Author’s note: I’ve had many e-mails from fans over the years, asking what happened to Gilan when Halt and Horace went to Gallica to rescue Will in The Icebound Land. Here’s the answer.

  1

  Araluen Fief

  The coast road

  Shortly after the battle of Three Step Pass

  GILAN SAT ON HIS HORSE AND WATCHED AS HALT RODE AWAY, HIS gray-cloaked figure gradually becoming smaller and smaller and merging into the misty rain that had been drifting across the countryside all morning.

  The young Ranger felt tears prickling behind his eyes. He shook his head impatiently to get rid of them. Halt had always been a grim figure, and his smiles were few and far between. But today, there had been something intrinsically sad about his manner. Of course, G
ilan realized, Halt had only recently insulted and argued with King Duncan, a man for whom he had always shown the greatest respect and admiration.

  And, as a direct result of that insubordination, he had been banished from the kingdom for a period of twelve months. On top of that, he had been stripped of his position in the Ranger Corps.

  Those two facts would be enough to drive a keen blade of sadness deep into Halt’s soul. But Gilan sensed the real cause was something else—something within Halt himself.

  “He’s blaming himself,” he told Blaze.

  The bay mare pricked her ears at the sound of her master’s voice.

  He shouldn’t have sent Will to Celtica.

  “He thought he was doing the right thing, keeping Will out of harm’s way. Besides, if anyone’s to blame for this mess, it’s me. I should never have left Will and Evanlyn alone in Celtica.”

  There was no reply from Blaze, and Gilan wondered if she might be agreeing that the capture of Will and Evanlyn by the Skandians, and their subsequent abduction on a wolfship, really was his fault. He glanced at his horse, troubled, then decided that Blaze wasn’t the blaming kind. She probably just had nothing further to add to the discussion.

  Halt’s gray-green cloak was blending into the mist now, so that he was becoming harder and harder to make out. Then he reached a turn in the road and disappeared from view. Gilan continued to look down the empty road for a few more minutes, then heaved a sigh and turned Blaze’s head toward Castle Araluen.

  Fifteen minutes later, he caught up with Crowley. The Ranger Commandant was easing his horse along at a walk to allow the younger man to catch him. They exchanged dejected looks, then Crowley lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

  “Nothing to say, really, is there?”

  Gilan nodded. Already, they were feeling the absence of the gray-bearded Ranger. Coming on top of the loss of Will and the Princess, it was doubly sad for them. The Rangers were a close-knit group, but Crowley was Halt’s oldest friend and Gilan had been Halt’s first apprentice. They felt his loss more keenly than others might.