Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup

by John Flanagan

  ‘If you like,’ he replied calmly, his face a mask of indifference. But Halt had noticed how his left hand had touched lightly, and almost instinctively, to his left hip, where his sword normally hung ready. Now, of course, it hung behind the door of their room upstairs. Horace was armed with only a dagger.

  The knight had noticed the involuntary movement as well. He smiled now, his lips curling in a cruel arc. And he moved a pace closer to the muscular young apprentice. He took stock of the young man now. Wide shoulders, slim at the waist and obviously well muscled. And he moved well, with a natural grace and balance that was the mark of an expert warrior.

  But the face was young and absolutely without guile. This was not an opponent who had fought men to the death repeatedly. This was not a warrior who had learned the darker skills in the unforgiving school of mortal combat. The boy had barely begun to shave. He was undoubtedly a trained fighter, and one to be respected.

  But not feared.

  Having made his assessment, the older man moved a pace closer, yet again.

  ‘I am Deparnieux,’ he said. Obviously, he expected the name to mean something. Horace merely shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.

  ‘Good for you,’ he replied. And those black brows contracted once more.

  ‘I am no roadside yokel for you to defeat by trickery and knavish behaviour. You will not catch me unprepared with your cowardly tactics, as you have so many of my compatriots.’

  He paused to see if the insulting words were having the desired effect. Horace, however, was canny enough not to take exception. He shrugged once more.

  ‘I’ll definitely bear that in mind,’ he replied mildly.

  One more pace and the heavily built knight was within arm’s reach. His face suffused with rage at Horace’s answer, and the boy’s refusal to be insulted.

  ‘I am warlord of this province!’ he shouted. ‘A warrior who has despatched more foreign interlopers, more Araluan cowards, than any other knight in this land. Ask them if this is not so!’ And he swept an arm around at the people sitting tensely at tables round the fire. For a moment, there was no reply, then he turned his fierce gaze on them, daring them to disagree with him.

  As one, their eyes dropped and they mumbled a grudging acknowledgement of his claim. Then his gaze came back to challenge Horace once more. The boy returned it impassively, but a shade of red was beginning to colour his cheeks.

  ‘As I said,’ he replied carefully, ‘I will bear it in mind.’

  Deparnieux’s eyes glittered at the boy. ‘And I call you a coward and a thief who has killed Gallic warriors by subterfuge and deceit and stolen their armour and horses and belongings!’ he concluded, his voice rising to a crescendo.

  There was a long silence in the room. Finally, Horace replied.

  ‘I think you are mistaken,’ he said, in the same mild tone he had maintained throughout the confrontation. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. And now Deparnieux reared back in fury.

  ‘You say I am a liar?’ he demanded.

  Horace shook his head. ‘Not at all. I say you are mistaken. Somebody has apparently misinformed you.’

  Deparnieux spread his hands and addressed the room at large.

  ‘You have heard this! He calls me liar to my face! This is insupportable!’

  And, just as he had planned, in the same movement with which he had spread his hands, he had plucked one of his leather gauntlets from where it had been secured under his belt and now, before anyone in the room could react, had drawn it back to slap it across Horace’s face in a challenge that could not be ignored.

  Feeling a sense of exultation, he began the forward sweep of his hand to bring the glove swiping across the boy’s face.

  Only to have it plucked from his grip by an invisible hand, and hurled across the room, where it came to a quivering halt, skewered to one of the upright oak beams that supported the ceiling.

  So they were to be separated after all, Will thought. Evanlyn was led away, stumbling as she turned to look back over her shoulder at him, a stricken expression on her face. He forced a grin of encouragement and waved to her, making the gesture casual and light-hearted, as if they would be seeing each other shortly.

  His attempt at raising her spirits was cut short by a solid backhander to his head. He staggered a few feet, his ears ringing.

  ‘Get moving, slave!’ snarled Tirak, the Skandian supervisor of the yard. ‘We’ll see how much you have to smile about.’

  The answer to that was precious little, Will soon discovered.

  Of all the Skandians’ captives, yard slaves had the hardest, most unpleasant assignment. House slaves – those who worked in the kitchens and dining rooms – at least had the comfort of working, and sleeping, in a warm area. They might fall into their blankets exhausted at the end of a day, but the blankets were warm.

  Yard slaves, on the other hand, were required to look after all the arduous, unpleasant outdoor tasks that needed doing – cutting firewood, clearing snow from the paths, emptying the privies and disposing of the result, feeding and watering the animals, cleaning stables. They were all jobs that had to be done in the bitter cold. And when their exertions finally raised a sweat, the slaves were left in damp clothing that froze on them once their tasks were completed, leaching the heat from their bodies.

  They slept in a draughty, dilapidated old barn that did little to keep out the cold. Each slave was given one thin blanket – a totally inadequate covering when the night temperatures fell below freezing point. They supplemented the covering with any old rags or sacks they could lay hands on. They stole them, begged them. And often, they fought over them. In his first three days, Will saw two slaves battered to the point of death in fights over ragged pieces of sacking.

  Being a yard slave was more than uncomfortable, he realised. It was downright dangerous.

  The system they worked under added to the danger. Tirak was nominally in charge of the yard, but he delegated that authority to a small, corrupt gang known as the Committee. These were half a dozen long-term slaves who hunted as a pack and held the power of life or death over their companions. In return for their authority and some extra comforts such as food and blankets, they maintained the brutal discipline of the yard and organised the work roster, assigning tasks to the other slaves. Those who pandered to them and obeyed them were given the easiest tasks. Those who resisted them found themselves carrying out the wettest, coldest, most dangerous jobs. Tirak ignored their excesses. He simply didn’t care about the slaves in his charge. They were expendable as far as he was concerned and his life was much simpler if he used the Committee to maintain order. If they killed or crippled the occasional rebel, it was a small price to pay.

  It was inevitable that Will, being the person he was, would clash with the Committee. It happened on his third day in the yard. He was returning from a firewood detail, dragging a heavily laden sled through the thin snow. His clothes were damp with sweat and from the melting snow and he knew that as soon as the exertion stopped, he would be shivering with cold. The marginal rations that they were fed would do little to restore his body heat and, with each day, he could feel his strength and resilience fading a little further.

  Bent almost double, he dragged the sled into the yard, heaving it to a stop beside the kitchen, where house slaves would unload it, carrying the split logs in to the warmth of the massive cooking ranges. His head spun a little as he straightened up, then, from behind one of the kitchen outhouses, he heard a voice cursing, while another whimpered in pain.

  Curious, he left the sled and went to see the cause of the commotion. A thin, ragged boy was huddled on the ground while an older, larger youth flayed at him with a length of knotted rope.

  ‘I’m sorry, Egon!’ the victim wept. ‘I didn’t know it was yours!’

  They were both slaves, Will realised. But the big youth looked well fed and he was warmly dressed, in spite of the fact that his clothes were ragged and stained. Will estimated
his age at about twenty. He’d noticed there were no older slaves in the yard. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that this was because yard slaves didn’t live very long.

  ‘You’re a thief, Ulrich!’ said the larger youth. ‘I’ll teach you to touch my belongings!’

  He was aiming the knotted rope for his victim’s head now, lashing furiously. The boy’s face was heavily bruised, Will saw, and as he watched, a cut opened just under the smaller boy’s eye and blood covered his face. Ulrich cried and tried to cover his face with his bare arms. His tormentor flailed all the more wildly. Will could stand by no longer. He stepped forward and caught the end of the knotted rope as Egon began another stroke, jerking it backwards.

  Egon was thrown off balance. He staggered and let go the rope, turning to look in surprise to see who had dared interrupt him. He half expected to see Tirak or another Skandian standing there. Nobody else would dare interfere with a Committeeman. To his surprise, he found himself facing a short, slight youth who looked to be about sixteen years old.

  ‘He’s had enough,’ Will said, tossing the rope into the slushy snow of the kitchen yard.

  Furious, Egon started forward. He was bigger and heavier than Will and he was ready to punish this foolhardy stranger. Then something in the stranger’s eyes, and in his ready stance, stopped him. He could see no fear there. And he looked fit and ready to fight. He was new to the yard, Egon realised, and still in relatively good condition. This was no easy target, like the unfortunate Ulrich.

  ‘I’m sorry, Egon,’ the ragged boy now snuffled. He crawled towards the Committeeman and placed his head against his worn boots. ‘I won’t do it again.’ Egon by now had lost interest in his initial victim. He shoved him away with his foot. Ulrich looked up, saw that Egon’s attention was diverted, and made his escape.

  Egon barely noticed him go. He was glaring at Will, assessing him. This one would be no easy victim. But there were other ways to deal with troublemakers.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, his eyes slitted and his voice low with fury.

  ‘I’m called Will,’ the apprentice Ranger said and Egon nodded his head slowly, several times.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he promised.

  The following day, Will was assigned to the paddles.

  The paddles were the most feared work assignment among the yard slaves.

  Hallasholm’s fresh water supply came from a large well in the centre of the square facing Ragnak’s Lodge. As the colder weather set in, the water in the well, if left untended, would freeze over. So the Skandians had installed large wooden paddles to constantly agitate the water and break up the ice before it froze solid. It was a constant, grinding job, heaving on the crank handles that turned the clumsy wooden blades in the water. Like snow clearing, it was wet and cold work, thoroughly debilitating. Nobody lasted long on the paddles.

  Will had been working for half the morning, but already he was exhausted. Every muscle in his arms, back and legs ached with the strain.

  He heaved on the handle, worn smooth over the years by a succession of long-dead hands. It was barely minutes since he’d last agitated the surface of the well water but already a thin skin of ice had formed. It cracked now as the wooden blade stabbed into it and moved rapidly from side to side. On the far side of the well, his co-worker jerked and twisted at his own paddle, keeping the water moving, stopping it freezing. When he had first arrived, Will had nodded to the other slave. The greeting was ignored. Since then, they had worked in silence, apart from their constant groans of exertion.

  A heavy leather strap, wielded by the overseer, snapped across his shoulders. He heard the noise, felt the impact. But there was no stinging sensation from the blow. That was numbed by the cold.

  ‘Dig them in deeper!’ the overseer snarled. ‘The water will freeze underneath if you simply skim the surface like that.’

  Groaning softly, Will obeyed, rising on tiptoe to drive the wooden paddle down into the frigid water, throwing up a wash of spray as he did so. He felt the icy touch of the water on his body. He was already wet through. It was almost impossible to remain dry. He knew that when he stopped for one of the brief rest periods they were allowed, the wet, freezing clothes would leach the body heat from him and the trembling would start again.

  It was the unstoppable shivering that frightened him most. As he cooled down, his body would begin to shake. He tried to force it to stop, and found he couldn’t. He had lost control over his own body, he realised dully. His teeth chattered and his hands shook and he was helpless to do anything about it. The only way to regain warmth was to start work again.

  Eventually, it was over. Even the Skandians recognised that no one could work more than a four-hour shift on the paddles. Trembling and exhausted, utterly spent, Will staggered back to the barracks shed. He stumbled and fell as he approached his assigned sleeping space and lacked the energy to rise again. He crawled on hands and knees, longing for the meagre warmth of the thin blanket.

  Then a hoarse cry of despair was torn from him. The blanket was gone!

  He huddled on the cold floor, weeping. His knees were drawn up and he wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to contain his failing body heat. He thought of his warm Ranger cloak, lost when he was captured by Erak and his men. The shivering began and he felt his whole body give way to it. The cold burrowed deep into his flesh, reaching right into his bones, right into the very soul of him.

  There was nothing but the cold. His world was circumscribed by cold. He was the cold. It was inescapable, unbearable. There was no slight flicker of warmth in his world.

  Nothing but the cold.

  He felt something rough against his cheek and opened his eyes to see someone leaning over him, spreading a piece of coarse sacking over his trembling body. Then a quiet voice was in his ear.

  ‘Take it easy, friend. Be strong now.’

  The speaker was a tall slave, bearded and unkempt. But it was the eyes that Will noticed. They were full of sympathy and understanding. Pathetically, Will drew the scratchy cloth closer around his chin.

  ‘Heard what you tried to do for Ulrich,’ said his saviour. ‘We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to make it in here. I’m Handel, by the way.’

  Will tried to answer but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably and his voice shook as he tried to form words. It was useless.

  ‘Here, try this,’ said Handel, glancing around to make sure they were not observed. ‘Open your mouth.’

  Will forced his chattering teeth apart and Handel slipped something into his mouth. It felt like a bundle of dried herbs, Will thought dully.

  ‘Put it under your tongue,’ Handel whispered. ‘Let it dissolve. You’ll be fine.’

  And then, after a few moments, as his saliva moistened the substance under his tongue, Will felt the most glorious, liberating sense of warmth radiating through his body. Beautiful warmth that forced the cold out, that spread to the very tips of his fingers and toes in a series of pulsing waves. He had never felt anything so wonderful in his life.

  The trembling eased as successive waves of warmth swept gently over him. His tight muscles relaxed into a delightful sense of rest and wellbeing. He looked up to see Handel smiling and nodding at him. Those wonderful, warm eyes smiled reassuringly and he knew everything was going to be all right.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, speaking awkwardly around the sodden little wad in his mouth.

  ‘It’s warmweed,’ Handel told him gently. ‘It keeps us alive.’

  And from the shadows of a far corner, Egon watched the two figures and smiled. Handel had done his work well.

  The black-clad knight cursed violently as the arrow ripped his gauntlet from his grasp and thudded, carrying the glove with it, into a heavy oak beam.

  The solid impact of the arrow with the beam drew his eyes for a second, then he whirled suspiciously, to see where the missile had come from. For the first time, he registered the presence of a dark, indistinct shape in the shadows at t
he rear of the room. Then, as Halt moved from behind the table and out into the light, he also registered the longbow, with a second arrow nocked ready to the string. The archer hadn’t bothered to draw the bow, but Deparnieux had just seen an example of his skill. He knew he was facing a master archer, capable of drawing and firing in a heartbeat. He stood very still now, controlling his rage with difficulty. He knew his life might well depend on his ability to do so.

  ‘Unfortunately for the dictates of chivalry,’ Halt said, ‘Sir Horace, knight of the Order of the Oakleaf, is indisposed, with an injury to his left hand. He will therefore be unable to reply to the kind invitation you were about to issue.’

  He had moved further into the light now and Deparnieux could make out his face more clearly. Bearded and grim, this was the face of an experienced campaigner. The eyes were cold and bore no hint of indecision. This, the knight knew instantly, was a man to be wary of.

  There was a subdued chuckle from one of the townspeople in the room and, inwardly, the Gallic knight seethed with fury. His eyes flicked to the source of the sound and he saw a carpenter, lowering his face to hide his smile. Deparnieux noted the man mentally. His day of reckoning would come. Outwardly, however, he forced a smile.

  ‘A pity,’ he told the archer. ‘I had hoped for a friendly trial of arms with the young chevalier – all in the spirit of good fellowship, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Halt replied levelly and Deparnieux knew that he wasn’t for a moment deceived. ‘But, as I say, we shall have to disappoint you, as we are travelling on a rather urgent quest.’

  Deparnieux’s eyebrows lifted in polite enquiry. ‘Is that so? And where might you and your young master be bound?’

  He added the ‘young master’ to see what effect it would have on the bearded man before him. It was obvious who was the master here, and it wasn’t the young knight. He’d hoped that he might sting the other man’s pride, and possibly goad him to a mistake.