unharnessed him, rubbed him down and set out feed and fresh water. The little horse butted his shoulder gratefully. He patted Tug’s neck, then headed back to the cabin.
Halt was still on the verandah. He had set out two cups of hot coffee on a small side table and Will sat in one of the wood-and-canvas chairs and sipped gratefully at the refreshing brew. He felt the warmth of it flowing through his chilled, stiff muscles. Winter was coming on and the wind had been cold and cutting all day.
He gazed at Halt. The gray-bearded Ranger seemed strangely ill at ease. And despite his claim that he needed to talk to Will, once the usual greetings were out of the way, he seemed almost reluctant to begin the conversation.
“You had something to tell me?” Will prompted.
Halt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Then, with an obvious effort, he plunged in.
“There’s something you should know,” he said. “Something I probably should have told you long ago. It’s just . . . the time never seemed right.”
Will’s curiosity grew. He had never seen Halt in such an uncertain mood. He waited, giving his mentor time to settle his thoughts.
“Pauline thinks it’s time I told you,” Halt said. “So does Arald. They’ve both known about it for some time. So maybe I should just . . . get on with it.”
“Is it something bad?” Will asked, and Halt looked directly at him for the first time in several minutes.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You might think so.”
For a moment, Will wondered if he wanted to hear it, whatever it might be. Then, seeing the discomfort on Halt’s face, he realized that, good or bad, it was something that his teacher had to get off his chest. He gestured for Halt to continue.
Halt paused for a few more seconds, then he began.
“I suppose it starts after the final battle against Morgarath’s forces, at Hackham Heath. They’d been retreating for several days. Then they stopped and made a stand. We’d broken their main attack and we were forcing them back. But they were rallying on the right, where they’d found a weak point in our line . . .”
2
South of Hackham Heath
“ S IRE! T HE RIGHT FLANK IS IN TROUBLE!”
Duncan, the young King of Araluen, heard the herald’s shout above the terrible din of battle. The clash of weapons and shields, the screaming and sobbing of the wounded and dying, the shouted orders of commanders rallying their troops and the involuntary, inarticulate cries of the soldiers themselves as they cut and stabbed and shoved against the implacable enemy formed an almost deafening matrix of sound around him.
Duncan thrust once more at the snarling Wargal before him, felt the sword go home and saw the snarl change to a puzzled frown as the creature realized it was already dead. Then he stepped back, disengaging himself from the immediate battle—physically and mentally.
A young knight from the Araluen Battleschool quickly took his place in the line, his sword already swinging in a murderous arc as he stepped forward, cutting through the Wargal front rank, like a scythe through long grass.
Duncan rested for a moment, leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. He shook his head to clear it.
“Sire! The right flank—” the herald began again, but Duncan waved a hand to stop him.
“I heard you,” he said.
It was three days since the battle at Hackham Heath, where Morgarath’s army had been routed by a surprise attack from their rear, led by the Ranger Halt. The enemy were in full retreat. By rights, Morgarath should have surrendered. His continued resistance was simply costing more and more casualties to both sides. But the rebellious lord was never concerned with preserving lives. He knew he was defeated, but still he wanted to inflict as many casualties as possible on Duncan and his men. If they were to be victorious, he would make them pay dearly for their victory.
As for his own forces, he cared little for their losses. They were
Halt was still on the verandah. He had set out two cups of hot coffee on a small side table and Will sat in one of the wood-and-canvas chairs and sipped gratefully at the refreshing brew. He felt the warmth of it flowing through his chilled, stiff muscles. Winter was coming on and the wind had been cold and cutting all day.
He gazed at Halt. The gray-bearded Ranger seemed strangely ill at ease. And despite his claim that he needed to talk to Will, once the usual greetings were out of the way, he seemed almost reluctant to begin the conversation.
“You had something to tell me?” Will prompted.
Halt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Then, with an obvious effort, he plunged in.
“There’s something you should know,” he said. “Something I probably should have told you long ago. It’s just . . . the time never seemed right.”
Will’s curiosity grew. He had never seen Halt in such an uncertain mood. He waited, giving his mentor time to settle his thoughts.
“Pauline thinks it’s time I told you,” Halt said. “So does Arald. They’ve both known about it for some time. So maybe I should just . . . get on with it.”
“Is it something bad?” Will asked, and Halt looked directly at him for the first time in several minutes.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You might think so.”
For a moment, Will wondered if he wanted to hear it, whatever it might be. Then, seeing the discomfort on Halt’s face, he realized that, good or bad, it was something that his teacher had to get off his chest. He gestured for Halt to continue.
Halt paused for a few more seconds, then he began.
“I suppose it starts after the final battle against Morgarath’s forces, at Hackham Heath. They’d been retreating for several days. Then they stopped and made a stand. We’d broken their main attack and we were forcing them back. But they were rallying on the right, where they’d found a weak point in our line . . .”
2
South of Hackham Heath
“ S IRE! T HE RIGHT FLANK IS IN TROUBLE!”
Duncan, the young King of Araluen, heard the herald’s shout above the terrible din of battle. The clash of weapons and shields, the screaming and sobbing of the wounded and dying, the shouted orders of commanders rallying their troops and the involuntary, inarticulate cries of the soldiers themselves as they cut and stabbed and shoved against the implacable enemy formed an almost deafening matrix of sound around him.
Duncan thrust once more at the snarling Wargal before him, felt the sword go home and saw the snarl change to a puzzled frown as the creature realized it was already dead. Then he stepped back, disengaging himself from the immediate battle—physically and mentally.
A young knight from the Araluen Battleschool quickly took his place in the line, his sword already swinging in a murderous arc as he stepped forward, cutting through the Wargal front rank, like a scythe through long grass.
Duncan rested for a moment, leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. He shook his head to clear it.
“Sire! The right flank—” the herald began again, but Duncan waved a hand to stop him.
“I heard you,” he said.
It was three days since the battle at Hackham Heath, where Morgarath’s army had been routed by a surprise attack from their rear, led by the Ranger Halt. The enemy were in full retreat. By rights, Morgarath should have surrendered. His continued resistance was simply costing more and more casualties to both sides. But the rebellious lord was never concerned with preserving lives. He knew he was defeated, but still he wanted to inflict as many casualties as possible on Duncan and his men. If they were to be victorious, he would make them pay dearly for their victory.
As for his own forces, he cared little for their losses. They were
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