The Lost Stories by John Flanagan Page B

kingdom was charged with maintaining a ready force of archers. The men trained year-round, in addition to their normal tasks of plowing, harvesting or milling. In the event of a war, they could be called up into the royal army and be ready to fight immediately.
    â€œFifteen,” the man replied. “It should be eighteen, but we lost three men in the war. I’ll have to recruit three new men and start training them soon.”
    â€œHmm. Well, six should be enough for my purposes. Pick your six best archers and wait for me the day after tomorrow three kilometers past the point where the coast road and the high road diverge. There’s a small copse of trees there where you can hide. Stay out of sight. In fact, it might be best if you moved into position before first light.”
    Bran nodded. “Whatever you say.”
    A new thought struck Gilan. “One thing,” he said. “Tell your men this is just a routine field exercise. Don’t mention that I’m involved, all right? In fact, don’t mention it to anybody.”
    Bran nodded his understanding. He gestured to the flagon on the table between them. They were sitting in the comfortable parlor of his home. “More cider?” he offered. But Gilan shook his head.
    â€œI need to keep a clear head,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of arrangements to make.”

6
    THE OBSERVER ON THE HILL WATCHED AS THE PORTCULLIS SLOWLY rumbled open to emit a small covered cart drawn by a single horse. Trotting behind it, tethered by a lead rope to the rear of the cart, was a bay horse. Seated beside the driver was a tall figure wearing the unmistakable cloak of a Ranger. The observer watched as the cart slowly trundled to the point where the road forked. It bore to the left at the fork, following the coastal road.
    Some ten minutes later, a second cart—larger than the first and drawn by a pair of horses—emerged from the gate. An escort of six mounted men-at-arms clattered out after it. This cart veered to the right at the fork, following the high road that led toward the forest.
    â€œJust as Lord Foldar said,” the man on the hill muttered to himself. He hurried to where his horse was tethered, mounted and rode off at a gallop. He stayed off the road until he was far enough ahead of the slow-moving cart to be unobserved. Then he spurred up onto the road and increased his speed. At a point where a fallen tree lay by the roadside, he reined in. Foldar emerged from the trees, unmistakable in his high-collared black velvet cloak. Underneath his black surcoat, he wore a shirt of chain mail, also black. On his left arm, he bore a triangular shield. His long sword was in a scabbard attached to his saddle bow.
    Foldar trotted his horse closer. “Report,” he said.
    The rider hesitated. He was never particularly comfortable when he was under his leader’s direct gaze. The man rarely, if ever, seemed to blink.
    â€œThe small cart left twenty minutes ago,” he said. “The Ranger was with it.”
    â€œThat’s the same Ranger that you assured me you killed, is it?” Foldar asked quietly. His henchman shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.
    â€œYes, Lord Foldar. My apologies. I thought—”
    But the bandit leader made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Stop babbling. Did the second cart leave?”
    â€œTen minutes later, Lord. It’s coming along the high road, through the forest, just as you expected,” he said.
    Foldar sneered dismissively at the man’s feeble effort to ingratiate himself. “And the decoy?” he asked.
    â€œThe small cart took the coastal road, lord.”
    Foldar paused a moment. It was a clumsy attempt to deceive him, he thought, although he gave the Ranger credit for traveling with the decoy cart himself. That, at least, showed a degree of originality. But it would be all the more galling for the Ranger when he realized his stratagem had failed. He