The Tournament at Gorlan by John A. Flanagan Page B

The force of the blow was transmitted through the iron helmet almost undiminished. The soldier fell forward, facedown on the floor, his head spinning from the blow.
    Willet, the new Ranger, watched wide-eyed as his men were reduced to moaning, groaning wrecks. Realizing that no one seemed to be paying him any attention, he scurried toward thedoor and ran out into the night.
    But Halt saw him go and went after him.
    Leander stepped up to the soldier pinned to the timber column, still struggling to free his hand. The arrow had closed the cuff of the gauntlet close to his wrist, so he was unable to slide his hand free of the glove. Instead, he was forced to struggle with the arrow, buried deep in the tough wood.
    â€œI’d like my arrow back,” Leander said. He gripped the shaft close to the head and gave a solid jerk. The broadhead came free of the wood and the corporal’s arm, no longer suspended by the arrow, fell to his side. He glared at Leander as the Ranger slid the arrow back into his quiver. Then rage overcame him and he drew his broad-bladed dagger, striking up at Leander’s midriff.
    The blow never struck home. Leander dropped the bow and blocked the upward thrust with his left hand, turned over to seize the soldier’s wrist. Then, almost without pause, he jerked the arm upward, using the corporal’s own force to bring the knife high over his head. At the same moment, he slid his right hand behind the corporal’s knife hand, continuing to force it up and back. Then, stepping forward so that his right leg was behindthe other man’s, he used both arms to continue twisting the knife hand up and back.
    The whole sequence of movements, practiced hundreds of times in the past in mock combat, took about a second. There was an ugly wrenching noise as the soldier’s shoulder gave way. The knife fell from his hand. He didn’t notice. He was conscious of nothing but the searing pain in his shoulder. He collapsed, weeping, to the floor.
    Berrigan looked around at his former attackers, now reduced to pitiful wrecks, either unconscious or disabled. The two cloaked men grinned at him.
    â€œWho the blazes are you two?” he asked.

13

    I N THE STREET OUTSIDE , H ALT SA W THE FIGURE OF THE caped would-be Ranger scurrying through the shadows.
    â€œYou!” he shouted. “Stop or I’ll put an arrow through you!”
    In truth, he had left his bow inside the tavern. But Willet wasn’t to know that. He froze in place, eyes closed, waiting in terror for the smashing, tearing pain of an arrow.
    Willet heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes to look into those of the dark-bearded stranger. Too late, he realized that the man was carrying no bow. He tried to bluster his way out of the situation.
    â€œStand back!” he said, his voice cracking with fear, which rather ruined the attempted bluster. “I’m a King’s Ranger!”
    â€œYou’re no Ranger.” Halt’s lips curled in a sneer. “You’re a posing, whining prat.”
    His eyes fell on a familiar shape at the man’s throat. It was a silver oakleaf pendant, the symbol of a Ranger’s authority. Seeing this man wearing it was an affront to Halt’s sense of justice and order.
    â€œWhere did you steal this from?” he demanded, seizing the chain and pulling Willet forward. “Where?”
    â€œI confiscated it,” Willet babbled. “It’s mine by right. It was Berrigan’s.”
    â€œIt still is,” Halt said, and ripped the oakleaf, chain and all, from Willet’s neck. Then abruptly, he released him and the caped man staggered back a few paces. Realizing he was out of reach, he regained a little of his former dignity.
    â€œLord Morgarath will kill you for this!” he spat.
    Halt allowed himself a hollow laugh. “That’s as may be. But he won’t leave you alive to see it. You’ve failed him. And you know how he treats