Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup (51 page)

It meant honour, prestige, rank and recognition, compared to another three years of grinding study and application as an apprentice.

And yet …

In his heart of hearts, Will knew it was not for him. It was tempting, to be sure. But he thought of the freedom of the green forests, of the days spent with Tug and Halt and Abelard, of the fascination of learning and perfecting new skills and the intrigue of always being at the heart of events. That was a Ranger's life, and when he compared it with the protocol and etiquette, the formality and restrictions of life in Castle Araluen, he knew, for the second time in the space of a few years, what he really wanted.

He turned to look for some hint of advice from Halt, but his master was sitting, eyes cast down to the table, as was Crowley, a few places away. Then, his voice seeming unnaturally loud in the expectant silence of the room, he replied:

‘You do me great honour, your majesty. But my wish is to continue my training as an apprentice.'

And now the babble of surprise rose to fever pitch in the room. Rangers were, as everyone agreed, different. And most people present simply could not understand Will's choice. Duncan, however, could. He gripped Will's shoulder and spoke to him alone.

‘For what it's worth, Will, I think you've chosen wisely. And for your ears alone, your Craftmasters tell me that they believe you will be one of the greatest of the Rangers in the years to come.'

Will's eyes widened. To him, that knowledge was sufficient reward. He shook his head.

‘Not as great as Halt, surely, your majesty?'

The King smiled. ‘I'm not sure anyone could be that great, wouldn't you agree?'

And with his hand still on his shoulder, he turned the lad around, to where Crowley and Halt were smiling warmly at him, making a space between them for him. The applause as he sat down was polite but a little confused. Nobody could really understand Rangers, after all.

There was one small pang of sadness in Duncan's heart as he turned towards the place where his daughter was sitting. His lips were already forming the words: ‘I tried,' but when he looked, Cassandra was gone from the room.

Two days later, Will and Halt rode out from Castle Araluen, heading for the cottage by Castle Redmont. From time to time, Halt glanced fondly at his young friend. He knew Will had made a big decision and he knew his mind was troubled. He suspected it was to do with the Princess. Since the banquet, Will had tried to see her several times, to explain his decision. But she had been unavailable.

He sensed that Will wanted to be alone with his thoughts as they rode to the south-west, so he kept his peace, resolving to plunge the boy into a regimen of unremitting hard work and training that would give him no time to ponder his heartbreak.

Behind the riders, two figures on a terrace of the huge castle stood watching, dwarfed by the soaring turrets and buttresses. Evanlyn raised a hand in farewell and Horace put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

‘He's a Ranger,' the newly made knight told her sympathetically. ‘And people like us can never understand
Rangers. There's always a part of them they keep to themselves.'

She nodded, unable to speak. The early morning mist that was cloaking the riders seemed to be thickening for a moment, then she blinked rapidly, and realised that it was tears misting her eyes. As they watched, the sun finally broke through and washed Castle Araluen in a pale golden light.

But Will was riding to the south and he didn't notice.

John Flanagan's bestselling
Ranger's Apprentice
adventure series originally comprised twenty short stories, which John wrote to encourage his twelve-year-old son, Michael, to enjoy reading. The series has come a long way since then. Now sold to nineteen territories worldwide, the series has appeared on the
New York Times
Bestseller List and is regularly shortlisted for children's book awards in Australia and overseas.

John, a former television and advertising writer, lives with his wife, Leonie, in the Sydney beachside suburb of Manly. He is currently writing further titles in the
Ranger's Apprentice
series. Visit John Flanagan's website,
www.rangersapprentice.com
, to find out more about John.

The adventures of Will and his friends aren't over yet! Visit the official Australian
Ranger's Apprentice
website for news about upcoming books, plus competitions, quizzes, games and more.

 

www.rangersapprentice.com.au

On his first top-secret mission, can Will save a new ally from a terrible curse?

 

Five years have passed since the Skandians and the Araluans made their treaty, and Will has finally become a Ranger, with his own fief to look after. He soon learns that even sleepy little islands have problems to keep him on his toes.

Then he and his old friend Alyss are thrown into a terrifying new adventure, investigating the truth behind rumours of sorcery in a remote northern fief. As he stands in Grimsdell Wood, with the horrific, ghostly Night Warrior looming above him, Will must ask himself one question: is there a rational explanation … or does sorcery really exist?

 

Out now!

In the north, he knew, the early winter gales, driving the rain before them, would send the sea crashing against the shore, causing white clouds of spray to burst high into the air.

Here, in the south-eastern corner of the Kingdom, the only signs of approaching winter were the gentle puffs of steam that marked the breath of his two horses. The sky was clear blue, almost painfully so, and the sun was warm on his shoulders. He could almost have dozed off in the saddle, leaving Tug to pick his way along the road, but the years he had spent training and conditioning in a hard and unforgiving discipline would never allow such an indulgence.

Will's eyes moved constantly, searching left to right, right to left, close in and far ahead. An observer might never notice this constant movement, as his head remained still. Again, that was his training: to see without being seen; to notice without being noticed. He knew this part of
the Kingdom was relatively untroubled. That was why he had been assigned to the Fief of Seacliff. After all, a brand new, just-commissioned Ranger was hardly going to be handed one of the Kingdom's trouble spots. He smiled idly at the thought. The prospect of taking up his first solo posting was daunting enough without having to worry about invasion or insurrection. He would be content to find his feet here in this peaceful backwater.

The smile died on Will's lips as his keen eyes saw something in the middle distance, almost concealed by the long grass beside the road.

His outward bearing gave no sign that he had noticed anything out of the ordinary. He didn't stiffen in his seat or rise in the stirrups to look more closely, as the majority of people might have done. On the contrary, he appeared to slouch a little more in the saddle as he rode – seemingly disinterested in the world around him. But his eyes, hidden in the deep shadow under the hood of his cloak, probed urgently. Something had moved, he was sure. And now, in the long grass to one side of the road, he thought he could see a trace of black and white – colours that were totally out of place in the fading greens and new russets of autumn.

Nor was he the only one to sense something out of place. Tug's ears twitched once and he tossed his head, shaking his mane and letting loose a rumbling neigh that Will felt in the barrel-like chest as much as heard.

‘I see it,' he said quietly, letting the horse know that the warning was registered. Reassured by Will's low voice, Tug quietened, though his ears were still pricked and alert. The pack horse, ambling contentedly beside and behind them,
showed no interest. But it was a transport animal pure and simple, not a Ranger-trained horse like Tug.

The long grass shivered once more. It was only a faint movement but there was no wind to cause it – as the hanging clouds of steam from the horses' breath clearly showed. Will shrugged his shoulders slightly, ensuring that his quiver was clear. His massive longbow lay across his knees, ready strung. Rangers didn't travel with their bows slung across their shoulders. They carried them ready for instant use. Always.

His heart was beating slightly faster than normal. The movement in the grass was barely thirty metres away by now. He recalled Halt's teaching:
Don't concentrate on the obvious. They may want you to see that so you miss something else.

He realised that his total attention had become focused on the long grass beside the road. Quickly, his eyes scanned left and right again, reaching out to the treeline some forty metres back from the road on either side. Perhaps there were men hiding in the shadows, ready to charge out while his attention was distracted by whatever it was that was lying in the grass at the road's edge. Robbers, outlaws, mercenaries, who knew?

He saw nothing in the trees and, as he casually turned to adjust the pack horse's lead rein, he saw nothing behind them either. Even more reassuring was the fact that Tug was sending no further signals. Had there been men in the trees, the small horse would have been giving him constant warning.

He touched Tug with his knee and the horse stopped, the pack horse continuing a few paces before it followed
suit. His right hand went unerringly to the quiver, selected an arrow and laid it on the bowstring in less than a second. He shrugged back the hood so that his head was bare. The longbow, the small shaggy horse and the distinctive grey and green mottled cloak would identify him as a Ranger to any observer, he knew.

‘Who's there?' he called, raising the bow slightly, the arrow nocked and ready. He didn't draw back yet. If there were anyone skulking in the grass, they'd know that a Ranger could draw, fire and hit his mark before they had gone two paces.

No answer. Tug stood still, trained to be rock steady in case his master had to shoot.

‘Show yourself,' Will called. ‘You in the black and white. Show yourself.'

The stray thought crossed his mind that only a few moments ago he had been daydreaming about this being a peaceful backwater. Now he was facing a possible ambush by an unknown enemy.

‘Last chance,' he called. ‘Show yourself or I'll send an arrow in your direction.'

And then he heard it, possibly in response to his voice. A low whimpering sound: the sound of a dog in pain. Tug heard it too. His ears flicked back and forth and he snorted uncertainly.

A dog? Will thought. A wild dog, perhaps, lying in wait to attack? He discarded the idea almost as soon as it formed in his mind. A wild dog wouldn't have made any sound to warn him. Besides, the sound he had heard had been one of pain, not a snarl or a warning growl of anger. It had been a whimper. He came to a decision.

In one fluid movement, he removed his left foot from
the stirrup, crossed his right leg over the saddle pommel and dropped lightly to the ground. Dismounting in that fashion, he remained at all times facing the direction of possible danger, with both hands free to shoot. Had the need arisen, he could have loosed his first shot as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Tug snorted again. In moments of uncertainty like this, Tug preferred to have Will safely in the saddle, where the little horse's quick reflexes and nimble feet could take him quickly out of danger.

‘It's all right,' Will told the horse briefly, and walked quietly forward, bow at the ready.

Ten metres. Eight. Five … he could see the black and white clearly now through the dry grass. And now, as he was closer, he saw something else in the black and white: the matted brown of dried blood and the rich red of fresh blood. The whimper came again and finally Will saw clearly what it was that had stopped them.

He turned and gave the ‘safe' hand signal to Tug, and the horse responded by trotting forward to join him. Then, setting the bow aside, Will knelt beside the wounded dog lying in the grass.

‘What is it, boy?' he said gently. The dog turned its head at the sound of the voice, then whimpered again as Will touched it gently, his eyes running over the long, bleeding gash in its side, stretching from behind the right shoulder back to the rear haunch. As the animal moved, more fresh blood welled out of the wound. Will could see one eye as the dog lay, apparently exhausted, on its side. It was filled with pain.

It was a border shepherd, he realised, one of the sheep dogs bred in the northern border region, and known for
their intelligence and loyalty. The body was black, with a pure white ruff at the throat and chest and a white tip to the bushy tail. The legs were white and the black fur repeated again at the dog's head, as if a cowl had been placed over it, so that the ears were black, while a white blaze ran up the muzzle and between the eyes.

The gash in the dog's side didn't appear to be too deep and the chances were that the ribcage had protected the dog's vital organs. But it was fearfully long and the widegaping edges were even, as if they had been cut by a blade. And it had bled a lot. That, he realised, would be the biggest problem. The dog was weak. It had lost a lot of blood. Perhaps too much.

Will rose and moved to his saddle bags, untying the medical kit that all Rangers carried. Tug eyed him curiously, satisfied now that the dog represented no threat. Will shrugged and gestured to the medical kit.

‘It works for people,' he said. ‘It should be all right for a dog.'

He returned to the injured animal, touching its head softly. The dog tried to raise its head but he gently held it down, crooning encouraging words to it as he opened the medical pack with his free hand.

‘Now let's take a look at what they've done to you, boy,' he said.

The fur around the wound was matted with blood and he cleaned it as best he could with water from his canteen. Then he opened a small container and carefully smeared the paste it contained along the edges of the wound. The salve was a painkiller that would numb the wound so that he could clean it and bandage it without causing more pain to the dog.

He allowed a few minutes for the salve to take effect, then began wiping the wound with a herbal preparation that would prevent infection setting in and help the wound heal. The painkiller was working well and his ministrations seemed to be causing no problem for the dog, so he used it liberally. As he worked, he saw that he had misnamed the dog by calling it ‘boy'. It was a female.

The border shepherd, sensing that he was helping, lay still. Occasionally, she whimpered again. But not in pain. The sound was more a sound of gratitude. Will sat back on his haunches, head to one side as he surveyed the cleaned wound. Fresh blood still seeped from the gash and he knew he would have to close it. Bandaging was hardly practical, however, with the thick fur of the dog and the awkward position of the wound. He shrugged, realising that he would have to stitch it.

‘Might as well get on with it while the salve's still working,' he told the bitch. She lay with her head on the ground, but one eye swivelled round to watch him as he worked.

The shepherd obviously felt the sensation of the needle as he quickly put in a dozen stitches of fine silk thread and drew the lips of the wound together. But there seemed to be no pain and, after an initial flinching reaction, she lay still and allowed him to continue.

Finished, Will rested one hand gently on the black and white head, feeling the softness of the thick fur. The wound seemed to be effectively closed, but it was obvious that the dog would be unable to walk.

‘Stay here,' he said softly. ‘Stay.'

The dog lay obediently as he moved to the pack horse and began rearranging its load.

There were two long satchels, holding books and personal effects, on either side of the pack saddle. They left a depression between them and he found a spare cloak and several blankets to line the space until he had a soft, comfortable nest in which the dog could lie – with enough space for her to move a little but snug enough to hold her securely in place.

Crossing back to where she lay, he slid his arms under the warm body and gently lifted her, talking all the time in a low crooning voice. The salve was effective but it didn't last long and he knew the wound would be hurting again soon. The dog whimpered once, then held her peace as he lifted her into position in the space he had prepared. Again, he fondled her head, scratching the ears gently. She moved her head slightly to lick his hand. The small movement seemed to exhaust her. He noted with interest that she had eyes of two different colours. Till this moment, he had seen only the left eye, the brown one, as the dog lay on her side. Now, as he moved her, he could see that the right eye was blue. It gave her a raffish, mischievous look, he thought, even in her current low condition.

‘Good girl,' he told her. Then, as he turned back to Tug, he realised that the little horse was eyeing him curiously.

‘We've got a dog,' he said. Tug shook his head and snorted.

Why?
the horse's action seemed to ask.

 

Don't miss
Ranger's Apprentice Book Five
:
The Sorcerer in the North
Out now!