The Lost Stories (42 page)

“Well, it's not your problem, anyway. Have you any idea what you might do?”

Halt shrugged. “As I told you, I had a vague idea of joining the Rangers. But that doesn't seem like an option now. I suppose I'll head south and east and cross over to Gallica.”

“Well, we can ride together for a while longer. The highway south is farther along this way. I'll be glad of some cheerful company.”

“First time anyone's said that about me,” Halt replied.

 

They came to the fork in the road some forty minutes later. The south highway branched off to the left, heading across rolling countryside and farmland. The north road, the road Crowley would follow, entered a large forest half a kilometer away. The two men shook hands.

“Thanks for your help,” Crowley said.

“And my cheerful company,” Halt added, straight-faced.

Crowley smiled. “Yes. That too. I hope things work out for you.”

“Same to you,” Halt said, and the Ranger shrugged with mock cheerfulness.

“Oh, I'll be fine, I'm sure.”

There was an awkward pause. The two men had enjoyed each other's company and each sensed the other was a kindred spirit. But they didn't have a long history of friendship to smooth out the parting. Eventually, Halt broke the silence and turned his horse south.

“Well . . . I suppose I'll be seeing you,” he said, and Crowley nodded, raising one hand in salute.

“Be seeing you.”

They rode away from each other and Halt considered how ridiculous their final words had been. We won't be seeing each other, he thought. Why do we say we will?

His path led down a long incline, then up a slope on the other side. He reached the crest and stopped to turn in his saddle, looking after Crowley. But the Ranger had already disappeared into the thick forest that straddled the road. Halt pursed his lips. He had a vague feeling that he should have offered help to the Ranger. He had a sense that he was letting Crowley down. He wasn't sure what else he could have done, but the uneasy feeling remained.

He was about to urge his horse on again when he remembered his fletching jig. He had lent it to Crowley on the first night they were camped and he realized now that the Ranger hadn't returned it. He could manage without it, but the process of fletching an arrow was much more time-consuming without it. He clicked his tongue and turned his horse, setting him to a canter, retracing his path and heading after Crowley.

The gray had an easy, long-striding gait, and they covered the distance to the forest in short time. They rode into the dim coolness under the trees. Over the years, branches had grown across the path from each side so that the road resembled a green shaded tunnel. The road turned sharply to the right a few hundred meters ahead. There was no sign of Crowley. He must have covered more ground than Halt had expected. He tapped the horse with his heels, urging more speed from him. The hoofbeats were cushioned by the soft surface of the road under the trees. Shaded constantly by the overhanging foliage, the road had never dried out and hardened. In addition, a thick carpet of leaves had built up over the passage of the years.

As they neared the turn in the road, Halt became aware of a faint sound—the sliding, scraping clash of steel on steel. He felt a tightening of apprehension in his stomach. He slipped the bow from his shoulder and flicked back a corner of his cloak to leave his quiver unencumbered.

The horse's rear hooves skidded slightly on the damp ground as they made the right-hand turn around the bend in the road.

Sixty meters away, Crowley was backed against a large oak tree, surrounded by a group of armed men. As he took in the scene, Halt counted four attackers, with a fifth a few meters away, out of the fight, on his knees and crumpled over, holding his side. Crowley's horse was limping awkwardly on the far side of the road.

Without conscious thought, Halt's hand flew to his quiver and sent two arrows on their way in the space of a heartbeat. The first inkling that Crowley's attackers had of his presence was when two of their number cried out in pain as the black-shafted arrows drove into them, slicing through their chain mail as if it were no more than linen. After the first cry, one fell and lay silent. The other continued to moan in pain, crawling on hands and knees away from the scene of combat.

The others turned to see what had happened to their comrades. It was a fatal mistake. Crowley lunged at one and the saxe knife bit deep into the man's body. The other was sent flying as Halt's horse slammed its shoulder into him. The man thudded to the ground, skidding on the damp leaves, then lay still.

Halt reined in and swung down from the saddle, dropping the bow and drawing his saxe. There was a smear of blood on Crowley's forehead.

“Are you all right?” Halt asked.

The Ranger nodded breathlessly. “Thanks to you, yes,” he said. He glanced down at the man he had just run through. He was sprawled on his back, eyes open, staring sightlessly at the sky. “Recognize him?”

Halt looked down. He saw the familiar lightning bolt symbol on the man's surcoat, then looked more closely at his face. It was the stoutly built man he had shot through the leg at the tavern. He looked quickly at the others. The man doubled over on his knees, crying in pain, had also been in the tavern, as had the first of the attackers Halt had shot.

“Morgarath has a strange idea of punishment,” he said.

Crowley gave him a tired smile. “Oh, I don't know. It certainly didn't do them any good in the long run. What should we do with them, do you think?” He gestured at the three surviving wounded men.

“Leave them,” Halt said briefly. “No use taking them back to Morgarath. He obviously sent them after you. Five of them,” he added. “He thought they'd need more than three this time.”

“Probably thought you'd still be with me,” Crowley said, and Halt nodded thoughtfully.

“You realize that Morgarath can't afford to let you live now, don't you?” he said. “He'll probably trump up some charges against you—say that you were responsible for the death of two of his loyal soldiers.”

“That thought had occurred to me.”

“Then come with me. We'll head for Gallica. There's always work for good fighting men there. And I can see you're a good fighting man.” Halt indicated the bodies scattered across the road. But Crowley was already shaking his head before Halt finished speaking.

“I was thinking about what you said—about organizing the remaining Rangers and fighting back. I've decided that's what I'm going to do.”

“You're not worried about being declared a traitor?” Halt asked.

“I'm going northeast to find Prince Duncan. As the heir to the throne, if he'll give me a royal warrant to assemble the other remaining Rangers and re-form the Corps, I can't be charged with treason. And he might find it useful to have a dozen or so highly trained men in his service.”

Halt considered Crowley's words for a few seconds, then nodded. “That might be your best course,” he said. “And I like the idea of your re-forming the Ranger Corps. Mind you, a dozen men isn't a lot.”

“A dozen Rangers,” Crowley corrected him. “And it may not be a lot, but it's a start.” He paused, then added, “It'd be thirteen if you'd consider joining us. I'm sure Prince Duncan could be persuaded to give you a commission in the Corps.”

Halt shook his head, a frown bringing the dark eyebrows together. “I don't place a great deal of trust in princes,” he said.

“This one you can trust. He's a good man,” Crowley told him. But still the Hibernian was reluctant.

“They're all good men until they get a taste of power.”

“Not this one. You can trust Duncan, believe me.” A long, steady look passed between them.

“So you say,” Halt said.

Crowley nodded emphatically. “Yes. I do. Do you trust me?”

Now Halt looked deep into Crowley's hazel eyes, and he saw nothing there but honesty and dedication—no sign of deceit or underhandedness. He recalled his earlier moment of unease, when he felt that somehow he was letting Crowley down by simply riding away. The sandy-haired Ranger sensed that Halt was wavering.

“All our ancillary services are still in place—our horse trainers and breeders and armorers,” he said. “They're just waiting for the chance to be reactivated. In a few years, we could build up a force to be reckoned with. I'd be happy to help you complete your training—not that there's much you have to learn. You're already a far better shot than I am.”

Still Halt said nothing, and a mischievous smile crept over Crowley's face as he played his final card.

“And wouldn't you like a chance to tweak Morgarath's skinny nose for him?” he asked.

In spite of himself, Halt smiled as well. A faint smile, it was true. But a smile nonetheless. From him, that was the equivalent of helpless mirth.

“Now, that is an attractive offer,” he said, and this time Crowley laughed out loud.

“Then you'll join us?”

“You say this Duncan is a man to trust?”

“I do.”

“And a leader a man would be proud to follow?”

“I certainly do. You have my word on that.”

There was a long pause. Crowley sensed he had said enough and waited for Halt to make his decision. Finally, the Hibernian nodded slowly.

“Then . . . why not? I've never really been fond of Gallica.”

He held out his hand and Crowley took it. They shook hands, each man noting the other's firm and positive grip. Each man sensing that this was the beginning of a long and remarkable partnership.

“Welcome to the Corps,” Crowley said.

THE WOLF WAS A BIG ONE.

He was a full-grown male in the prime of his life who should have been the dominant male of a pack. But some months prior, he had been caught by the right forefoot in a trap set by hunters. The steel jaws held him firmly, so that no matter how hard he struggled and twisted, he could not get free. And since freedom to a wolf is life itself, he had taken the only course open to him. He had gnawed at the broken limb until he severed the remaining flesh and tendons, leaving his foot and half the leg still in the trap. Then, trailing blood, he had limped awkwardly into the deepest part of the forest, finding a secure hiding place under a large rock outcrop, overgrown with shrubs and bushes, where he could wait to recover.

Or to die.

Racked with pain and trembling with shock, he had made not a sound. Instinct told him that the sound of whimpering or crying was the sound of an animal that was injured and vulnerable. Similarly, he made no attempt to rejoin the pack he had belonged to—the pack where he would have become leader within the next few months. He knew the injury would see him driven out by the others. Wolves are normally sociable and affectionate pack members, but the rule of survival of the fittest is a harsh one, and an injured pack member would be a liability—unable to participate in hunting and putting the pack itself in danger. He knew he would be driven out, or even killed, by the others if he approached them.

So he lay silently in his hiding place, licking constantly at the dreadful wound until the bleeding stopped and he recovered, although the pain of the severed leg never left him. But his former speed and agility had forsaken him and he faced another potential danger—starvation.

He couldn't hunt as he used to. He had tried to chase a small deer when the leg stopped bleeding. By then, his flanks were gaunt and the ribs were visible beneath his thick coat. But the deer evaded him with apparent contempt, springing to one side to avoid his clumsy rush, so that he went sprawling when he tried to follow. Then it had bounded away, the white markings on its tail visible among the trees for a few minutes before they were lost to his sight.

Rabbits, which he used to catch with ease, were beyond his skills now as well. His former hunting patterns would no longer serve. He took to waiting in ambush by those places where animals came to drink, lying motionless for hours on end as he waited for them to come within range of his awkward leap. Sometimes he was successful. More often he was not. And once he had attacked in this way, he was forced to abandon his ambush site and move on to another. He became a wanderer, moving from territory to territory and, for the most part, forced to satisfy his hunger with small, slow-moving animals.

There were never enough to satisfy him, and as the hunger grew, he broke the cardinal rule by which he had always lived and moved into territory inhabited by man.

Now he discovered a new form of prey. The domestic animals and birds that were raised by farmers had none of the survival skills of wild animals. He took ducks and hens and lambs with relative ease.

As he recovered his strength, he adjusted somewhat to the missing foreleg. He was still clumsy and slow compared to the way he had been, but he was more than capable of catching this easy prey that he had found. He filled out. His coat grew thick and heavy once more. But unknown to him, there would be a price for this new form of hunting.

Eventually, he chanced upon what was surely the easiest prey of all.

Small and clumsy in his movements, the toddler had found the door of the farmhouse left open and had escaped into the dangerous world outside. He was sitting, looking uncertainly around, when the wolf saw him. Slowly, the huge predator limped across the farmyard, teeth bared. The infant saw him and recognized danger. Where an animal, even one as stupid as a chicken, might have tried to escape, the human child simply began to cry.

The sound registered with the wolf. It was the sound of helplessness and vulnerability. He crept closer, belly low to the ground, a deep snarl rumbling in the back of his throat.