The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 2

'All right,' Will told the three boys, 'let's see you shoot. Ten arrows each at those targets.'

He indicated three large, standard bullseye design targets set up seventy-five metres down range. The three stepped forward to the firing line. A little further down the line, two senior Rangers were practising, shooting at targets no bigger than a large dinner platter, set at the one-hundred-and-fifty-metre mark. For a few moments, the three first-year apprentices watched in awe as the two marksmen slammed arrow after arrow into the almost invisible targets.

'Any time before sunset would be fine,' Will drawled. He had no idea that he was mimicking the dry, mock-weary tone of voice that Halt had used with him when he was first learning the skills of a Ranger.

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,' said the nearest of the three boys. They all looked at him, wide eyed. He sighed.

'Stuart?' he said to the boy who had spoken.

'Yes, sir?'

'You don't call me sir. We're both Rangers.'

'But… ' began one of the other boys. He was stockily built and had a mass of red hair that flopped untidily over his forehead. Will searched his memory for the boy's name: Liam, he remembered.

'Yes, Liam?'

The boy shuffled awkwardly. 'But we're apprentices and you're… ' He stopped. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. It was probably something ridiculous like, 'But we're apprentices and you're you.'

Because although Will didn't know it, he was a subject of awe for these boys. He was the legendary Will Treaty, the Ranger who had rescued the King's daughter from Morgarath's Wargal army, then protected her when they were kidnapped by raiding Skandians. Then he had trained and led a company of archers in the battle against the Temujai riders. And only the previous year, he had repelled a Scotti invasion on the northern frontier of the Kingdom.

These three would look up to any graduate Ranger. But Will Treaty was only a few years older than they were, and so was a subject for hero worship of the highest degree. As a result, they had been somewhat surprised when they met him. They had expected a larger-than-life figure – a hero in classical terms. Instead, they were introduced to a fresh-faced, youthful person, with a ready smile and a slim build, who stood a little less than average height. Had Will realised it, he would have been amused and more than a little embarrassed. It was exactly the sort of reaction he was used to seeing in people who met Halt for the first time. Unknown to him, his own reputation was beginning to rival that of his former teacher.

Will may not have comprehended the hero worship these boys felt for him personally. But he did understand the gulf they felt existed between a Ranger and an apprentice. He had felt the same way, he remembered.

'You're apprentice Rangers,' he said. 'And the important word there is "Rangers".' He tapped the silver oakleaf amulet that hung around his neck. 'As a wearer of the Silver Oakleaf, I might expect obedience and some level of deference from you. But I do not expect you to call me sir. My name is Will and that's what you call me. You'd call my friend Gilan and my former master Halt, if he were here. That's the Rangers' way.'

It was a small point, he knew, but an important one. Rangers were a unique breed and on occasions they needed to assert authority over people who were nominally far senior to them in rank. It was important that these boys knew that they might one day need to call upon the power and trust that the King conferred upon his Rangers. All of them – apprentices and graduates alike. The self-confidence they would need to do so was built initially by their sense of equality with their peers in the Ranger Corps.

The three apprentices exchanged glances as they took in what Will had said. He saw their shoulders straighten a little, their chins come up fractionally.

'Yes… Will,' said Liam. He nodded to himself, as if trying the word out and liking what he heard. The others echoed the sentiment, nodding in their turn. Will gave them a few moments to savour the sense of confidence, then glanced meaningfully at the sun.

'Well, sunset's getting closer all the time,' he said to himself. He hid a smile as three arrows slid out of their quivers. A few seconds later, three bows twanged and he heard the familiar scrape-slither as the shots were on their way to the target.

'Ten shots,' he said. 'Then we'll see how you're doing.'

He strolled to a nearby tree and sat beneath it, his back leaning comfortably against the trunk. With his cowl pulled up, and his face in shadow, he seemed to be dozing.

But his eyes were moving ceaselessly, missing nothing as he studied every aspect of the three boys' shooting technique.

For the next two days, Will assessed their skills with the bow, correcting small faults in technique as he did so. Liam had developed a habit of measuring his full draw by touching his right thumb to the corner of his mouth.

'Touch your mouth with your forefinger, not the thumb,' Will told him. 'If you use the thumb, your hand tends to twist to the right, and that will throw the arrow off line when you release.'

Liam nodded and made the slight adjustment. Immediately, his accuracy improved – particularly on the longer shots, where the slight change in angle had a greater effect.

Nick, the quietest of the three, was gripping his bow too tightly. He was an intense young man and eager to succeed. Will sensed that was where the vice-like grip came from. Nick was allowing his determination to affect the relaxed grip that the bow needed. A tight grip meant the bow often skewed to the left at the moment of release, resulting in a wild, inaccurate shot. Again, Will corrected the fault and set the young man to practise.

Stuart's technique was sound, without any minor faults at this stage. But like the others, his skill would only reach the required Ranger level with hours of practice.

'Practice and more practice,' Will told them. 'Remember the old saying: "An ordinary archer practises until he gets it right. A Ranger practises…?" ' He let the phrase hang in the air, waiting for them to finish it off.

'Until he never gets it wrong,' they chorused. He nodded, smiling approval.

'Remember it,' he said.

On the third day, however, there was a respite from the hours of practice with the bow. The previous evening, the boys had received the written outline of the tactical exercise that had been set for them. They had spent the hours between dinner and lights out going over the problem and forming their first ideas for a solution.

Will had received the details of their assignment at the same time. He shook his head when he read the outline.

'Crowley and his sense of humour,' he said, closing the folder in mild exasperation. Gilan looked up from where he was sewing up a rent in his cloak. He'd chosen to demonstrate unseen movement through a thorntree clump that afternoon, resulting in minor damage to his clothing.

'What's he done?' he asked.

Will smacked the folder with the back of his hand. 'This tactical assignment. The one he said would amuse me, The boys have to devise a way to besiege and capture a castle garrisoned by invaders and set in a northern fief. They have to recruit a suitable attacking force and take the castle. Sound familiar?'

Gilan grinned. 'I've heard of someone having a similar problem,' he admitted. It was almost identical to the situation that had faced Will the previous winter, at Castle Macindaw.

'Seems like my life's become a walking tactical exercise,' Will grumbled.

He was closer to the truth than he realised. Crowley had circulated a detailed account of the siege to the entire Corps. Will's fellow Rangers had studied his tactics and were highly impressed by them. Those with apprentices had begun using the siege as an example of initiative and imagination in dealing with the problem of having a much smaller force than common tactical wisdom would deem suitable.

Gilan knew all this, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to tell Will. He sensed that his friend might be embarrassed at the thought of such notoriety. Naturally, Will had been the only Ranger in the Corps who had not received Crowley's summary.

'What resources do they have available?' Gilan asked.

Will frowned as he opened the folder again, turning to the Assets and Resources list. Having been set the problem, the boys were given certain resources they could draw on to help them devise a solution.

'A travelling jongleur,' he read. That had been his own disguise at Macindaw. 'Very funny. He won't be much help. One mounted knight – hello, Horace. The former garrison of the castle – forty of them, scattered all over the countryside, of course. A troop of acrobats, tumblers and players… hmmm, they could be handy. And the people of the local village.'

'No shipwrecked Skandians or reformed sorcerers?' Gilan teased him gently.

Will snorted in derision. 'No. At least he's spared me that.'

He trailed off, chewing on a fingernail as he mulled over the problem. Acrobats. They could be handy in getting to the top of the wall. He riffled through a few pages to find the diagram of the castle. Wall height was between three and four metres. A formidable barrier for a normal man. But a trained acrobat might…

He snapped himself out of it, slamming the pages shut once more. It wasn't his problem. The three boys had to find a way to solve it. All he had to do was assess the practicality of their solution.

'Sounds like fun,' Gilan murmured.

Will shook his head. 'I can't wait to see what they come up with.'