The Ruins of Gorlan

Chapter 21

IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING THE BOAR HUNT, WILL NOTICED A change in the way he was treated. There was a certain deference, even respect, in the way people spoke to him and looked at him as he passed. It was most noticeable among the people of the village. Being simple folk, with rather limited boundaries to their day-to-day lives, they tended to glamorize and exaggerate any event that was in any way out of the ordinary.

By the end of the first week, the events of the hunt had been so blown out of proportion that they had Will single-handedly killing both boars as they charged out of the thicket. A couple of days after that, to hear the story related, you could almost believe that he had accomplished the feat with one arrow, firing it clean through the first boar and into the heart of the second.

"I really didn't do too much at all," he said to Halt one evening, as they sat by the fire in the warm little cottage they shared on the edge of the forest. "I mean, it's not as if I thought it through and decided to do it. It just sort of happened. And after all, you killed the boar, not me."

Halt merely nodded, staring fixedly at the leaping yellow flames in the grate.

"People will think what they want to," he said quietly. "Never take too much notice of it."

Nevertheless, Will was troubled by the adulation. He felt people were making an altogether too big thing out of it all. He would have enjoyed the respect if it had been based on what had actually happened. In his heart, he felt he had done something worthwhile, and perhaps even honorable. But he was being lionized for a totally fictional account of events and, being an essentially honest person, he couldn't really take any pride in that.

He also felt a little embarrassed because he was one of the few people who had noticed Horace's original, instinctively courageous action, placing himself between the charging boar and Will and Tug. Will had mentioned this last fact to Halt. He felt that perhaps the Ranger might have an opportunity to appraise Sir Rodney of Horace's unselfish action, but his teacher had merely nodded and said briefly:

"Sir Rodney knows. He doesn't miss much. He's got a little more up top than the average bash and whacker." And with that, Will had to be content.

Around the castle, with the knights from the Battleschool and the various Craftmasters and apprentices, the attitudes were different. There, Will enjoyed a simple acceptance, and the recognition of the fact that he had done well. He noticed that people tended to know his name now, so that they greeted him as well as Halt when the two of them had business in the castle grounds. The Baron himself was friendlier than ever. It was a source of pride to him to see one of his castle wards acquit himself well.

The one person Will would have liked to discuss it all with was Horace himself. But as their paths seldom crossed, the opportunity hadn't arisen. He wanted to make sure that the warrior apprentice knew that Will set no store by the ridiculous stories that had swept the village, and he hoped that his former wardmate knew he had done nothing to spread the rumors.

In the meantime, Will's lessons and training proceeded at an accelerated pace. In a month's time, Halt had told him, they would be leaving for the Gathering – an annual event in the Rangers' calendar.

This was the time when all fifty Rangers came together to exchange news, to discuss any problems that might have arisen throughout the kingdom and to make plans. Of greater importance to Will, it was also the time when apprentices were assessed, to see if they were fit to progress to the next year of their training. It was bad luck for Will that he had been in training for only seven months. If he didn't pass the assessment at this year's Gathering, he would have to wait another year, until the next opportunity arose. As a result, he practiced and practiced from dawn till dusk each day. The idea of a Saturday holiday was a long forgotten luxury to him. He fired arrow after arrow into targets of different sizes, in different conditions, from standing, kneeling, sitting positions. He even fired from hidden positions in trees.

And he practiced with his knives. Standing to throw, kneeling, sitting, diving to the left, diving to the right. He practiced throwing the larger of the two knives so that it struck its target hilt first. After all, as Halt said, sometimes you only needed to stun the person you were throwing at, so it was a good idea to know how to do it.

He practiced his stealth skills, learning to stay stock – still even when he was sure that he had been discovered and learning that, all too often, people simply didn't notice him until he actually did move and gave the game away. He learned the trick that searchers would use, letting their gaze pass over a spot and then flicking back to it instantly to catch any slight movement. He learned about sweepers – the rear scouts who would follow silently behind a party on the move to catch out anyone who might have remained unseen, then broken cover when the party had gone past.

He worked with Tug, strengthening the bond and affection that had taken root so quickly between the two of them. He learned to use the little horse's extra senses of smell and hearing to give him warning of any danger and he learned the signals that the horse was trained to send to its rider.

So it was little wonder that, at the end of the day, Will had no inclination to walk up the winding path that led to Castle Redmont and find Horace so that he could discuss things with him. He accepted that, sooner or later, the chance would come. In the meantime, he could only hope that Horace was being given credit for his actions by Sir Rodney and the other members of the Battleschool.

Unfortunately for Horace, it seemed that nothing could be further from the truth.

Sir Rodney was puzzled by the muscular young apprentice. He seemed to have all the qualities that the Battleschool was looking for. He was brave. He followed orders immediately and he was still showing extraordinary skill in his weapons training. But his class work was below standard. Assignments were handed in late or sloppily finished. He seemed to have trouble paying attention to his instructors-as if he were distracted all the time. On top of that, it was suspected that he had a predilection for fighting. None of the staff had ever witnessed him fighting, but he was often seen to be sporting bruises and minor contusions, and he seemed to have made no close friends among his classmates. On the contrary, they took pains to steer clear of him. It all served to create a picture of an argumentative, antisocial, lazy recruit who had a certain amount of skill at arms.

All things considered, and with a great deal of reluctance, the Battlemaster was beginning to feel that he would have to expel Horace from Battleschool. All the evidence seemed to point in that direction. Yet his instincts told him he was wrong. That there was some other factor he wasn't aware of.

In point of fact, there were three other factors: Alda, Bryn and Jerome. And even as the Battlemaster was considering the future of his newest recruit, they had Horace surrounded once more.

It seemed that each time Horace managed to find a place where he could escape their attentions, the three older students tracked him down. Of course, this wasn't difficult for them, as they had a network of spies and informants among the other younger boys who were afraid of them, both in and outside the Battleschool. This time, they had cornered Horace behind the armory, in a quiet spot that he had discovered a few days before. He was hemmed in against the stone wall of the armory building, the three bullies standing in a half circle before him. Each of them carried a thick cane and Alda had a piece of heavy sacking folded over one arm.

"We we been looking for you, Baby," said Alda. Horace said nothing. His eyes shifted from one to the other as he wondered which of them would be the first to make a move. "Baby's made a fool of us," Bryn said. "Made a fool of the entire Battleschool." That was Jerome. Horace frowned, puzzled by their words. He had no idea what they were talking about. Alda's next statement made it clear. "Baby had to be rescued from the big, bad boar," he said. "By a little, creeping apprentice sneaker," Bryn added, the sneer heavy in his tone.

"And that makes us all look bad." Jerome shoved him against the shoulder as he spoke, pushing him back against the rough stone of the wall. His face was red and angry and Horace knew he was building himself up for something. Horace's hands bunched into fists at his side. Jerome saw the action.

"Don't threaten me, Baby! Time you learned a lesson." He stepped forward threateningly. Horace turned to face him and, in the same instant, knew he had made a mistake. Jerome's move was a feint. The real attack came from Alda, who whipped a heavy hessian sack over Horace's head before he could resist, pulling a drawcord tight so that he was contained from the waist up, blinded and helpless.

He felt several loops of the drawcord falling over his shoulders to fasten it, then the blows began.

He staggered blindly, helpless to defend himself as the three boys rained blows down on him from the heavy canes they had been carrying. He blundered into the wall and fell, unable to break his fall with his arms immobilized by his side. The blows continued, falling on his unprotected head, his arms and his legs as the three boys continued their mindless litany of hate." Call for the sneaker to save you now, Baby."

"This is for making us all look like fools."

"Learn respect for your Battleschool, Baby. " On and on it went as he writhed on the ground, trying in vain to escape the blows. It was the worst beating they had ever given him and they continued until, gradually, mercifully, he fell still, semiconscious. They each hit him a few more times, then Alda dragged the sack clear. Horace drew in one giant shuddering breath of fresh air. He ached and hurt viciously in every part of his body. From a long distance away, he heard Bryn's voice. "Now let's teach the sneaker the same lesson. " The others laughed and he heard them moving away. He groaned softly, longing for the release of unconsciousness, wanting to let himself sink into its dark, welcoming arms so that the pain would go away, at least for a while.

Then the full import of Bryn's words struck him. They were going to give the same treatment to Will-for the ridiculous reason that they felt his action in saving Horace had somehow belittled them and their Battleschool. With a gigantic effort, he pushed the welcoming folds of darkness back and struggled to his feet, moaning with the pain, chest heaving, head spinning, as he supported himself against the wall. He remembered his promise to Will: If you ever need a friend, you can call on me.

It was time to make good on the promise.