The Ruins of Gorlan: Chapters 8–13

“Ye-es,” Will answered, careful to take any questioning inflection out of the word.

"Really?” said the Ranger expansively. "Perhaps you could tell me a little about him?”

"Oh,” said Will, suitably chastened.

Will shivered, recalling some of the more lurid stories about Morgarath, the Lord of the Mountains of Rain and Night.

Halt nodded somberly as he saw Will’s reaction.

He’d been a cadet for less than a week and already he was a total physical wreck.

Exhausted by all of this, they were then returned to their quarters, where they had the opportunity to take a brief shower—the water was cold—before making sure the dormitory and ablutions block were absolutely spotless.

Quarters inspection came after that and it was painstaking.

But if you missed it, it was a long, hard morning until the lunch hour, which, in keeping with the spartan life in Battleschool, was only twenty minutes long.

Unless, of course, someone had transgressed during the course of the day, or in some way caused displeasure to one of their instructors or observers.

Horace was one of twenty new Battleschool recruits that year, the other nineteen coming through what was considered the normal process—parental influence, patronage or recommendation from their teachers.

As a result, he was regarded as something of a curiosity, and the other boys had so far made no overtures of friendship or even much attempt to get to know him.

But Bryn had seen the hesitation and perhaps even the fleeting light of rebellion in his eyes.

Will tended to skip over details that he saw as unimportant until Halt pointed out to him, with some acerbity, “You’d find these skills would become a little more important if you were planning a route for a company of heavy cavalry and forgot to mention that there’s a stream in the way.”

He handed Will a double scabbard, like the one he wore on the left-hand side of his own belt.

There was a brass crosspiece between the hilt and the blade and it had a matching brass pommel.

For others, it was at the discretion of his instructors or, in extreme cases, Sir Rodney himself.

As Karel called the basic cadence, Rodney had noticed that Horace was adding an occasional stroke to the sequence, and yet managing to do so without falling behind in his timing.

He hadn’t actually seen what Horace had done. He covered his uncertainty with bluster.

He’d originally ordered the senior cadet to reprimand the trainee for lack of attention.

"Thrust! Thrust! Backstep! Cross parry! Shield block! Side cut!” Horace called as he performed the moves.

Sir Rodney nodded assent. "Carry on, drillmaster."

Halt led the way up to the largest of the ramshackle huts, then stopped, signaling for Will to do likewise.

He led them to the back of the hut, where a small paddock was fenced off.

Battlemasters in other fiefs took advantage of the position to surround themselves with the trappings of luxury, but that wasn’t Rodney's style.

“Who hasn’t?” the Battlemaster said with some feeling, and the two old friends exchanged rueful grins.

Karel snorted in derision.

His classmates, not understanding what had happened, all assumed that Horace had somehow annoyed the Battlemaster and now waited for the inevitable retribution.

The three older boys had heard a garbled version of the scene at the practice yard.

“Baby should throw stones instead,” Jerome concluded the sarcastic litany.