The Ruins of Gorlan: Chapters 14–21

Tug clip-clopped docilely across to the fence.

He bent down to fasten the girth straps of the saddle.

Instantly, Tug slowed to a canter, then a trot, finally coming down to walking pace as Will maintained the pressure on the reins.

The old man looked up at Will, sitting astride the pony, and nodded in appreciation.

"Come along,” he said. "No time to be lolling around doing nothing. We’d best get moving if we’re to be home before dark.”

He wanted to call Halt’s attention to it but thought that such a frivolous observation would not impress the Ranger.

Those three months had been a time of constant practice with his bow and the knives that Halt had given him. Three months of stalking through the fields outside the castle, moving from one scant patch of cover to the next, trying to make his way unobserved by Halt’s eagle eyes.

The little pony craned his head and looked wistfully at the apples on the branches, well out of his reach.

He wasn’t sure if backside was the sort of word you used in the presence of someone as exalted as a Baron.

The work was hard and unremitting and the discipline was unwavering.

He was predisposed to think badly of the others.

Alyss had always seemed to hold herself aloof from him, as if he weren’t good enough for her, and Will had spent his time playing tricks on him, then running away and climbing into that immense tree where Horace couldn't follow.

The thin boy was studious and devoted to his books and Horace had always considered him a pallid, uninteresting person.

Who is this unpleasant clod? his eyes seemed to say.

He looked around, saw a fallen branch from the apple tree and grabbed it, brandishing it over his head as he rushed at Tug.

Always strike first, Halt had dinned into his brain in the hours they’d spent practicing unarmed combat.

“What’s going on here, you two hooligans?” said a loud, angry voice in his ear.

Galvanized into action, Will and Horace reluctantly shook hands.

There had been little chance for the two boys to resume the argument, as their respective masters kept them busy and their paths seldom crossed.

It was not that he looked forward to renewing the fight with Horace, but he found he could face the idea with a certain amount of equanimity.

The bushes parted as a disheveled and frightened-looking old man stood up and hurried forward.

Slowly, Will released the tension on the string and lowered the bow as he took a closer look at the interloper.

“Now then,” Halt said sternly, "why are you skulking there? Who told you to spy on us?”

“No need to bellow, young man,” he said huffily.

"Time you did then. Draw a boar spear and hunting knife from the armory, have Ulf assign you a horse and report back here in twenty minutes.”

After all, this was the boy’s first hunt and the Battlemaster didn’t want to take any undue risks.

Horace glanced up once, making eye contact with Will. There was no animosity in the look.

Its red, angry eyes fastened on the small, capering figure to one side and, furiously, it swung after Will.

There was a certain deference, even respect, in the way people spoke to him and looked at him as he passed.

Nevertheless, Will was troubled by the adulation.

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.

It was a source of pride to him to see one of his castle wards acquit himself well.

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.

Horace turned to face him and, in the same instant, knew he had made a mistake. Jerome’s move was a feint.