The Ruins of Gorlan: Chapters 22–26

To add to the difficulty, Halt had stipulated that he should let no more than five seconds elapse between each shot.

Confused, Bryn looked around to where the two canes lay. With a sinking feeling, he saw that each one was transfixed by a black-shafted arrow.

“Now give me back my arrow,” the Ranger ordered, and the tall, swarthy boy struggled to remove the arrow, stepping close enough to hand it to Halt, tensed in every muscle as he waited for some unexpected move from the Ranger.

Halt gave a small, contemptuous laugh.

"I rather thought so,” he said. "Well then, I’ve heard rumors that you’re pretty good with a sword. How about a practice bout with this hero in front of me?”

He failed to notice that Horace was blocking every stroke with consummate ease, almost with contempt.

In addition, his roommates, without the fear of incurring the bullies’ vengeance, began to be more welcoming and friendly.

Will glanced sidelong at his teacher, hoping that perhaps Halt might deign to share a little more information with him, but the Ranger’s keen eyes were scanning the ground in front of them.

The gait of their own horses masked any real sound from the trail behind.

Halt's unperturbed manner was beginning to bother him.

Gilan nodded, somewhat crestfallen.

The Corps Commandant, a Ranger named Crowley, would meet with his staff there each day to organize activities and to collate and evaluate the reports and information that individual Rangers brought to the Gathering.

Gilan introduced Will, and the newcomer, who appeared to be in his early thirties, looked at him speculatively.

"We’d best be moving. Merron, you’ll need to return to your fief. Crowley wants the army alerted and mobilized. Orders will be distributed in a few minutes.”

“We don’t know the details, but my bet is he’s hoping to form an alliance with them. They’ll fight anyone for money. And apparently, they’ll fight for anyone as well,” he added, his distaste for mercenaries obvious in his voice.

The thought of a dismal, windswept plain and stones that emitted a nonstop, keening wail seemed to take the last vestige of warmth from the late afternoon sun.

“Now you can see why they call it the Solitary Plain,” Halt said to the two of them, reining Abelard in so they could come abreast of him.

And with the feeling of insignificance came an accompanying feeling of impotence.

Even Gilan, normally cheerful and ebullient, seemed affected by the heavy, depressing atmosphere of the place.

Only Halt seemed unchanged, remaining grim and taciturn as ever.

Gradually, as they rode, Will became aware of a disquieting sensation.

His left hand crept unobtrusively to the hilt of his saxe knife as he rode, and he drew comfort from the solid, dependable touch of the weapon.

He slept fitfully, uncomfortable dreams chasing through his subconscious—dreams of fearful creatures, strange and terrifying things that stayed just outside his consciousness, but close enough to the surface that he felt their presence, and was unsettled by them.

The wind was scudding clouds across the moon.

In the long hours of tense watching, he saw nothing but the racing clouds, the fleeting moon and the undulating sea of grass that surrounded them.

They saw the Stone Flutes by midmorning—a gray and surprisingly small circle of granite monoliths that stood at the top of a rise in the Plain.

The depressing song was now louder than ever, ebbing and flowing on the tide of the wind.

It was obvious from their expectant expressions that they were prepared to accept his assumptions as ironclad fact.

It was a high-pitched, bestial howl that ululated and climbed in pitch.

It was a high-pitched, bestial howl that ululated and climbed in pitch.