John Flanagan: The sorcerer of the North

"Good-looking dog, that 'un," he said. "He's yours, is he?"

"I found her injured by the road," Will said. "Someone had cut her with a blade of some sort and left her to die."

The boatman rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "John Buttle has a shepherd like that one. And he'd be the kind to injure a dog and leave it that way. Has a nasty temper, John does, particularly when he's in his drink."

"And what does this John Buttle do?" Will asked.

The boatman shrugged. "He's a herder by trade. But he does most things. Some say he does his real work at nights along the roads, looking for travelers who are about after dark. But no one's proved it. He's a might too handy with that spear of his for my liking. He's a good man to stay away from."

Will glanced at the packhorse again, thinking of the cruel gash in the dog's side.

"If Buttle's the one who hurt that dog, he'll do well to stay away from me," he said coldly.

The boatman studied him for a moment. The face was young and well-featured. But there was a hard light in the eyes, he saw. He realized that with Rangers, it never did to assume too much. This pleasant-looking lad wouldn't be wearing the Ranger gray and green if he didn't have steel in him. Rangers were deceptive folk and that was a fact. There were even some who held that they were skilled in the black arts of magic and sorcery and the boatman wasn't altogether sure that those people didn't have the right of it. Surreptitiously making a sign to ward off evil, he moved to the front of the punt, glad for an excuse to break off the conversation.

"Best be getting us across then," he said. Will sensed the change in atmosphere. He glanced at Tug and raised his eyebrows. The horse didn't deign to notice.

As the boatman heaved again on the thick hawser, the punt slid across the water toward the island, small waves burbling under the blunt prow and slapping against the low timber sides. Will noticed that the ferry operator's home, a small planked hut with a thatched roof, was on the island side-presumably as a security measure. The prow of the ferry soon grated into the island's coarse sand, the current slewing it sideways a little as the forward progress stopped. The operator unhitched the single rope rail across the front and gestured for Will to disembark. Will swung up astride Tug and the horses' hooves clopped on the planks as they stepped carefully forward.

"Thank you," he said as Tug stepped off onto the beach. The ferry operator saluted again.

"At your service, Ranger," he said. He watched the slim, erect figure as he rode into the trees and was lost from sight.

It took another half hour to reach the castle. The road wound upward toward the center of the island, through well-spaced, windswept trees. There was plenty of light, unlike in the thick forests around Castle Redmont, or the dark pine forests of Skandia that Will remembered all too well.

The leaves had turned, but so far most of them remained on the branches. All in all, it was pleasant country. As he rode, Will saw plenty of evidence of game-rabbits, of course, and wild turkey. Once he caught a quick flash of white when a deer showed him its hindquarters as it bounded away. Poaching would probably be rife here, he thought. Will had a basic sympathy for the villagers who sought occasionally to augment their diet with venison or game birds. Fortunately, poaching was a matter of local law and would be policed by the baron's gamekeepers. As a matter of policy, though, Will would need to discover the identities of the local professionals. Poachers could be a prime source of information about goings-on. And information was a Ranger's stock-in-trade.

The trees eventually thinned and he rode out into the sunlight again. The winding uphill road had brought him to a natural plateau, a wide plain perhaps a kilometer across. In the center of the plain stood Castle Seacliff and its dependent village-a huddle of thatched cottages set close to the castle walls.

The castle itself, to one used to the impressive mass of Castle Redmont or the soaring beauty of the King's Castle Araluen, was something of a disappointment. It was little more than a fort, Will realized, with the surrounding walls barely topping five meters in height. As he looked more closely, he could see that at least one section of the wall was constructed from timber-large tree trunks set vertically into the ground and bound together with iron brackets. It was an effective enough barrier, he thought, but it lacked the dramatic impact of Redmont's massive ironstone walls. Yet there were solidly buttressed towers at each corner and a central keep, which would provide a haven of last resort in the event of an attack. Over the keep, he could see the stag's head banner of Baron Ergell as it stirred on the light afternoon sea breeze.

"We're here," he told Tug, and the horse shook its mane as it heard his voice.

He had reined in at the first sight of the castle. Now he touched Tug's side with his heels and they started forward again. As ever, the packhorse moved off a little more slowly, dragging momentarily on the lead rope as they made their way through the open farm fields toward the castle. There was a smell of smoke in the air. The corn stooks had been bundled up and burned after the harvest was brought in and they were still smoldering. In a week or two the farmers would plow the ashes back into the fields and the sequence would begin once more. The smell of smoke, the bare fields and the low-angled autumn afternoon sunlight all evoked memories in Will. Memories of growing up. Of harvests and harvest festivals. Of hazy summers, smoky autumns and snow-covered winters. And, in the last six years, of the deep affection that had grown between him and his mentor, the deceptively grim-faced Ranger called Halt.

There were a few workers in the fields and they stopped to stare at the cloaked figure as he rode toward the castle. He nodded to one or two of those who were closest to him and they nodded back, cautiously, raising their hands in salute. Simple farm people didn't understand Rangers and as a result, they didn't wholly trust them either. Of course, Will knew, in times of war or danger, they would look to the Rangers for help and protection and leadership. But now, with no threatening danger, they would keep their distance from him.

The occupants of the castle would be a different matter. Baron Ergell and his Battlemaster-Will searched for the name for a few seconds, then recalled it was Norris-understood the role of the Ranger Corps and the value that its members brought to the kingdom's fifty fiefs. They didn't fear Rangers, but that didn't mean he would enjoy a close relationship with them either. Theirs would be a working partnership.

Remember, Halt had told him, our task is to assist the barons but our first loyalty is to the King. We are the direct representatives of the King's will and sometimes that may not exactly coincide with local interests. We cooperate with the barons and we advise them. But we maintain our independence from them. Don't allow yourself to become indebted to your baron, or to become too close to the people of the castle.

Of course, in a fief like Redmont, where Will had done his training, things were slightly different. Baron Arald, the Lord of Redmont, was a member of the King's inner council. That allowed for a closer relationship between the Baron, his officers and Halt, the Ranger assigned to his fief. But in general, a Ranger's life was a solitary one.

There were compensations, of course. Chief among them was the camaraderie that existed between members of the Corps itself. There were fifty Rangers on active service, one for each fief in the kingdom, and they all knew each other by name. Indeed, Will was well acquainted with the man he was replacing at Seacliff. Bartell had been one of his examiners for his annual assessments as an apprentice, and it was his decision to retire that had led to Will's being presented with his Silver Oakleaf, the symbol of a full-fledged Ranger. Bartell, getting on in years and unable to face the rigors of Ranger life-hard riding, sleeping rough and constant vigilance-had traded his own Silver Oakleaf for the gold of retirement. He had been reassigned to the Corps headquarters at Castle Araluen, where he was working in the archives section, compiling the history of the Corps.