John Flanagan - Erak_s ransom

'And who might that one man be?' Erak asked, although he felt he already knew the answer to the question.

'Erak Oberjarl,' The one they call the Oberjarl,' the Arridi eyed him.

Impulsively, Axel took a pace forward, raising his axe threateningly.

'You'll have to go through the rest of us to take him!' he shouted defiantly. Erak heaved a deep sigh and shook himself in irritation.

'Well done, Axel,' he said. 'You've just told them I'm here.'

Undoubtedly Baron Arald thought, with a deep sense of pride and satisfaction, this would go down as the wedding of the year. Perhaps of the decade.

Already, it had all the hallmarks of a roaring success. The Bores' Table was well attended with a group of eight people, currently vying to see who could be the most uninteresting, overbearing and repetitive. Other guests glanced in their direction, giving silent thanks to the organisers who had separated them from such dreadful people.

There had been the inevitable tearful flouncing and shrill recriminations when the girlfriend of one of the younger warriors from Sir Rodney's Battleschool had caught her boyfriend kissing another girl in a darkened corridor. It wouldn't be a wedding reception without that, Arald thought. He sighed with contentment as he surveyed the colourful scene in Redmont's dining hall, where brightly dressed couples sat at tables, while Master Chubb's minions hurried through the room, delivering a bewildering variety of delicious foods: roasted meats and fowls, platters of steaming vegetables, spiced specialities of the kitchen, amazing and fantastic creations in pastry so light that it seemed to explode into feather-light fragments at the first taste. And, he thought with immense satisfaction, there were puddings and fruit yet to come!

The ceremonial side of the day had gone off perfectly, he thought, thanks in no small measure to his own performance as celebrant. He felt that his rich and carrying tones as he recited the marriage formula to the happy couple had added just the right touch of gravitas to the proceedings.

As one would expect of a seasoned orator like himself, he had lightened the mood with a particularly witty sally about the secret passion that had burned between Halt and Lady Pauline for these past twenty years – a passion apparently unremarked by anyone save himself. The joke was based around a rather clever play on words in which he referred to Pauline's unceasing affection for the often absent Ranger as her 'love without halt'.

He had paused after the joke to allow the audience a few moments to laugh. The fact that nobody did was a mild disappointment. Perhaps, he thought, his humour was too subtle for the masses.

Pauline, of course, had been a stunningly beautiful bride.

The woman's poise and taste were unsurpassed in the Kingdom. When she appeared at the bottom of the aisle in Redmont's audience hall, attended by young Alyss and Jenny, there had been a mass intake of breath from those assembled – a muted 'Aaaah' that ran around the room.

Her gown was white, of course, a clever formal variation on the elegant Courier's uniform that she normally wore. Simplicity, he thought. That was the key to good fashion. He glanced down at his own purple velvet doublet, decorated in bright blue and gold diamond-shaped lozenges, highlighted by silver embroidery, and had a moment of doubt that perhaps it was just a shade too busy. Then he dismissed the thought. The bulkier male figure could stand a little extra embellishment, he decided.

But Pauline had really been stunning. With her grey-blonde hair swept up on her head and a simple gold necklace at her throat, she had glided down the central aisle like a veritable goddess. Her attendants were suitably alluring as well. Alyss, equally tall and elegant, wore a variation on her mentor's gown, but in pale blue. Her blonde hair was down, falling naturally to her shoulders. Young Jenny, the second bridesmaid, couldn't compete with the other two for height and elegance. But she had her own charm. Small, with a rounded figure and a wide friendly grin, she seemed to bounce down the aisle where the others glided. Jenny brought a natural sense of exuberance and fun to any proceedings, Arald thought. Her yellow gown reflected her sunny disposition and approach to life.

As for the groom's party, Crowley had really come up trumps. Naturally, everyone had been wondering what Halt would wear. After all, nobody could remember seeing him in anything other than the muted greens, browns and greys of a Ranger's cloak. Discussion reached fever pitch when it was heard that, a few days before the wedding, he had actually visited Redmont's barber for a haircut and beard trim.

Then Crowley had revealed his surprise – an official formal uniform for the Ranger Corps that would be worn for the first time at the wedding by Halt, Will, Gilan and himself.

In keeping with Ranger tradition, the basic colour was 'green – a dark, leaf green. In place of their dull brown,'jerkins and breeches and cowled camouflage cloaks, each Ranger wore a belted sleeveless tunic over a white silken shirt. The tunics were made from finest leather and all of which were the same rich leaf green. High on the left breast, woven in metallic thread, was a miniature oakleaf insignia – silver for Halt, Gilan and Crowley, bronze for Will.

Dark green breeches and brown, knee-high boots in soft leather added to the effect, while the broad belt that tethered the tunic at the waist supported an orrnate version of the Ranger's standard issue double scabbard. The model was black and shining and chased with silver

Halt's contained two specially made knives, a saxe and a throwing knife. They were both perfectly balanced and the hilts were chased in silver as well. They were Crowley's wedding gift to his old friend.

'I know you won't wear them in the field,' he'd said, but keep them for formal occasions.' He, Gilan and Will wore their day-to-day, utilitarian weapons.

The final touch, everyone agreed, was a small piece of genius. If Rangers were known for anything it was their ''mottled cloaks" – a garment into which they could rtually disappear when the need arose. Such a cloak could be out of place at a formal occasion, so Crowley had placed it with an item that reflected the sense of the original. Each Ranger wore a short cape. Made in dull satin, it bore the mottled green-brown-grey pattern of the cloak, with an arrangement of four stylised arrows, picked out in silver thread, running diagonally down it. The cape was offset to hang from the right shoulder, reaching only to the waist. In one stroke, it represented the cloak and the quiver of arrows that all Rangers wore at their right shoulder. Everyone agreed that the four Rangers looked impressive and handsome in these new uniforms. Simple and stylish once again, thought Arald, and suffered another momentary qualm about his own outfit.

He turned to his wife, the very beautiful, red-headed Lady Sandra, beside him and gestured at the brightly coloured doublet.

'My dear,' he said, 'you don't think I'm a bit… too much in this, do you?'

'Too much, darling?' she repeated, trying to hide a smile. He made a doubtful little gesture.

'You know… too colourful… overstated. Coming the peacock, as it were?'

'Do you feel overstated, my lord?' she asked.

'Well, no. But perhaps… '

'You are Baron of Redmont, after all,' she said, now managing a completely straight face. He looked down at himself, considered carefully, then, reassured, nodded his thanks to her.

'No. Of course not. You're right, my dear. As ever. My position deserves a little bit of pomp and show, I suppose. No… you're right. I'm perfectly fine. Just the right tone, in fact.'

This time, Lady Sandra had to turn away, finding something urgent to say to the person sitting on her apposite Arald, reassured now that he hadn't committed a fashion gaffe, went back to his musing over events so far.