John Flanagan - Oakleaf bearers

Halt shook his head. "I need to assess your strengths and weaknesses first. And then I'll need maps of the surrounding countryside," he said. "We'll have to find a spot that will offset their superiority of numbers as far as possible. Then I'm going to ride out for another look at the Temujai. Last time I saw them, I had my hands full keeping your senior jarl alive. Then, after I've done all that, I might be able to answer your question."

Ragnak chewed on one end of his mustache, taking in what the Ranger had said. He was impressed, in spite of himself. His ability to plan for a battle usually amounted to the words "Everyone ready? Follow me!" before he led the way in a frontal assault.

Perhaps, he thought, this Ranger might be useful after all.

"Be aware of one thing, however, Oberjarl," Halt continued. Ragnak looked up at him, surprised at the tone of uncompromising command in his voice.

"I'm going to be asking you questions about your establishment, your fighting men, your numbers. They're questions that might give me an advantage in any future disagreement between our two countries."

"I see:," said Ragnak slowly. He didn't like the direction the conversation was taking.

"You'll be tempted to lie to me. To exaggerate your numbers and your abilities. Don't do it."

Once more, the Oberjarl was taken aback at the peremptory tone of command. But Halt's gaze was unwavering.

"If I am to help you, you'll need to be honest with me. And so will your jarls."

Ragnak considered the statement for a moment or two, then nodded ponderously.

"Agreed," he said. "Mind you," he added, "that ax cuts two ways. You'll also be showing us how you think and plan for a battle."

And once more, that trace of a smile hovered around Halt's mouth as he acknowledged the Oberjarl's point.

"That's true," he said. "I guess if we want to win, we both have to be willing to lose a little."

The two men studied each other once more. Each decided that he liked what he saw in the other's eyes. Abruptly, Ragnak gestured to one of the massive pinewood armchairs.

"Sit down!" he said, indicating a flagon of Gallican wine on the table between them, almost lost in the glittering crystal fittings of the chandelier.

"Have a drink and tell me this. Why do you think these Temujai have chosen to make themselves a nuisance in Skandia? Surely the way would have been easier for them to move south, through Teutlandt and Gallica."

Halt poured himself a glass of the brilliant red wine and drank deeply. He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Ragnak certainly knew the right wines to steal, he thought.

"I've been wondering that myself," he said at last. He wished the chair he was sitting on was made for someone smaller than the normal massive Skandian build. His feet barely brushed the floor as he sat there and he felt like a small boy in his father's study. "Even if they win here, they must know that you'll be a tough nut to crack. Certainly tougher than the Teutlanders."

Ragnak snorted in derision at the mention of the unorganized, squabbling race to the immediate south. Riddled by factions and internecine distrust, the Teutlanders were at the mercy of any would-be conquerors. In fact, if Skandian ambitions had lain in that direction, Ragnak would have felt confident that he could have subjugated the country with his small army of warriors.

"And the Gallicans are nearly as bad," Halt continued. "They'd be almost incapable of agreeing on one overall leader to take command. So I wondered what it was that made the Temujai swing north and risk a bloody nose here in Skandia."

"And?" the Oberjarl prompted. Halt took another swallow of wine and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I asked myself what you had that would make the risk worthwhile," he said. "And there was only one thing I could think of."

He paused. It was a theatrical thing to do, he knew, but he couldn't resist it. As he felt sure would happen, the Oberjarl leaned forward.

"What was it? What are they after?"

"Ships," replied Halt. "The Temujai want control of the seas. And that means their ambitions don't stop here. They're planning to invade Araluen as well."

E VANLYN WAS WATCHING W ILL PRACTICING HIS SHOOTING. I T was something that Halt had insisted on, once they had reached the relative safety of Hallasholm. Will's speed and accuracy had fallen far below the levels that Halt found acceptable and he wasted no time making his apprentice aware of the fact.

"Remember the golden rule?" he'd said after he'd watched Will shoot a dozen arrows at different targets set up in a semicircle in front of him, at ranges varying from fifty meters out to two hundred. Most of Will's arrows flew wide of the more distant targets, and it took him far too long to fire the set of twelve shots.

Will had looked up at his mentor, knowing how badly he'd shot. Halt was frowning and shaking his head slightly. It made matters worse that Horace and Evanlyn had chosen that moment to come and watch.

"Practice?" he'd replied glumly, and Halt had nodded.

"Practice," he affirmed. As they'd walked out to collect the arrows he'd fired, Halt had dropped a consoling arm around the boy's shoulders.

"Don't feel too bad about it," he told him. "Your technique is still good. But you can't expect to spend the winter making snowmen in the mountains and retain your edge."

"Making snowmen?" Will replied indignantly. "I'll have you know things were pretty rough up in the mountains:" He stopped as he realized that Halt had been pulling his leg. He had to admit that the Ranger was right, however. The only way to attain the almost instinctive accuracy and speed with the bow that were the hallmarks of a Ranger was to practice, constantly and assiduously.

Over the following days, he took himself to the practice area and gave himself over to the task of perfecting his skills once more. As his old skill returned, along with his strength and fitness, a small crowd would follow and watch. Even though Will couldn't boast the skill levels of a full-fledged Ranger, his ability was far above that of normal archers and he was regarded by Skandians and some of the slaves with a deal of respect.

Evanlyn and Horace, however, seemed to find plenty of other things to fill their days-riding and hiking in the nearby woods, or sometimes taking a small skiff out on the bay. Of course, they had asked Will to join them, but each time, he had replied that he had to attend to his practice.

There were times when he could have gone. But even on these occasions, his feelings injured, he begged off, claiming the need for extra work sessions.

The practice sessions were intensified when Erak produced the double knife scabbard that Will had been wearing when he and Evanlyn had been captured by the Skandians. Erak, a true hoarder, had kept the weapons and now saw fit to return them to their rightful owner. A word from Halt let Will know that he would soon be tested for his knife-throwing skills as well. Experience had taught Will by now that the long months without practice would have eroded his abilities in this area too. So he set about restoring them. The township of Hallasholm soon rang to the repetitive thud of his throwing knife and saxe knife striking point first into a target of soft pinewood.

As each day passed, his accuracy and speed improved with both the bow and the knives. He was beginning to recapture that smooth, flowing action that Halt had drilled into him over so many hours in the forest outside Castle Redmont.

Now he switched easily from target to target, his arm raising or lowering the bow to adjust for the variations in distance, his eyes wide open, seeing a total sighting picture that included the bow, the arrow and the eventual target. He was pleased that Evanlyn had chosen today to come and watch his practice session. He felt a savage exultation as arrow after arrow thudded into the targets, striking either in the center or close enough to make no difference.