John Flanagan - The Burning Bridge

"Do I sense another brouhaha in the making?" Lady Pauline said innocently and he glanced suspiciously at her. She seemed not to notice.

"Well, one of my fourth-year apprentices was stupid enough to make a remark about Will and Horace being sent off on a soft assignment. Said that's all they were good for."

"Oh, dear," said Lady Pauline. "I do hope he didn't make this remark in Halt's hearing?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said Rodney. "He's not a bad lad. All muscle and bone, mind you, and a good deal of that between his ears. But he was feeling his oats a little and told Halt to mind his own business." He paused, then added, by way of explanation, "Everyone's a little jumpy, what with all the preparations for war."

"So how is the lad?" Arald asked. Rodney shrugged.

"The infirmary says there's no lasting damage. He'll be back on duty in a few days' time. But the point is, I can't have Halt going around damaging my apprentices. I'm going to need them soon."

Arald toyed with one of the quill pens on his desk. "He's definitely been difficult these past few days," he said. "It's like having a bear with a sore head around the castle. In fact, I think I might prefer a bear with a sore head. It would be less disruptive."

"We were about to discuss Halt's behavior as you arrived," Lady Pauline said, taking the opportunity to return the conversation to the case in hand. "There's been a complaint about him from Sir Digby of Barga."

"Digby?" Rodney said, a frown touching his face. "Didn't he try to shortchange us on his draft of men?"

"Exactly," said the Baron. "We're having a lot of that going on at the moment. So I sent Halt to straighten matters out. Thought it might be a good idea to give him something to keep him busy."

"So what's Digby got to complain about?" Rodney asked. It was obvious from his tone that he felt no sympathy for the recalcitrant commander of Barga Hold.

The Baron gestured for Lady Pauline to explain.

"Apparently," she said, "Halt threw him into the moat."

"W HERE THE DEVIL IS EVERYONE?" G ILAN BROUGHT B LAZE to a halt and looked around the deserted border post. There was a small guardhouse by the side of the road, barely large enough to keep two or three men sheltered from the wind. Further back was a slightly larger garrison house. Normally, at a small, remote border post like this, there would be a garrison of half a dozen men, who would live in the larger building and take shifts at the guardhouse by the road.

Like the majority of buildings in Celtica, both structures were built in the gray sintered stone of the region, flat river stones that had been split lengthwise, with roof tiles of the same material. Wood was scarce in Celtica. Even fires for heating used coal or peat whenever possible. Whatever timber was available was needed for shoring up the tunnels and galleries of Celtica's iron and coal mines.

Will looked around him uneasily, peering into the scrubby heather that covered the windswept hills as if expecting a sudden horde of Celts to rise up from it. There was something unnerving about the near silence of the spot-there was no sound but the quiet sighing of the wind through the hills and heather.

"Perhaps they're between shifts?" he suggested, his voice seeming unnaturally loud.

Gilan shook his head. "It's a border post. It should be garrisoned at all times."

He swung down from the saddle, making a motion for Will and Horace to stay mounted. Tug, sensing Will's uneasiness, sidestepped nervously in the road. Will calmed him with a gentle pat on the neck. The little horse's ears went up at his master's touch and he shook his head, as if to deny that he was in any way edgy.

"Could they have been attacked and driven off?" Horace asked. His mindset always worked toward fighting, which Will supposed was only natural in a Battleschool apprentice.

Gilan shrugged as he pushed open the door of the guardhouse and peered inside.

"Maybe," he said, looking around the interior. "But there doesn't seem to be any sign of fighting."

He leaned against the doorway, frowning. The guardhouse was a single-roomed building, with minimal furnishing of a few benches and a table. There was nothing here to give him any clue as to where the occupants had gone.

"It's only a minor post," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps the Celts have simply stopped manning it. After all, there's been a truce between Araluen and Celtica for over thirty years now." He pushed himself away from the doorway and jerked a thumb toward the garrison house. "Maybe we'll find something down there," he said.

The two boys dismounted. Horace tethered his horse and the pack pony to the counterweighted bar that could swing down to close the road. Will simply let Tug's reins fall to the ground. The Ranger horse was trained not to stray. He took his bow from the leather bow scabbard behind the saddle and slung it across his shoulders. Naturally, it was already strung. Rangers always traveled with their bows ready for use. Horace, noticing the gesture, loosened his sword slightly in its scabbard and they set off after Gilan for the garrison house.

The small stone building was neat, clean and deserted. But here at least there were signs that the occupants had left in a hurry. There were a few plates on a table, bearing the dried-out remains of food, and several closet doors hung open. Items of clothing were scattered on the floor in the dormitory, as if their owners had hurriedly crammed a few belongings into packs before leaving. Several of the bunks were missing blankets.

Gilan ran a forefinger along the edge of the dining room table, leaving a wavy line in the layer of dust that had gathered there. He inspected the tip of his finger and pursed his lips.

"They didn't leave recently," he said.

Horace, who had been peering into the small supply room under the stairs, started at the sound of the Ranger's voice, bumping his head on the low doorsill.

"How can you tell?" he asked, more to cover his own embarrassment than out of real curiosity. Gilan swept an arm around the room.

"Celts are neat people. This dust must have settled since they left. At a guess, I'd say the place has been empty for at least a month."

"Maybe it's like you said," Will suggested, coming down the steps from the command room. "Maybe they decided they didn't need to keep this post manned anymore."

Gilan nodded several times. But his expression showed he wasn't convinced.

"That wouldn't explain why they left in a hurry," he said. He swept his arm around the room. "Look at all of this-the food on the table, the open closets, the clothes scattered on the floor. When people close down a post like this, they clean up and take their belongings with them. Particularly Celts. As I said, they're very orderly."

He led the way outside again and swept his gaze around the deserted landscape, as if hoping to find some clue to the puzzle there. But there was nothing visible except their own horses, idly cropping the short grass that grew by the guardhouse.

"The map shows the nearest village is Pordellath," he said. "It's a little out of our way, but perhaps we can find out what's been going on here."

Pordellath was only five kilometers away. Because of the steep nature of the land, the path wound and zigzagged up the hillsides. Consequently, they had almost reached the little village before it came in sight. It was late in the day and both Will and Horace were feeling the pangs of hunger. They hadn't stopped for their normal noon meal, initially because they'd been in a hurry to reach the border post, then because they had pressed on to Pordellath. There would be an inn in the village and both boys were thinking fondly of a hot meal and cool drinks. As a result of this preoccupation, they were surprised when Gilan reined in as the village came into sight around the shoulder of a hill, barely two hundred meters away.