John Flanagan - The Burning Bridge

It took a considerably longer time to stack a supply of firewood. The only real source was the scrubby heather that covered the hillsides. The roots and branches of the bush were tough but highly flammable. The two boys hacked out a reasonable supply, Horace using the small hatchet he carried in his pack and Will his saxe knife. Eventually, with all their housekeeping taken care of, they sat on either side of the empty fireplace, backs leaned against rocks. Will spent a few minutes running his sharpening stone over the saxe knife, restoring its razor-sharp edge.

"I really prefer camping in forest areas," Horace said, shifting his back for the tenth time against the unyielding rock behind him.

Will grunted in reply. But Horace was bored and kept on talking, more for the sake of having something to do than because he really wanted to.

"After all, in a forest, you have lots of firewood, ready to hand. It just falls out of the trees for you."

"Not while you wait," Will disagreed. He too was talking more for the sake of it than anything else.

"No. Not while you wait. Usually it's already happened before you arrive," Horace said. "Plus in a forest, you've usually got pine needles or leaves on the ground. And that makes for a softer sleeping place. And there are logs and trees to sit on and lean against. And they have a lot fewer sharp edges than rock."

Again, he wriggled his back to a temporarily more comfortable spot. He glanced up at Will, rather hoping that the apprentice Ranger might disagree with him. Then they could argue to pass the time. Will, however, merely grunted again. He inspected the edge of his saxe knife, slid the knife into its scabbard and lay back. Uncomfortable, he sat up again, undid the knife belt and draped it over his pack, along with his bow and quiver. Then he lay back, his head on a flat piece of stone. He closed his eyes. The sleepless night he had spent had left him drained and flat.

Horace sighed to himself, then took out his sword and began honing its edge-quite unnecessarily, as it was already razor-sharp. But it was something to do. He rasped away, glancing occasionally at Will to see if his friend was asleep. For a moment, he thought he was, but then the smaller boy suddenly squirmed around, sat up and reached for his cloak. Bundling it up, he put it on the flat stone he was using as a headrest, then lay back again.

"You're right about forests," he said crankily. "Much more comfortable places to camp."

Horace said nothing. He decided his sword was sharp enough and slid it back into its oiled leather scabbard, leaning the sheathed weapon against the rock face beside him.

He watched Will again, as he tried to find a comfortable spot. No matter how he twisted and squirmed, there was always a pebble or a piece of rock poking into his back or side. Five or ten minutes passed, then Horace finally said:

"Want to practice? It'll pass the time."

Will opened his eyes and considered the idea. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he was never going to get to sleep on this hard, stony ground.

"Why not?" He rummaged in his pack for his practice weapons, then joined Horace on the far side of the tent, where he was scraping a practice circle in the sandy gully floor. The two boys took up their positions, then, at a nod from Horace, they began.

Will was improving, but Horace was definitely the master at this exercise. Will couldn't help admiring the speed and balance he showed as he wielded the long stick in a dazzling series of backhands, forehands, side cuts and overheads. Furthermore, when he knew he had beaten Will's defensive posture, he would, at the last moment, hold back from whacking him. Instead, he would lightly touch the spot where his blow would have fallen, to demonstrate the point.

He didn't do it with any sense of superiority either. Weapons practice, even with wooden weapons, was a serious part of Horace's life nowadays. It wasn't something to crow about when you were better than your opponent. Horace had learned only too well in dozens of practice bouts at the Battleschool that it never paid to underestimate an opponent.

Instead, he used his superior ability to help Will, showing him how to anticipate strokes, teaching him the basic combinations that all swordsmen used and the best way to defeat them.

As Will ruefully acknowledged, knowing how to do it was one thing. Actually doing it was an entirely different matter. He realized how much his former enemy had matured and wondered if the same changes were evident in himself. He didn't think so. He didn't feel any different. And whenever he saw himself in a mirror, he didn't seem to look any different either.

"Your left hand is dropping too far," Horace pointed out as they paused between bouts.

"I know," Will said. "I'm expecting a side cut and I want to be ready for it."

Horace shook his head. "That's all very well, but if you drop it too far, it's easy for me to feint a side cut, then swing up into an overhand. See?"

He showed Will the action he was describing, beginning the sword in a wide sideways sweep, then, with a powerful wrist movement, taking it up into a high-swinging downward stroke. He stopped the wooden blade a few inches from Will's head and the Ranger apprentice saw that his counterstroke would have been far too late.

"Sometimes I think I'll never learn these things," he said. Horace patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Are you kidding?" he asked. "You're improving every day. And besides, I could never shoot or use those throwing knives the way you do."

Even while they had been on the road, Gilan had insisted that Will practice his Ranger skills as often as was practical. Horace had been impressed, to say the least, when he had seen how adept the smaller boy had become. Several times, he had shuddered when he thought what might happen if he had to face an archer such as Will. His accuracy with the bow was uncanny, as far as Horace was concerned. He knew that Will could place arrows into every gap in his armor if he chose. Even into the narrow visor slit of a full-face jousting helmet.

What he didn't appreciate was that Will's accuracy was nothing more than average as far as Ranger standards were concerned.

"Let's try it again," Will suggested wearily. But another voice interrupted them.

"Let's not, little boys. Let's put down our nasty sharp sticks and stand very still, shall us?"

The two apprentices whirled around at the words. There, at the mouth of the small U-shaped gully where they had built their camp, stood two ragged-looking figures. Both were heavily bearded and unkempt and both were dressed in a strange mixture of clothing-some of it tattered and threadbare, while some items were new and obviously very costly. The taller of the two wore a richly brocaded satin vest, but it was thick with dirt. The other sported a scarlet hat with a bedraggled feather in it. He also carried an iron-spiked wooden club, holding it in a hand that was swathed in a dirty bandage. His companion had a long sword, jagged and nicked along the edges. He flourished it now at the two boys.

"Come on now, you boys. Sharp sticks're dangerorius for the likes of you," he said, and let go a hoarse, guttural laugh.

Will's hand dropped automatically to reach for the saxe knife, encountering nothing. With a sinking feeling, he realized that his knife belt, bow and quiver were all neatly piled on the far side of the fireplace, where he had been sitting. The two intruders would stop him before he could reach them. He cursed himself for his carelessness. Halt would be furious, he thought. Then, looking at the sword and club, he realized that Halt's annoyance might be the least of his worries.

T HE GIRL WAS SMILING AT HIM AGAIN. H ALT SENSED IT. I T was as if he could actually feel the smile radiating at him. He knew if he were to glance sideways at her, where she was riding just a few paces away from him, he would see it once more.