John Flanagan - The Burning Bridge

Inwardly, he smiled at her words. When I was a child. She was barely more than a child now, he thought. Then he changed his mind. She was a Courier. A Diplomatic apprentice. She wore the bronze laurel branch and that meant she was very much more than a child.

"You could do a lot worse," he said finally, and she glanced across at him.

"Really?" she said. "Do you think diplomats and Rangers make a good match, Halt?" Her tone was just too innocent, too casual. He knew exactly what she was getting at and this time he wasn't going to be drawn. He was not going to discuss any relationship that might or might not have existed between himself and the beautiful Lady Pauline.

He met her gaze very evenly for some moments, then said, "I think we might stop here for lunch. This is as good a place as any."

Alyss's mouth twitched with a smile again. But this time it was a slightly rueful one.

"You can't blame a girl for trying," she said.

W ILL FELT H ORACE'S HAND ON HIS SHOULDER AS THE BIGGER boy began to pull him back from the two bandits.

"Back away, Will," Horace said quietly.

The man with the club laughed. "Yes, Will, you back away. You stay away from that nasty little bow I see over there. We don't hold no truck with bows, do us, Carney?"

Carney grinned at his companion. "That we don't, Bart, that we don't." He looked back at the two boys and frowned angrily. "Didn't we tell you to drop those sticks?" he demanded, his voice rising in pitch and very, very ugly in tone. Together, the two men began to advance across the clearing.

Horace's grip now tightened and he jerked Will to one side, sending him sprawling. As he fell, he saw Horace turn to the rocks behind him and grab up his sword. He flicked it once and the scabbard sailed clear of the blade. That easy action alone should have warned Bart and Carney that they were facing someone who knew more than a little about handling weapons. But neither of them was overly bright. They simply saw a boy of about sixteen. A big boy, perhaps, but still a boy. A child, really, with a grown-up weapon in his hand.

"Oh, dear," said Carney. "Have we got our daddy's sword with us?"

Horace eyed him, suddenly very calm. "I'll give you one chance," he said, "to turn around and leave now."

Bart and Carney exchanged mock terrified looks.

"Oh, dear, Bart," said Carney. "It's our one chance. What'll us do?"

"Oh, dear," said Bart. "Let's run away."

They began to advance on Horace and he watched them coming. He had the practice stick in his left hand now and the sword in his right. He tensed, balanced on the balls of his feet as they advanced on him, Carney with the rusty, ragged-edged sword snaking in front of him and Bart with the spiked cudgel laid back on his shoulder, ready for use.

Will scrambled to his feet and began to move toward his weapons. Seeing the action, Carney moved to cut him off. He hadn't gone a pace when Horace attacked.

He darted forward and his sword flashed in an overhead cut at Carney. Startled by the sheer speed of the apprentice warrior's move, Carney barely had time to bring his own blade up in a clumsy parry. Thrown off balance and totally unprepared for the surprising force and authority behind the stroke, he stumbled backward and sprawled in the dust.

In the same instant, Bart, seeing his companion in trouble, stepped forward and swung the heavy club in a vicious arc at Horace's unprotected left side. His expectation was for Horace to try to leap back to avoid the blow. Instead, the apprentice warrior stepped forward. The practice stick in his left hand flicked up and outward, catching the heavy cudgel in its downward arc and deflecting it away from its intended line. The club's spiked head thudded dully into the stony ground and Bart let go a deep "whoof" of surprise, the impact jarring his arm from shoulder to wrist.

But Horace wasn't finished yet. He continued the forward lunge, and now he and Bart stood shoulder to shoulder. It was too close for Horace to use the blade of his sword. Instead, he swung his right fist, hammering the heavy brass pommel of his sword hilt into the side of Bart's head.

The bandit's eyes glazed and he collapsed to his knees, semiconscious, head swaying slowly from side to side.

Carney, backpedaling furiously through the sand, had regained his feet. Now he stood watching Horace, puzzled and angry, unable to grasp the fact that he and his companion had been bested by a mere boy. Luck, he thought. Sheer dumb luck!

His lips formed into a snarl and he gripped the sword tightly, advancing once more on the boy, mouthing threats and curses as he went. Horace stood his ground, waiting. Something in the boy's calm gaze made Carney hesitate. He should have gone with his first instincts and given the fight away then and there. But anger overcame him and he started forward again.

By now, he was paying no attention to Will. The Ranger's apprentice darted around the campsite, grabbing his bow and quiver and hastily stepping his right foot through the recurve to brace the bow against his left while he slid the string up into its notch.

Quickly, he selected an arrow and nocked it to the string. He was about to draw back when a calm voice behind him said:

"Don't shoot him. I'd rather like to see this."

Startled, he turned to find Gilan behind him, almost invisible in the folds of his Ranger cloak, leaning nonchalantly on his longbow.

"Gilan!" he began, but the Ranger made a sign for silence.

"Just let him go," he said softly. "He'll be fine as long as we don't distract him."

"But," Will began desperately, looking to where his friend was facing a full-grown, very angry man. Sensing his concern, Gilan hurried to reassure him.

"Horace will handle him," he said. "He really is very good, you know. A natural, if ever I saw one. That bit with the practice stick and the hilt strike was sheer poetry. Lovely improvisation!"

Shaking his head in wonder, Will turned back to the fight. Now Carney attacked, hacking and lunging and cutting with a blind fury and terrifying power. Horace gradually gave way before him, his own sword moving in small, semicircular actions that blocked every cut and hack and thrust and jarred Carney's wrist and elbow with the strength and impenetrability of his defense. All the while, Gilan was whispering an approving commentary beside Will.

"Good boy!" he said. "See how he's letting the other fellow start proceedings? Gives him an idea of how skillful he might be. Or otherwise. My God, Horace has the timing of that defensive swing just about perfect! Look at that! And that! Terrific!"

Now Horace had apparently decided not to back away any farther. Continuing to parry Carney's every stroke with obvious ease, he stood his ground, letting the bandit expend his strength like the sea breaking on a rock. And as he stood, Carney's strokes became slower and more ragged. His arm was beginning to ache with the effort of wielding the long, heavy sword. He was really more accustomed to using a knife to the back of most of his opponents and he hadn't looked for this engagement to go past one or two crushing, hacking strokes to break down the boy's guard before killing him. But his most devastating blows had been flicked aside with apparent contempt.

He swung again, losing his balance in the follow-through. Horace's blade caught his, spun it in a circle, holding it with his own, then let it rasp down its length until their crosspieces locked.

They stood there, eye to eye, Carney's chest heaving, Horace absolutely calm and totally in control. The first worm of fear appeared in Carney's stomach as he realized that, boy or not, he was hopelessly outmatched in this contest.

And at that point, Horace went on the attack.

He drove his shoulder into Carney's chest, unlocking their blades and sending the bandit staggering back. Then, calmly, Horace advanced, swinging his sword in confusing, terrifying combinations. Side, overhead, thrust. Side, side, backhand, overhead. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Forehand. Backhand. One combination flowed smoothly into the next and Carney scrambled desperately, trying to bring his own blade between himself and the implacable sword that seemed to have a life and an inexhaustible energy all its own. He felt his wrist and arm tiring, while Horace's strokes grew stronger and firmer until finally, with a dull and final clang, Horace simply beat the sword from his numbed grasp.