John Flanagan: The Burning Bridge

Screaming with fury, he sent a mental order he had sent only once before: Retreat.

Then he wheeled his horse and, with his henchmen beside him, galloped back through his fleeing army, clearing a path with his sword as he went.

At Three Step Pass, there was a hopeless tangle as thousands of the rear guard tried to force their way through the narrow gap in the rocks. There would be no escape for him there-but escape was the last thought on his mind. His only wish now was for revenge against the people who had brought his plans crashing into the dust. He drew his remaining troops into a defensive half circle, their backs to the sheer rocks that barred the way to the high plateau.

Seething in fury and frustration, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The Skandian attack had melted away as if it were never there. And then he realized that it never had been. The soldiers advancing down from the ridge wore Skandian helmets and carried Skandian shields, but it had been a ruse to draw him forward. The fact that they had the helmets and shields meant that, somewhere, Horth's forces had been defeated. That could only have been accomplished if someone had led an intercepting force throughout the impenetrable tangle of the Thorntree Forest.

Someone?

Deep in his mind, Morgarath knew who that someone was. He didn't know how he knew. Or why. He knew it had to be a Ranger and there was only one Ranger who would have done it.

Halt.

Dark, bitter hatred surged in his heart. Because of Halt, his fifteen-year dream was crumbling before his eyes. Because of Halt, fully half of his Wargal soldiers were lying broken in the dust of the battlefield.

The day was lost, he knew. But he would have his revenge on Halt. And he was beginning to see the way. He turned to one of his captains.

"Prepare a flag of truce," he said.

T HE KINGDOM'S MAIN ARMY ADVANCED SLOWLY ACROSS THE littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.

In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the kingdom. It was a rare honor for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.

Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully coordinated, almost choreographed actions involving skillful warriors performing brave acts of chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.

Instead, he had watched in horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. But now, as they rode forward, details began to emerge and he was horrified as he saw the red surcoats of Battleschool apprentices among the dead.

He saw one body, limp and lifeless as the stretcher bearers turned it over, and beneath the blood and dirt that smeared the pale face, he recognized Paul, a Year 4 apprentice who had been an assistant sword drill instructor. Over the past months, as Horace's natural skill with the sword had become evident, he and the older boy had become casual friends. When Horace was hurriedly packing his kit for the trip to Celtica, Paul had come to the barracks to lend him a warm cloak and a pair of strong boots. Now he was dead and the debt would never be repaid. Horace felt a sense of emptiness and loss.

He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster's grim face told him that it was always this way.

Horace's throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.

Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft marshy ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.

Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath's power must be broken.

"Nevertheless," said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred meters from the Wargals' defensive half circle, "we'll give him the chance to surrender." He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.

"Sir!" said Gilan suddenly. "They have a flag of truce!"

The kingdom's leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes-the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signaled to his own trumpeter.

"I suppose we'd better hear what he has to say," he said. "Give the reply."

The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply-a descending sequence of four notes.

"It will be some kind of trick," said Halt grimly. When the cavalry had swept through the Araluen army to attack the Wargals, he had resumed his place at the command center. Now he frowned at the enemy's latest move. "Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he's making his escape. He'll:"

His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armor and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt's right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armor-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.

King Duncan saw the movement.

"Halt," he said sharply, "I've agreed to a truce. You'll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath."

The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signaling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath's heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.

Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the kingdom's army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and well-being. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty meters from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a gray cloak on a shaggy pony.

"Duncan!" he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. "I claim my rights!"

"You have no rights, Morgarath," the King replied. "You're a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That's the only right I will grant you."