John Flanagan - The Ruins of Gorlan

"Backhand side!" snapped Sir Rodney instantly and, in response, almost of its own will, Horace's sword flickered in that extra, deadly move. Sir Rodney heard the small sounds of surprise from Morton and Karel. They realized the significance of what they had seen. Senior Cadet Paul, perhaps understandably, wasn't quite so fast to grasp it. As far as he was concerned, the trainee had responded to an extra order from the Battlemaster. He'd done it well, admittedly, and he certainly seemed to know which end of a sword was which. But that was all the cadet had seen.

"Rest!" Sir Rodney ordered, and Horace allowed the sword point to drop to the dust, hand on the pommel, standing feet apart with the sword hilt centered against his belt buckle, in the parade rest position.

"Now, Horace," said the Battlemaster quietly, "do you remember adding that backhand side cut to the sequence the first time?"

Horace frowned, then understanding dawned in his eyes. He wasn't sure, but now that the Battlemaster had prompted his memory, he thought that maybe he had.

"Uh… yes, sir. I think so. I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to. It just sort of… happened."

Rodney glanced quickly at his drillmasters. He could see they understood the significance of what had happened here. He nodded at them, passing a silent message that he wanted nothing made of this – yet.

"Well, no harm done. But pay attention for the rest of the period and just perform the strokes Sir Karel calls for, all right?" Horace came to attention. "Yes, sir." He snapped his eyes toward the drillmaster. "Sorry, sir!" he added, and Karel dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

"Pay closer attention in future." Karel nodded to Sir Rodney, sensing that the Battlemaster wanted to be on his way. "Thank you, sir. Permission to continue?"

Sir Rodney nodded assent. "Carry on, drillmaster." He began to turn away, then, as if he'd remembered something else, he turned back, and added casually, "Oh, by the way, could I see you in my quarters after classes are dismissed this evening?"

"Of course, sir," said Karel, equally casually, knowing that Sir Rodney wanted to discuss this phenomenon, but didn't want Horace to be aware of his interest.

Sir Rodney strolled slowly back to the Battleschool headquarters. Behind him, he heard Karel's preparatory orders, then the repetitive thud, thud, thud-thud-thud of wood on leather padding began once more.

Halt examined the target Will had been shooting at, and nodded.

"Not bad at all," he said. "Your shooting is definitely improving." Will couldn't help grinning. That was high praise indeed from Halt. Halt saw the expression and immediately added, "With more practice – a lot more practice – you might even achieve mediocrity."

Will wasn't absolutely sure what mediocrity was, but he sensed it wasn't good. The grin faded and Halt dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand.

"That's enough shooting for now. Let's go," he said and set off, striding down a narrow path through the forest.

"Where are we going?" Will asked, half running to keep up with the Ranger's longer strides.

Halt looked up at the trees above him.

"Why does this boy ask so many questions?" he asked the trees. Naturally, they didn't answer.

They walked for an hour before they came to a small collection of buildings buried deep in the forest.

Will was aching to ask more questions. But he'd learned by now that Halt wasn't going to answer them, so he held his tongue and bided his time. Sooner or later, he knew, he'd learn why they'd come here. Halt led the way up to the largest of the ramshackle huts, then stopped, signaling for Will to do likewise.

"Hullo, Old Bob!" he called.

Will heard someone moving inside the hut, then a wrinkled, bent figure appeared in the doorway. His beard was long and matted and a dirty white color. He was almost completely bald. As he moved toward them, grinning and nodding a greeting to Halt, Will caught his breath. Old Bob smelled like a stable. And a none too clean one at that.

"Morning to you, Ranger!" said Old Bob. "Who's this you've brung to see me?" He looked keenly at Will. The eyes were bright and very alert, despite his dirty, unkempt appearance.

"This is Will, my new apprentice," said Halt. "Will, this is Old Bob"

"Good morning, sir," said Will politely. The old man cackled. "Calls me sir! Hear that, Ranger, calls me sir! Make a fine Ranger, this one will!" Will smiled at him. Dirty as he might be, there was something likable about Old Bob – perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to be in no way overawed by Halt. Will couldn't remember seeing anyone speaking to the grim-faced Ranger in quite this familiar tone before. Halt grunted impatiently.

"Are they ready?" he asked. The old man cackled again and nodded several times.

"Ready they are indeed!" he said. "Step this way and see them." He led them to the back of the hut, where a small paddock was fenced off. At the far side, there was a lean-to shed. Just a roof and supporting posts. No walls. Old Bob let out a piercing whistle that made Will jump.

"There they are, see?" he said, pointing to the lean-to.

Will looked and saw two small horses trotting across the yard to greet the old man. As they came closer, he realized that one was a horse, the other was a pony. But both were small, shaggy animals, nothing like the fierce, sleek battlehorses that the Baron and his knights rode to war.

The larger of the two trotted immediately to Halt's side. He patted its neck and handed it an apple from a bin close by the fence. The horse crunched it gratefully. Halt leaned forward and said a few words into its ear. The horse tossed its head and neighed, as if it were sharing some private joke with the Ranger.

The pony waited by Old Bob until he had given it an apple to crunch as well. Then it turned one large, intelligent eye on Will. "This 'un's called Tug," said the old man. "He looks about your size, don't he?" He passed the rope bridle to Will, who took it and looked into the horse's eyes. He was a shaggy little beast. His legs were short, but sturdy. His body was barrel shaped. His mane and tail were ragged and unbrushed. All in all, as horses went, he wasn't a very impressive sight, thought Will.

He'd always dreamt of the horse he would one day ride into battle: in those dreams, the horse was tall and majestic. It was fierce and jet black, combed and brushed until it shone like black armor.

This horse almost seemed to sense what he was thinking and butted its head gently against his shoulder.

I may not be very big, its eyes seemed to say, but I might just surprise you.

"Well," said Halt. "What do you think of him?" He was fondling the other horse's soft nose. They were obviously old friends. Will hesitated. He didn't want to offend anyone.

"He's sort of… small," he said finally.

"So are you," Halt pointed out. Will couldn't think of an answer to that. Old Bob wheezed with laughter.

"He ain't no battlehorse, are he, boy?" he asked.

"Well… no, he isn't," Will said awkwardly. He liked Bob and he felt any criticism of the pony might be taken personally. But Old Bob simply laughed again.

"But he'll run any of those fine fancy-looking battlehorses into the ground!" he said proudly. "He's a strong'un, this 'un. He'll keep going all day, long after them fancy horses have laid down and died." Will looked at the shaggy little animal doubtfully.

"I'm sure he will," he said politely.

Halt leaned against the paddock fence.

"Why don't you see?" he suggested. "You're fast on your feet. Turn him loose and see if you can capture him again." Will sensed the challenge in the Ranger's voice. He dropped the rope bridle. The horse, as if realizing that this was some sort of test, skipped lightly away into the center of the small enclosure. Will ducked under the fence rails and walked softly toward the pony. He held out his hand invitingly. "Come on, boy," he said. "Stand still there." He reached out his hand for the bridle and the little horse suddenly wheeled away. It shied to one side, then the other, then sidestepped neatly around Will and danced backward out of reach.