John Flanagan - The Ruins of Gorlan

"Come along," he said. "No time to be lolling around doing nothing. We'd best get moving if we're to be home before dark."

And, so saying, he tossed a saddle across the back of his horse. Will didn't bother to protest that he hadn't been "lolling around," as the Ranger put it. For a start, he knew it would be no use. And secondly, he was excited by the fact that they would be riding back to Halt's little cottage by the edge of the forest. It seemed that the two horses were to become a permanent part of their establishment. He realized now that Halt's horse had obviously been so before and that the Ranger had only been waiting until Will had shown his ability to ride and to bond with Tug before reclaiming him from his temporary home in Old Bob's stable.

The horses whinnied to each other from time to time as they trotted back through the dim green forest, for all the world as if they were carrying on their own conversation. Will was bursting with questions he wanted to ask. But, by now, he was wary of chattering too much in the Ranger's presence.

Finally, he could contain himself no longer.

"Halt?" he said, experimentally.

The Ranger grunted. Will took that as a sign that he could continue speaking.

"What's your horse's name?" the boy asked.

Halt looked down at him. His horse was slightly larger than Tug, although nowhere near the size of the giant battlehorses kept in the Baron's stable.

"I believe it's Abelard," he said.

"Abelard?" Will repeated. "What kind of name is that?"

"It's Gallic," said the Ranger, obviously putting an end to the conversation.

They rode a few kilometers farther in silence. The sun was lowering over the trees now and their shadows were long and distorted on the ground in front of them. Will studied Tug's shadow. The pony seemed to have enormously long legs and a ridiculously short body. He wanted to call Halt's attention to it but thought that such a frivolous observation would not impress the Ranger. Instead, he summoned the courage to ask another question that had been occupying his thoughts for some days.

"Halt?" he said again.

The Ranger sighed briefly.

"What now?" he asked. His tone definitely did not encourage further conversation. However, Will pressed on.

"Remember you told me how a Ranger was responsible for Morgarath's defeat?"

"Mmmm," Halt grunted.

"Well, I was just wondering, what was the Ranger's name?" the boy asked.

"Names aren't important," Halt said. "I really can't remember."

"Was it you?" Will continued, sure that it was. Halt turned that level, unsmiling gaze on him again.

"I said, names aren't important," he repeated. There was a silence between them for some seconds, then the Ranger said. "Do you know what is important?"

Will shook his head.

"Supper is important!" said the Ranger. "And we'll be late for it if we don't hurry."

He clapped his heels into Abelard's side and the horse shot away like an arrow from Halt's own bow, leaving Will and Tug far behind in a matter of seconds.

Will touched Tug's sides with his own heels and the little pony raced off in pursuit of his bigger friend.

"Come on, Tug!" Will urged. "Let's show them how a real Ranger horse can run."

Will rode Tug slowly through the crowded fairground that had been set up outside the castle walls. All the villagers and inhabitants of the castle itself seemed to be out and he had to ride carefully to ensure that Tug didn't step on somebody's foot.

It was Harvest Day, the day when all the crops had been gathered and stored for the winter months ahead. After a hard month of harvesting, the Baron traditionally allowed his people a holiday. Every year, at this time, the traveling fair came to the castle and set up its booths and stalls. There were fire-eaters and jugglers, singers and storytellers. There were stalls where you could attempt to win prizes by throwing soft leather balls at pyramids made from bottle-shaped pieces of wood or by throwing hoops over squares. Will sometimes thought that the squares were perhaps just a little larger than the hoops that one was given to throw and he had never actually seen anyone win one of the prizes. But it was all fun and the Baron paid for it from his own purse.

Right now, however, Will was not concerned with the fair and its attractions. There would be time later in the day for that. At the moment, he was on his way to meet his former wardmates.

By tradition, all the Craftmasters gave their apprentices the day off on Harvest Day, even though they had taken no part in the actual harvest themselves. Will had been wondering for weeks whether or not Halt would conform to the practice. The Ranger seemed to take no notice of tradition and had his own way of doing things. But, two nights before, his anxiety had been settled. Halt had gruffly told him that he could have the holiday, adding that he would probably forget everything that he had learned in the past three months.

Those three months had been a time of constant practice with his bow and the knives that Halt had given him. Three months of stalking through the fields outside the castle, moving from one scant patch of cover to the next, trying to make his way unobserved by Halt's eagle eyes. Three months of riding and caring for Tug, of forming a special bond of friendship with the little pony.

That, he thought, had been the most enjoyable part of it all.

Now, he was ready for a holiday and ready to enjoy himself a little. Even the thought that Horace would be there couldn't dim the pleasure. Maybe, he thought, a few months' hard training in Battleschool had changed Horace's aggressive manner a little.

It was Jenny who had arranged the meeting for the holiday, encouraging the others to join her with the promise of a batch of fresh mince pies that she would bring from the kitchen. She was already one of Master Chubb's prize pupils and he boasted of her artistry to anyone who would listen-giving suitable emphasis to the vital role his training had played in developing her skill, of course.

Will's stomach grumbled with pleasure at the thought of those pies. He was starving, since he had intentionally gone without breakfast so as to leave room for them. Jenny's pies were already legendary in Castle Redmont.

He had arrived at the meeting point early, so he dismounted and led Tug into the shade of an apple tree. The little pony craned his head and looked wistfully at the apples on the branches, well out of his reach. Will grinned at him and scrambled quickly up the tree, picking an apple and handing it to the pony.

"That's all you get," he said. "You know what Halt says about eating too much."

Tug shook his head impatiently. That was still a matter of disagreement between him and the Ranger. Will looked around. There was no sign of the others, so he sat down in the shade of the tree, leaning his back against the knobby trunk to wait.

"Why, it's young Will, isn't it?" said a deep voice close behind him.

Will scrambled hastily to his feet and touched his forehead in a polite salute. It was Baron Arald himself, seated astride his giant battlehorse and accompanied by several of his senior knights.

"Yes, sir," said Will nervously. He wasn't used to being addressed by the Baron. "A happy Harvest Day to you, sir."

The Baron nodded in acknowledgment and leaned forward, slouching comfortably in his saddle. Will had to crane his neck to look up at him.

"I must say, young man, you look quite the part there," the Baron said. "I hardly saw you in that gray Ranger cloak. Has Halt been teaching you all his tricks already?"

Will glanced down at the gray and green mottled cloak that he was wearing. Halt had given it to him some weeks ago. He'd shown Will how the gray and green mottling broke up the shape of the wearer and helped him blend into the landscape. It was one of the reasons, he'd said, why Rangers could move unseen with such ease.