The Lost Stories (2 page)

“There may have been a stable at the rear,” she said, her voice hushed in this ancient place. “I found a few metal pieces—bits and what might have been harness buckles. And the remains of a bucket.”

MacFarlane turned in a slow circle, studying the dim outline of the building.

“It's a different layout to the village houses,” he said, almost to himself. “Completely different.”

He took a couple of steps, intent on making a rough measurement of the cabin's dimensions, then stopped suddenly.

“Did you hear that?”

Audrey nodded, eyes wide. “Your last step. It sounded as if the ground were hollow.”

They dropped to their knees together and scrabbled at the dirt and leaf mold. Audrey rapped her knuckles on the ground and again they heard the sound of a hollow space beneath. MacFarlane never moved anywhere without a small hand spade in his belt. He took it now and began tossing the earth aside. Then the blade thumped against something solid—solid, but with a certain give in it.

Working quickly, testing the ground for that hollow sound continually as he went, he cleared a rectangular space, some forty centimeters by fifty. Audrey leaned forward and brushed the remaining earth from the center. They found themselves looking at an ancient, desiccated timber panel. A brass ring was set in one side and MacFarlane gently eased the spade under it, lifting it.

The panel came with it, splintering and half disintegrating, to reveal a stone-lined space underneath.

A space that contained an ancient wood-and-brass chest.

Once more, the professor used the spade to edge the lid of the chest open. Audrey put a hand on his to stop him.

“Should we be doing this?” she asked. She knew MacFarlane would normally never disturb an artifact like this without taking the utmost care to preserve it from damage.

He met her gaze.

“No,” he said. “But I'm not waiting any longer.”

The lid opened with surprising ease. Brass hinges, he thought. If they had been iron, they would have fallen to powdery rust long ago. Gently, barely containing his enthusiasm, he lifted it back and peered inside.

The chest was full of pages of manuscripts—written on parchment or vellum that was now brittle and delicate. Gently, he eased one sheet up. The edges crumbled but the center remained intact. He leaned forward, craning to read the closely written words on the page. Carefully, he studied other pages, handling the brittle manuscript pages with expert care, making out names, places, events.

Then he gently replaced the sheets and leaned back on his haunches, his eyes glistening with excitement.

“Audrey,” he said, “do you know what we've found?”

She shook her head. Obviously, from his reaction, this was something major. No, she thought, more than that, something
unprecedented.

“What is it?” she asked.

MacFarlane threw back his head and laughed, still unwilling to believe it.

“We never knew what had become of them,” he said, and when she cocked her head in an unspoken question, he explained further.

“The Rangers. Halt, Will Treaty and the others. The chronicles and the legends only take us as far as the point where they returned from their voyage to Nihon-Ja. But now we have these.”

“But what are they, Professor?”

MacFarlane laughed aloud. “They're the rest of the tale, my girl! We've found the Lost Stories of Araluen!”

IT HAD BEEN A LONG, HARD THREE DAYS.

Will had been on a tour of the villages surrounding Castle Redmont. It was something he did on a regular basis, keeping in touch with the villagers and their headmen, keeping track of the everyday goings-on. Sometimes, he had learned, little pieces of gossip, seemingly trivial at the time, could become useful in heading off future trouble and friction within the fief.

It was part of being a Ranger. Information, no matter how unimportant it might seem at first glance, was a Ranger's lifeblood.

Now, late in the afternoon, as he rode wearily up to the cabin set among the trees, he was surprised to see lights in the windows and the silhouette of someone sitting on the small verandah.

Surprise turned to pleasure when he recognized Halt. These days Will's mentor was an infrequent visitor to the cabin, spending most of his time in the rooms provided for him and Lady Pauline in the castle.

Will swung down from the saddle and stretched his tired muscles gratefully.

“Hullo,” he said. “What brings you here? I hope you've got the coffee on.”

“Coffee's ready,” Halt replied. “Tend to your horse and then join me. I need to talk to you.” His voice sounded strained.

Curiosity piqued, Will led Tug to the stable behind the cabin, unharnessed him, rubbed him down and set out feed and fresh water. The little horse butted his shoulder gratefully. He patted Tug's neck, then headed back to the cabin.

Halt was still on the verandah. He had set out two cups of hot coffee on a small side table and Will sat in one of the wood-and-canvas chairs and sipped gratefully at the refreshing brew. He felt the warmth of it flowing through his chilled, stiff muscles. Winter was coming on and the wind had been cold and cutting all day.

He gazed at Halt. The gray-bearded Ranger seemed strangely ill at ease. And despite his claim that he needed to talk to Will, once the usual greetings were out of the way, he seemed almost reluctant to begin the conversation.

“You had something to tell me?” Will prompted.

Halt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Then, with an obvious effort, he plunged in.

“There's something you should know,” he said. “Something I probably should have told you long ago. It's just . . . the time never seemed right.”

Will's curiosity grew. He had never seen Halt in such an uncertain mood. He waited, giving his mentor time to settle his thoughts.

“Pauline thinks it's time I told you,” Halt said. “So does Arald. They've both known about it for some time. So maybe I should just . . . get on with it.”

“Is it something bad?” Will asked, and Halt looked directly at him for the first time in several minutes.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “You might think so.”

For a moment, Will wondered if he wanted to hear it, whatever it might be. Then, seeing the discomfort on Halt's face, he realized that, good or bad, it was something that his teacher had to get off his chest. He gestured for Halt to continue.

Halt paused for a few more seconds, then he began.

“I suppose it starts after the final battle against Morgarath's forces, at Hackham Heath. They'd been retreating for several days. Then they stopped and made a stand. We'd broken their main attack and we were forcing them back. But they were rallying on the right, where they'd found a weak point in our line . . .”

“SIRE! THE RIGHT FLANK IS IN TROUBLE!”

Duncan, the young King of Araluen, heard the herald's shout above the terrible din of battle. The clash of weapons and shields, the screaming and sobbing of the wounded and dying, the shouted orders of commanders rallying their troops and the involuntary, inarticulate cries of the soldiers themselves as they cut and stabbed and shoved against the implacable enemy formed an almost deafening matrix of sound around him.

Duncan thrust once more at the snarling Wargal before him, felt the sword go home and saw the snarl change to a puzzled frown as the creature realized it was already dead. Then he stepped back, disengaging himself from the immediate battle—physically and mentally.

A young knight from the Araluen Battleschool quickly took his place in the line, his sword already swinging in a murderous arc as he stepped forward, cutting through the Wargal front rank, like a scythe through long grass.

Duncan rested for a moment, leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. He shook his head to clear it.

“Sire! The right flank—” the herald began again, but Duncan waved a hand to stop him.

“I heard you,” he said.

It was three days since the battle at Hackham Heath, where Morgarath's army had been routed by a surprise attack from their rear, led by the Ranger Halt. The enemy were in full retreat. By rights, Morgarath should have surrendered. His continued resistance was simply costing more and more casualties to both sides. But the rebellious lord was never concerned with preserving lives. He knew he was defeated, but still he wanted to inflict as many casualties as possible on Duncan and his men. If they were to be victorious, he would make them pay dearly for their victory.

As for his own forces, he cared little for their losses. They were nothing more than tools to him and he was willing to keep throwing them against the royal army, sacrificing hundreds of troops but causing hundreds of casualties in the process.

So for three days, he had retreated to the southeast, turning where the terrain favored him to fight a series of savage and costly battles. He had picked the spot for this latest stand well. It was a narrow plain set between two steep hills, and recent rain had softened the ground so that Duncan could not deploy his cavalry. It was up to the infantry to throw themselves against the Wargals in hard, slogging, desperate fighting.

And always lurking in the back of Duncan's mind was that one mistake from him, one lucky throw of the dice for Morgarath, could see the Wargal army gain the initiative once more. Fortune in battle was a fickle mistress and the war that Duncan had hoped was ended at Hackham Heath was still there to be won—or lost by a careless order or an ill-considered maneuver.

Momentum, Duncan thought. It was all-important in a situation like this. It was vital to maintain it. Keep moving forward. Keep driving them back. Hesitate, even for a few minutes, and the ascendancy could revert to the enemy.

He glanced to his left. The flank on that side, predominantly troops from Norgate and Whitby, reinforced by troops from some of the smaller fiefs, was forging ahead strongly. In the center, the armies from Araluen and Redmont were having similar success. That was to be expected. They were the four largest fiefs in the Kingdom, the backbone of Duncan's army. Their knights and men-at-arms were the best trained and disciplined.

But the right flank had always been a potential weakness. It was formed from a conglomerate of Seacliff, Aspienne and Culway fiefs, and because the three fiefs were all about the same size, there was no clear leader among them. Knowing this, Duncan had appointed Battlemaster Norman of Aspienne Fief as the overall commander. Norman was an experienced leader, most capable of melding such a disparate force together.

As if he were reading the King's thoughts, the herald spoke again.

“Battlemaster Norman is dying, sire. A Wargal burst through the lines and speared him. Norman has been taken to the rear, but I doubt he has long to live. Battlemasters Patrick and Marat are unsure what to do next, and Morgarath has taken advantage of the fact.”

Of course, thought Duncan, Morgarath would have recognized the banners of the smaller fiefs on that flank and guessed at the possible confusion that might result if the commander were put out of action. Once Norman was down, the rebel commander had undoubtedly sent one of his elite companies of shock troops to attack the right flank.

Momentum again, Duncan thought. Only this time it was working against him. He peered keenly toward the fighting on the right flank. He could see the line had stopped moving forward, saw his men take the first hesitant step backward. He needed a commander to take charge there and he needed him fast. Someone who wouldn't hesitate. Someone with the force of personality to rally the troops and get them going forward once more.

He glanced around him. Arald of Redmont would have been his choice. But Arald was being tended by the healers. A crossbow quarrel had hit him in the leg and he was out of action for the rest of the battle. Arald's young Battlemaster, Rodney, had taken his place and was fighting furiously, urging the Araluen forces forward. He couldn't be spared.

“They need a leader ... ,” Duncan said to himself.

“I'll go.” A calm voice spoke from behind him.

Duncan spun around and found himself looking into the steady, dark eyes of Halt, the Ranger. The dark black beard and untrimmed hair hid most of his features, but those eyes held a look of steadiness and determination. This was not a man who would bicker over command or dither over what had to be done. He would act.

Duncan nodded. “Go on then, Halt. Get them moving forward again or we're lost. Tell Patrick and Marat—”

He got no further. Halt smiled grimly. “Oh, I'll tell them, all right,” he said. Then he swung up onto the small shaggy horse that was standing by him and galloped away toward the right flank.

ABELARD'S HOOVES THUNDERED DULLY ON THE SOFT TURF AS they drew near to the trouble spot. Now that he was closer, Halt could see that the Wargal attack was being spearheaded by one of Morgarath's special units. They were all larger than normal, selected for size and strength and savagery.

And they cared nothing for their own losses as they battered their way forward. Maces, axes and heavy two-handed swords rose and fell and swept in horizontal arcs.

Men from the Araluen army fell before them as they advanced in a solid wedge shape.

Halt was still forty meters away and he knew he would arrive too late. The Araluen line had bowed backward before the onslaught. Any second now it would crumble unless he acted.

He reined Abelard to a sliding stop.

“Steady,” he said, and the little horse stood rock-still for him, disregarding the terrifying cacophony of battle and the awful, metallic smell of fresh blood.