The Lost Stories (40 page)

Crowley shook his head. “Shouldn't think so. A night without eating won't harm you.”

He poured water into a tin cup and let them drink as much as they wanted, however. When he had finished with the men, he lit a fire. He had some potatoes in his cooking kit and he set them to boil in a blackened pot. As the water began to bubble, Halt reappeared carrying a plump rabbit, already skinned and cleaned.

“Just the thing!” Crowley said happily. “Nothing like a fresh rabbit to take away the pangs.”

The soldier who had spoken earlier looked up hopefully. “Can we—”

“No,” said Halt and Crowley together. They quickly jointed the rabbit, rolled the pieces in flour with a few dried herbs mixed in, and then melted butter in an iron fry pan over the fire. As the floured joints went into the hot butter and began to sizzle, Crowley sighed happily. He enjoyed food.

“Much better way to do it than putting it on a spit over the fire,” he commented. “Takes far too long to cook it that way.”

When the rabbit pieces were golden and cooked through, Crowley added a heap of greens to the pan, covering it so they would wilt down quickly. Then he and Halt enjoyed their meal together, sitting opposite each other across the campfire in companionable silence. From time to time, one of the prisoners moaned as the delicious smell of fried spiced rabbit drifted to them. Crowley and Halt ignored the sound.

When they finished their meal, they licked the last traces of rabbit, butter and potato from their fingers, then wiped them on the grass. Crowley made coffee and watched as Halt added a large dollop of honey to his cup.

“Doesn't that spoil the taste?” he asked.

Halt looked up at him, considered the question, then replied.

“No.”

Crowley smiled at the one-word answer. “You don't talk much, do you?”

Again, those dark eyes lifted and met his. “I say what needs to be said.”

Crowley shrugged good-naturedly. “Probably a good thing. I tend to talk too much sometimes.”

“I'd noticed.”

“Does it bother you?” Crowley asked. He felt an instinctive liking for this dark stranger and he sensed that Halt thought well of him in return. Halt shrugged now.

“It keeps you from whistling.”

Crowley snorted with laughter at the reply. Halt maintained a bleak and serious facade, but Crowley could detect, deep down, a deadpan vein of humor in the man.

“You said earlier today that you wanted to talk about something,” Halt said.

Crowley nodded, gathering his thoughts before he began. “We seem to share a lot of the same skills,” he said. “And the same weapons. I noticed you carry a saxe knife and a throwing knife like mine. I wondered where you came by them.”

Crowley, of course, carried his two knives in the distinctive Ranger-issue double scabbard. Halt's were in separate scabbards, placed close together on the left side of his belt. He glanced at them now, where the belt was draped over a rock beside the campfire.

“My mentor gave them to me,” he said. “He was a Ranger, like you.”

Crowley sat up at that piece of information. “A Ranger?” he said. “In Hibernia? What was his name?”

“He called himself Pritchard. He was an amazing man.”

“He was indeed,” Crowley affirmed, and now it was Halt's turn to look surprised.

“You knew him?”

Crowley nodded eagerly. “I was his apprentice for five years. He taught me everything I know. How did you come to meet him?”

“He turned up at Du . . . Droghela, some three years ago. He took me under his wing and taught me silent movement, knife work, tracking and the rest. I could already shoot, but he tightened up my technique quite a bit.”

Crowley noticed the hesitation and correction when Halt mentioned the name of the place where he'd met Pritchard. But he let it pass.

“Yes. He was very big on technique.”

“And practice,” Halt agreed.

Crowley smiled at the memory of his old teacher. “He had a saying.
An ordinary archer practices until he gets it right. A Ranger—
”

“
Practices until he never gets it wrong
.” Halt finished the saying and they both smiled. They sat in silence for a few moments.

“What became of him?” Crowley asked. “Is he still in . . . Droghela, did you say?”

Halt shook his head. “He moved on. I had some unpleasantness there and I had to leave. I decided to come to Araluen to see if I could contact the Rangers—perhaps join the Corps and complete my training. Pritchard moved on to one of the western kingdoms in Hibernia. He said he was unable to come back here.”

Crowley nodded sadly. “That's right. He was hounded out of the country—on a totally trumped-up charge, of course. But sad to say, that's the way the Ranger Corps has become these days. It's all changed for the worse.”

“How do you mean?” Halt said. “You seem pretty much like the Rangers that Pritchard told me about.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Crowley replied. “But things have changed.”

He reached for his quiver. He'd noticed that the fletching on two of his arrows was working loose and he set about repairing them. Halt watched him, then rummaged in his own pack and passed him a fletching jig.

“Here. Use this. It'll make it easier.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, stripping the old feathered flights from the shaft. He settled the shaft in the fletching jig, which would hold the shaft and the new flights in place until the glue had set, and began to repair the first arrow. After a minute or two, he addressed Halt's earlier question.

“Things have changed,” he repeated. “These days, the Ranger Corps is little more than a social drinking club for lazy young nobles. There's no training, no apprenticeships. You buy your way in now. I'm one of the few remaining Rangers who were properly trained. And they're trying to squeeze me out.”

“Why would they do that?” Halt asked.

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose I'm an embarrassment to them. I've just been to Castle Araluen to have my knuckles rapped over a ridiculous complaint. It's happened to others before me. Pritchard was one of the first. But since then, others have been squeezed out as well. I figure there are maybe only a dozen properly trained Rangers left in the Kingdom these days—and we're widely scattered.”

“But why? Who would want to destroy such an effective force? Can't the King do something? You're King's Rangers, after all.”

Crowley smiled sadly. “The King doesn't know what's going on. And as for who would want to destroy the Rangers, the answer's simple. There's a group of barons, the Royal Council, who have the old King completely under their influence. He's sick and senile and has no idea what's going on. It's my belief that they're maneuvering to take over the throne. They've got him to agree to virtually exile Prince Duncan to the northeast coast. The King is powerless and they're making sure that there is no cohesive group who might support Prince Duncan when it comes time for him to assume the throne.”

“Who's behind it all?” Halt asked.

Crowley gestured to the three men tied up a few meters away.

“You'll meet him tomorrow,” he said. “I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure it's Morgarath.”

HALT REINED IN HIS HORSE AS THEY CRESTED THE FINAL RISE and Castle Gorlan came into view.

It was spectacular. There was no other word for it. Soaring, graceful towers surmounted by pointed spires thrust high into the sky. The spires themselves had been faced with white marble that gleamed in the midmorning sunshine. Several of the towers were linked by graceful arched walkways, their balustrades finished in ornate carved patterns. The same carved patterns were in evidence on the many balconies that were a feature of the castle.

From a dozen points, long, brightly colored pennants and flags drifted on the light breeze, some of them three to four meters in length.

At the base of the hill in front of them, sloping up to the castle, was a carefully manicured park. The green grass and carefully tended decorative trees were interspersed with white-gleaming, elegant statuary. Paved paths meandered through the park, and there were benches and tables set in bowers among the trees. Freshly painted jousting lists and grandstands stood just outside the main wall and portcullis. The huge castle complex was surrounded by a dry moat, with access via a drawbridge. Currently, the bridge was lowered and the portcullis was open.

“It's something, isn't it?” Crowley said. He crossed his hands on his saddle pommel and leaned forward, easing the stiffness in his back.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Halt said. And it was true. He had seen castles before—in fact, he had lived in one most of his life so far. But the castles he was familiar with were grim, heavy buildings, designed for strength and impregnability, not sheer beauty as this one was. Yet even as he had the thought, he was studying the walls and noting their thickness—disguised by the graceful lines. Gorlan would be a tough nut to crack, he thought, in spite of its almost ethereal beauty.

“It even puts Castle Araluen in the shade,” Crowley continued. “And that takes some doing, believe me. Pity that it belongs to Morgarath,” he added, a sour expression on his face.

Halt glanced at him but said nothing. He'd decided he'd make his own judgment of the Baron of Gorlan.

He didn't have long to wait. They rode down to the castle, Crowley's rank as a Ranger gaining them admission. He delivered their prisoners to the guardroom and requested an audience with the Baron. They were shown into a small anteroom in the keep, adjacent to the Great Hall where Morgarath conducted his official business. Crowley frowned at that. It was his first time inside the walls of Gorlan and the practice of doing business in a large audience hall smacked of would-be royal behavior. Most barons maintained smaller offices where they met with their staff and with visiting officers such as Rangers. Morgarath's vast audience hall was reminiscent of the similar room maintained and used by the King at Castle Araluen. Or more correctly these days, Crowley thought, by the Royal Council.

They were kept waiting for forty minutes—little enough, the Ranger thought, since they had arrived unannounced—then shown into the massive hall.

The ceiling was high, supported by vaulted arches set on buttresses. Down the eastern side of the wall, there were windows of multicolored glass. The sun shone through them, creating exotic patterns on the interior of the hall. Altogether, the Great Hall was as impressive as the exterior of the building.

They entered through tall double doors, which were opened by men-at-arms wearing the lightning bolt sword device that Halt had seen on the three men in the tavern. Morgarath sat at the far end of the hall, in a large, thronelike chair made of blackwood, on a dais that placed it a meter higher than its surroundings. Crowley and Halt marched together down the length of the room, their soft boots making little sound on the flagstone floor. Just short of the dais, the floor surface changed to one of marble tiles set in geometric patterns.

Taking his cue from Crowley, Halt stopped at the foot of the dais. Crowley stood at attention. Halt's stance was more relaxed as he studied the Baron of Gorlan Fief.

Morgarath sat casually, one leg draped over an arm of the chair. He was toying with a broad-bladed dagger, admiring the silver-chased hilt and crosspiece. He looked up at them as they stopped. His expression was one of total disinterest.

Even seated, it was apparent that Morgarath was an exceptionally tall man. He was handsome, with a longish face and a strong jaw. He wore no beard or mustache but his hair was long and straight. It was a pale blond color—a color that would probably go white rather than gray as the man aged. His skin was pale and he was dressed entirely in black, throwing the pale skin and light-colored hair into stark relief. A heavy silver chain hung around his neck.

But his most surprising features were his eyes. With coloring such as his, Halt would have expected pale eyes—blue or almost colorless. But these eyes were black—deep black, so that it was impossible to see where the irises ended and the pupils began.

Dead eyes, Halt thought to himself. He had no idea where the thought came from. It simply appeared in his mind as he studied the Baron.

Morgarath put the dagger down on a small side table by his chair. His jogged his foot up and down as he studied the two men before him. Their rough, practical traveling clothing and equipment was at odds with the elegance of his hall, and he frowned at them as if they had somehow defiled the beauty of Castle Gorlan.

“Your name?” he said to Crowley. His voice was deep and resonant. He didn't seem to speak loudly, but the voice filled the room. Crowley shifted uncomfortably. The Baron's disapproval was painfully obvious.

“Crowley, sir. King's Ranger Number Seventeen, attached to Hogarth Fief.”

“The correct mode of address, Ranger, is
my lord
. Not
sir.
”

Crowley flushed red. Morgarath was wrong. As a Ranger holding the King's warrant, Crowley was a senior officer and was entitled to address barons as
sir.
Only the King, or members of the royal family, merited the title
my lord,
and it was usually reserved for formal occasions. Morgarath seemed to have an exaggerated idea of his own rank. There was no point, however, in arguing with the man here in his own castle.

“Apologies, my lord,” he said curtly. Morgarath held his gaze for several seconds, measuring him. He nodded to himself and turned those black eyes on Halt, dismissing the sandy-haired Ranger for the time being.