The Tournament at Gorlan (11 page)

Bob scowled at them in mock ferocity. They seemed totally unterrified.

“These are the twins,” he said. “Little Bob and Roberta. We call them the Bobbities. Say hello to the Rangers, children.”

“Hello, Rangers,” they chorused, then dissolved into giggles again. The four Rangers, all grinning, returned the greeting.

“Is the beardy man come for a horse, Da?” asked Little Bob, indicating Halt.

His sister instantly added, “Can we watch?” and again, they dissolved into helpless giggles.

Bob shook his head at them. “That's enough now.” He turned to the inner room and called, “Robina! Can you remove these terrible children of yours, please?” The Bobbities shrieked with laughter at his description of them. Then a woman came bustling out into the room. She was short like her husband, but plump and motherly where he was wiry. Like his, her skin was brown from hours in the weather and sun. And like the rest of her family, her beaming smile lit up the room. Her hair was a gray-blond shade. Fortunately, she had more of it than her husband did and it was pinned back in a bun.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” she said.

Halt, raised in a royal court, instinctively rose from his seat to greet her. She looked, Halt thought, exactly like the sort of a person you'd want for a mam. Crowley and the others followed his lead, a little shamefaced.

“This is my wife, Robina. I call her Bobby when we're not being formal.”

Halt made a gracious half bow in her direction and she giggled. The sound was surprisingly like the one made by her children.

“No need for that, Ranger,” she said. The others, again following Halt's lead, mumbled greetings to her and she turned her smile on all of them. Then she made a shooing motion at her children, as if they were a pair of recalcitrant geese. “Now then, out with you two! Leave your da alone with the Rangers.”

The children reluctantly allowed themselves to be ushered out. At the doorway, the girl looked back at her father.

“But can we watch the beardy man, Da?” she pleaded.

Bob mirrored his wife's shooing motion. “No. Now go do your chores.”

The Bobbities departed. Their mother paused at the door, turned gracefully and dropped a perfect curtsy to the Rangers. Then, laughing aloud, she followed her children.

“Nice family,” Halt said. His voice was a little wistful. His own early family life hadn't been the happiest. Then, out of curiosity, he asked, “Is everyone in the family called Bob?”

Bob Saddler frowned, puzzled. “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Halt shrugged. “No reason,” he said mildly.

Bob's frown deepened, then he dismissed the matter. “Now, to business. That horse of yours, he's from Hibernia too, is he?”

Halt nodded. “Aye. He's from the Glendan strain in Clonmel.” He watched Bob carefully, to see if the name meant anything to him. He was gratified to see that it did, as the man's head went up and down several times in quick succession.

“Thought he had that look about him. Good horses in Glendan,” he said. He turned to the other three. “Used a few mares from Glendan two or three years back, when we needed to add some speed to our horses.”

Halt frowned, slightly puzzled by the words.

Crowley quickly explained. “Bob is the master horse breeder for the Ranger Corps,” he said. “He supplies all our horses.”

The smile left Bob's face. “Not anymore, young Crowley. These new men have no call for my horses. They want them tall and glossy and fine legged. Built more for show than speed and stamina.”

“Speed and stamina,” Crowley repeated. “That's why we're here, Bob. Our friend Halt needs a good horse.”

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reacted with surprise—and a little chagrin at the implied insult to Declan.

“I have a good horse,” he said brusquely.

Crowley raised his hands in a defensive gesture, conceding the point. “True,” he said. “I should have said, you need a better horse.”

Halt went to reply, but Crowley held up a hand to stop him. “Declan is a fine horse, in his way. But Rangers need a different kind of horse—with different abilities. Our horses are fast—sometimes I'm not sure I know how fast mine is—but even more important, they're bred for stamina. They can move fast and keep it up all day if necessary.”

“What we do, Master Halt,” Bob interrupted, “is breed and interbreed different types of horse to bring out the qualities we want. I mentioned that we used some Glendan horses to improve the breed a few years ago. Our herd is based on the Temujai ponies from the Eastern Steppes. They're small, rugged and shaggy in appearance. But they have enormous stamina.

“Years back, we bred them with some Gallican Tireurs, to bring some sturdiness and power into the herd. Then we used Hibernian horses for their speed. Every so often, we reintroduce some of the originals to maintain the qualities we sought in the beginning.” He paused and glanced at Crowley. “Pretty soon we're going to need some more Temujai ponies to enrich the bloodlines.”

Crowley nodded. “We have other fish to fry first.”

Bob returned his gaze to Halt. The horse breeder's eyes were
bright blue and they seemed to sparkle as he discussed what was obviously his favorite topic—the Ranger horse herd.

“So as a result, we've ended up with horses that are fast, but have huge reserves of stamina. And they're strong as well. No fine-boned legs that'll snap like a twig. And a decent Ranger horse can bowl over a big, slow-witted battlehorse if it wants to.”

Halt raised an incredulous eyebrow. Battlehorses were big and powerful. Slow moving at first, they would gradually gather speed and momentum until they were virtually unstoppable. The idea of a pony-sized, shaggy horse, such as the Rangers rode, bowling over such a monster seemed highly fanciful.

Bob saw the look and tilted his head to one side. “Oh, I see you thinking that can't be. But let me tell you, it can. A Ranger horse gets up to speed and rams its shoulder into the battlehorse's ribs, just behind his fore shoulder, getting down low and then lifting. And bang! There's a battlehorse floundering on the ground.”

Halt turned his gaze to Crowley. “Be that as it may, I have a horse. And Declan has suited me fine so far.”

“So far,” Crowley repeated. “But it's getting more and more difficult for him to keep up with our horses every day. He tires faster and takes longer to recover.”

Halt pursed his lips. He'd noticed the same thing, particularly since they'd been traveling with the other Rangers. When he and Crowley were traveling alone, it wasn't quite so noticeable that Declan was having trouble keeping up—there was only Crowley's horse to measure him against. But it had become obvious that all of the three Rangers' horses could outlast him over a hard day's riding.

“Perhaps so,” he said reluctantly. He was loath to admit that
his horse was lacking in any way.

Crowley recognized the fact and continued in a gentler tone. “Declan's a fine horse, Halt. But our horses are purpose bred. There's probably no breed on earth that can match them for their combination of speed, intelligence and stamina.”

“No probably about it,” Bob put in. “And there's another thing: a Ranger horse can't ever be stolen. That can come in very handy.”

Crowley glanced at him. “I assume you've kept up the breeding and training program even though the new Rangers don't seem interested in your work?”

“Oh yes indeed,” Bob said forcefully. “Just because those namby-pamby fancypants don't know the first thing about good horseflesh is no reason to stop. I've kept breeding the herd, hoping that some of you would turn up.”

Crowley grinned. “Well, here we are. And we plan to kick those namby-pambies, as you call them, right in their fancy pants—and get the Corps back on its feet.”

“Or back on its horses,” Berrigan put in with a smile.

Bob smacked his fist into his palm in exultation. “That's what I've been wanting to hear! I'll do all I can to help you!”

“Well, the first order of the day is to replace Declan,” Crowley said. “Do you have any horses ready to go to work?”

Bob rose eagerly from his chair. “I've got four three-year-olds in the stable. Fully trained and fit and each one ready to meet his rider.” He gestured toward the door. “Come meet your new horse, Master Halt.”

Halt rose, the other three following, and Bob led the way out into the bright sunshine toward the stable.

As they entered the big, dim building, Halt heard the sound of hooves shuffling in the straw and one curious whinny. His eyes became accustomed to the dimness and he followed Bob to where four horses were peering curiously over their stalls at the newcomers. Crowley, Berrigan and Leander, understanding what was about to take place, and knowing that it would be a personal encounter for Halt, stopped just inside the doorway.

“Take a good look at them,” Bob told Halt. “See if one of them might be the horse for you.”

Halt paused and looked along the line of heads protruding from the stalls. All four were turned toward him, horses being curious animals. Four pairs of big, dark eyes watched him calmly as he walked slowly down the line of stalls.

Three of the horses were bay. But the third in line was a dappled gray. His eyes met Halt's as the Hibernian reached his stall and paused to study him more closely. There was something in those eyes that seemed to reach out to Halt. This horse was more than simply curious. There was a level of understanding and communication in those eyes that seemed to say, you'll do for me.

Halt went to move on to the fourth horse, but something stopped him and he turned back to the gray. It shook its head, rattling its mane the way horses do, and met his gaze once more.

Told you so, the eyes seemed to be saying.

Halt gestured toward him, turning to Bob. He saw that the breeder was already smiling, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“He talking to you, is he?” Bob asked. He kept his voice low so that Crowley and the others wouldn't hear.

Halt took a half pace back in surprise at the words. It had certainly seemed that the gray horse had been communicating
with him.

Bob saw the look of surprise and nodded wisely. “They say that a Ranger horse can talk to its rider,” he said. “Can tell him what it thinks, what it senses. Did you get that from him?”

“Well . . . not exactly,” Halt said. He was sure he had been imagining those messages in the big, intelligent eyes.

Bob didn't press the point, but he reached out for the bar that closed the stall. “Would you like a closer look?”

“Yes. I think so,” Halt replied. He was suddenly conscious that he had paid no attention to the fourth horse in the line. Then he dismissed the thought. The gray was the one that had seized his interest. Bob led the horse out of the stall and Halt moved round him, studying the sturdy body and strong bones, feeling the firm muscles in the shoulders and hindquarters, lifting a forefoot to study the hoof, pulling back the horse's lips to inspect his teeth.

He knelt and ran his hands over the horse's front legs, feeling the cannon bone, knee and ankle in each for any sign of tenderness or heat. Then he stepped back a little to assess its general conformation, checking that the croup wasn't higher than the withers, which was the mark of a “downhill” horse that would be prone to lameness in the front legs. The horse turned its head to watch him curiously as he did all this. It seemed to be vaguely amused by his attention to detail.

Halt put his hands on his hips and a smile spread over his face. “He's a fine one,” he said. Shaggy coat and barrel-like body notwithstanding, there was something very appealing about this little horse.

Bob laughed, a strange, high-pitched cackle. “That's what he says about you!” he replied, shaking his head with pleasure. He
looked back at Halt and added, “We say a Ranger horse chooses his rider, rather than the other way around. I think Abelard's chosen you, Master Halt.”

“Abelard?” Halt said. The name seemed a little exotic for such a sturdy, workmanlike animal.

“Oh yes. Abelard. It's a Gallic name because his dam was from Gallica. Told you we'd included a few Gallic horses in our recent program.”

“Abelard,” Halt repeated, trying the name out. The horse shook its head in answer to its name. “I suppose I can get used to that.”

Bob moved into the stall and brought out a saddle and bridle, quickly putting them in place on the gray. Abelard turned his head to watch him as he did so, as if checking that the girth straps were tight enough.

“Lead him out into the sun,” Bob said. “Get to know him.”

Halt took the reins and led Abelard out of the stable and into the sunlit saddling yard. The other Rangers followed. Halt noticed that they exchanged a strange, furtive look. They were smiling about something and trying to conceal the fact. He shrugged. Crowley loved a drama, he thought. He was undoubtedly enjoying the sight of Halt and Abelard bonding.

He went to place his foot in the stirrup, preparatory to swinging up into the saddle. Abelard turned his head around to watch him prepare to mount.

Bob put out a hand, resting it on Halt's arm. “Planning to mount up, are you?” he asked.

“Well, unless you think I intend to spend the rest of our time walking beside him, yes,” Halt said sarcastically.

Bob made a small moue. “All right then,” he said, removing
his hand from Halt's arm.

Halt looked quickly around at the other Rangers. They were all watching him, with innocent looks on their faces. He had the distinct impression that they had been smiling broadly a second or so before.

“Is there anything I should know?” he asked Bob.

The breeder seemed to consider for a few seconds. “Let's see. I told you a Ranger horse can never be stolen, didn't I?”

Halt brushed the comment aside impatiently. He didn't see how that had any bearing on the situation.

“Yes. You did. A fine trait to have in a horse too,” he said. “Now if you don't mind?”

Bob stepped back. Halt seized the pommel and used his bent left leg to propel himself up into the saddle. He settled himself, found the other stirrup with his right foot, and gathered the reins together.

At which point, the world went mad.

Abelard took off vertically, as if he had springs under his hooves. He shot into the air, arching his back, then came down on his forelegs. He jerked his rump up and down three times,
moving in an arc to the left while Halt hung on for dear life. Then, suddenly, without warning, he reversed direction, spinning on his hind legs to the right, spinning in a wild circle three times. Halt was now jerking in the saddle like a rag doll, managing to keep his seat by sheer instinct—and a lot of luck. Abelard was moving too quickly for him to counter the horse's wild motions in any conscious way.

The saddling paddock whirled around him. The house, the stable, the drinking trough where Bob was leaning, watching. He was conscious of the blurred sight of his three companions and was sure they were all grinning hugely. He set his teeth grimly. He was determined that Abelard would not win this contest.

Unfortunately, Abelard was determined that he would. He reared back on his hind legs. Halt compensated by leaning way forward, burying his face in the short, shaggy mane. But in a fraction of a second, Abelard reversed the action, suddenly dropping to his forelegs and burying his head and neck between them.

The sudden, unexpected change defeated Halt. He shot forward, managing to kick his legs free of the stirrups as he went. He turned a half somersault in the air and crashed down in the dust of the saddling paddock, landing flat on his back.

The air escaped from his lungs with an explosive WHOOF! and he lay, groaning and winded, desperately trying to suck oxygen back into his empty lungs.

Slowly, as his breath returned, he rolled onto his stomach and got his knees under him, rising painfully to his feet, dusting himself off with his hands.

“Maybe I should try one of the other horses,” he managed to
wheeze.