I'm finally moving over my old FFN works to AO3. Here is one of my old favorites.
Summary: Will and Gilan met each other before Will's first Gathering, but neither of them realized it.
Meeting by Chance
Gilan was going to be spending the next month doing extra chores and, on top of that, he was quite possibly going to lose his day off at the upcoming harvest festival; Halt hadn't decided yet. All the grizzled Ranger was certain of was that the boy was going to be in serious trouble. His frown deepened. He urged Abelard forward to keep pace with the servant in castle livery as they made their way along the shadowed road to Castle Redmont.
Halt had suspected that something was amiss when Gilan hadn't come back before dark. But he hadn't guessed that what had held the boy up was anything like what, he had just been told, had happened. Halt had sent his apprentice to get some meat from the butcher for their supper—and he had been almost two hours late in coming back. Gilan did have a bit of a penchant for getting himself distracted sometimes, but even he wouldn't have gotten distracted for nearly two hours.
In fact, when he hadn't shown up, Halt's first reaction had been worry. Gilan hadn't taken his bow or his sword with him when he left. It was just meant to be a quick trip to Wensley Village, after all. But if he had run into trouble, Halt had known that he wouldn't have anything but his two knives with which to defend himself. Not even that, Halt had realized when he'd seen the two knives in question sitting on the table next to Gilan's whetstone. It appeared that his young apprentice had left in such a hurry that he had forgotten his knives as well.
Halt had then tried to tell himself that running into danger in Wensley Village wasn't all that likely. It was more likely that Gilan had simply gotten himself volunteered into helping one of the villagers—that was what had kept him the only other time he had been late after all. But the grim Ranger had been unable to shake the feeling that something was off. So thinking, he had grabbed his bow and his cloak, which was hanging next to Gilan's—the boy had yet to finish mending it from where he'd torn it on a branch during unseen movement practice earlier in the day—and had headed to the door of his cabin.
He had just reached for the knob when he'd heard Abelard's warning call that someone was approaching. Shortly after, he'd heard rapid hoofbeats approaching the cabin. At the sound of a knock on the door, Halt had looked through the spy-hole to see the servant in livery — a man who had been almost incoherent with nerves and excitement. It had taken Halt a while to make any sort of cohesive sense out of him.
Long story short, he'd been informed by that servant that his apprentice had gotten into a fistfight with the sons of a visiting nobleman and was currently in the castle infirmary. The nobleman was furious. Baron Arald had requested Halt's presence immediately.
Halt shook his head and cursed softly as he continued following after the servant. This was Gilan's second year as a Ranger's apprentice, he really knew better…
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
Gilan's first Gathering didn't exactly go as expected.
The sounds of Gilan returning to camp well after dark were minimal, almost nonexistent; especially with the backdrop of the now fairly low sounds of the Rangers, those still awake, talking and reminiscing quietly around the large central fire of the Gathering Grounds. In fact, the infinitesimal noise that Gilan made would probably have been completely overlooked by a normal person. But, seeing as Halt had stayed up with the purpose of listening out for them, they were more than audible to him.
The soft, almost soundless, footfalls stopped in the center of the little campsite they had set up earlier that day. Then came the sound of the fire being quietly stoked and water from the water bucket being poured: probably into the cook pot, Halt guessed by the sound. Not that he particularly cared in the moment. He stepped out from the tree shadow he was sheltering in with his arms crossed.
"You certainly have an interesting idea as to what it means to be back before dark," Halt said dryly.
Gilan startled, nearly dropping the pot as he hung it on the hook above the fire. He just managed to save it and whirled around to face his mentor.
"H-halt," he stammered, still mildly surprised, "I thought you'd be asleep already... or by the fire."
"Did you?" Halt said, a dangerous note creeping into words.
The one time Sir David was thankful for his son's sense of mischief: the events leading up to Gilan's apprenticeship with Halt.
Read on AO3
The moon was full; it lit up the sky with a quiet silvery glow that filtered down to dust the tops of the trees of the woods outside the castle. It bathed the ground in between the forest and the castle courtyard with a light that was exceptionally bright for being night. It made for a rather lovely view, Gilan thought from his position, or rather, perch, sitting casually in the large open windowsill of one of the upper towers.
The view from the window of this abandoned tower room was usually beautiful though, no matter the time of day or the season. There was always something new to see, something different, something intriguing. The world outside was always moving, always shifting, unpredictable and exciting. It was so very different from the monotony of Battleschool with its same repeated schedules, its same repeated drills.
Glancing again at the moon, he felt a smile beginning to spread across his face. He absolutely loved the view from this spot. Though, it had to be admitted that just looking at the woods could never quite hope to match being in them.
He was not quite sure what it was about the outdoors that appealed to him so much, he thought as he continued to whittle away at the cane in his hands. It was the sounds: the babble of a brook, the hissing whisper of wind through pines, the rustle of grass and leaves. It was the appearances: always something new to see, to explore. But, most of all, it was the feeling of openness and freedom. There were no drills, no parades, and no strict rigor to every waking moment.
Heavens above, he was sick to death of the discipline of a soldier's life, of Battleschool. It consumed almost every minute of his waking hours. Every minute except for the few stolen moments of time he managed to snatch and hold to himself like some pathetic bandit.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This is the last one of my apprentice Gilan mini series to be moved over to AO3. Hopefully, I'll get the last few of my other works moved over soon too, and a few new ones published as well.
Summary:
There have been a series of disappearances and deaths around Redmont and it's up to Halt and his apprentice to discover the cause and put a stop to it. But with Gilan only months away from finishing his apprenticeship, strain brought on by the promise of upcoming change has a way of getting in the way. (Based off of, and inspired by, a scene mentioned in book 7)
Abelard stood as Halt had left him, fully saddled and ready to go. He guided the little horse out of the stables and out into the clearing before mounting.
Abelard swung his head around slightly to look at him.
Are Gilan and Blaze not coming?
"Not this time," Halt said gruffly.
Why not?
Because he's just a boy, Halt wanted to say but didn't.
The truth was that, when he had first left the castle, he had had full intentions to bring Gilan with him on this mission. And yet, when the time had come, he'd changed his mind. He had found that he truly wasn't in favor of the idea at all. The task he faced now was an unpleasant one; one that had the potential to be very dangerous.
There had been a series of unexplained deaths. Several foresters and small game hunters had gone missing without a trace. The incidents had ranged all over the fief. Hunting and forestry was a potentially hazardous job. So, at first, the people had not taken serious notice of it. Which led to the heart of the problem: by the time the missing men's companions and family had come to the Baron or to Halt to report the loss, the trail had already gone cold.
All Halt and Gilan had found in each of these sites had been the remnants of clothing, weapons, and skeletons—the bones of which had already been scattered far and wide by forest scavengers. What they hadn't found was any sign of what had killed the men.
I have finally been able to finish this short story inspired by this prompt/story idea from nilswolf8 where Halt joins Morgarath. Here is the final chapter.
Previous chapters
Read on AO3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 4
Halt hadn’t wanted to send him on this mission, he’d said that Will wasn’t ready for it—that he was too young. It was something which, at the time, had rankled, stung. He was fifteen now; old enough and well-trained enough to handle himself. It had made Will more determined than ever to prove that he could complete what would be his first solo mission, and complete it well. But now, with the agonizing clarity that so often came with hindsight, he had started to wonder if Halt had been right. Things had gone far worse than he could have possibly imagined and now he had no idea what he would do.
Restless energy lent itself to his muscles as he found himself pacing the length of the safe house, trying to shove aside the sense of panic that built steadily within him as the minutes passed. Gilan was supposed to meet him here after he finished his own mission, but he was already hours late. Will worried at his lower lip as he found himself wishing for and dreading his brother’s arrival. After all, Gilan, like Halt, always seemed to know what to do. But, at the same time, explaining to him just how badly he had failed, wasn’t an appealing prospect.
The coded knock sounded suddenly on the door, shattering the eerie quiet of the room. Will finally stopped pacing, letting out his breath as he unlocked and opened the door, moving aside so Gilan could enter.
“Where have you been?” The words tore from Will’s throat with much more force and anger than he’d intended.
Gilan tilted his head to consider him a moment, eyes narrowed, before a slow smile spread across his face.
“Out,” he said finally, stepping past Will, the sarcasm in the words contradicting the smile.
Will rolled his eyes in response, despite the pounding in his heart that constricted his chest. There had been no malice in Gilan’s reply, he knew. There never was. He watched as his brother headed to the back of the room to place down his supplies. The twisted feeling in his stomach couldn’t bear the silence anymore and so he drew breath to speak, an effort that was stymied by the realization he had no idea where to begin or what to even say. He was gathering himself to try again when Gilan beat him to it.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” he asked Will quietly without turning around. It was as if he was somehow privy to Will’s thoughts or, perhaps, he had merely read Will’s expression when he came in.
“Yes,” Will admitted softly.
“Are you alright?”
“For now, but not for long.”
Gilan did turn then, calculating gaze seeking answers as much as asking for them.
“I killed Morgarath’s men. The ones sent to assassinate the Courier and her apprentice.”
One eyebrow rose at that announcement.
“Why?”
The question was curious, not accusing. Gilan didn’t seem to care much that Will had just admitted to the cold-blooded murder of their allies, but he did want to know why Will had made such a glaring tactical error.
“I couldn’t let them kill her, kill either of them!”
“The Courier and her apprentice?” Gilan asked blankly, eyebrow still raised.
Will could only nod.
“Again, why?”
“I had to get close to them both for my mission: to get into Baron Arlad’s court. And I… I love her, Gilan, the Courier’s apprentice—Alyss. I couldn’t let her die.”
Gilan searched his face as if looking for there to be some sort of punchline to this. But, when he realized there was none, that Will was serious, the other eyebrow went up to join the first. He grinned, closing the distance between them.
“I have to say, I’m happy for you Will, but you certainly picked the worst way possible to fall in love.”
“This is serious, Gil!” Will protested, put out, and more than a little frustrated by his brother’s casual attitude. “Did you not hear what I said about killing Morgarath’s men?”
Gilan merely shrugged. “If they’re all dead they can hardly go informing Morgarath of what you did. It was risky, but not irreparable. We can come up with a cover story.” He began, but stopped as he became aware of Will’s expression. He narrowed his eyes. “They are all dead, aren’t they?”
“One may have gotten away.”
Gilan blinked at him, disbelieving.
Will felt a flush of anger. “The fight got a little complicated and, at the end, I had to choose between saving Alyss or killing the last man!” He took a breath, hands trembling, before adding in a small voice. “I don’t know what to do, Gilan.”
For a brief moment, Will saw his own fear reflected in his brother’s eyes and now entirely serious face.
“Morgarath won’t tolerate treason. And if you run, you know he’ll do whatever it takes to hunt you down. Revenge seems to give him a certain… pleasure.” He made a crude gesture not bothering to hide the sneer that curled that last word.
“I know,” Will said, holding his head in his hands. “He’ll never stop trying to kill me.”
“Unless you're already dead. I’ll report to Morgarath that I saw what happened after the guard fled, report that I killed you for your treason, and then completed your assassination mission for you. It will give you and the Couriers the chance to run, disappear.”
~x~X~x~
Halt made no sound as wove through the shadowed wood to the small cabin that served as their safehouse in this area of the Kingdom. He moved with the shadows of the clouds overhead so that he seemed to weave fluidly around the patches of silver moonlight. He was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to any eyes that might be watching.
Hearing the sound of urgent voices coming from inside the cabin, he didn’t head towards the door but instead to the windows. They had only shutters and a latch to close against the chill of the night. They weren’t very well made and sound carried clearly through them.
He froze to listen and was just in time to be made aware of everything about the results of Will’s mission. But in light of everything that had happened, that outcome seemed almost trivial. Or, rather, like another log to be added to an inexorable bonfire.
His old adage of always expecting something to go wrong in order to avoid disappointment had clearly been far too conservative of a saying. If this situation taught him anything, it was that he should have expected absolutely everything possible to go wrong all at once.
Biting back something that was half a sigh of exasperation, and half a breath to calm a racing heart, he reached up to silently undo the latch of the cabin’s unlit back room window and slip inside.
“So we’re set on the plan then?” Gilan’s voice carried to him as he stood in the shadow of the back room's door jam. “We will fake your death and I will report it to Morgarath.”
“There’s only one problem with that,” Halt interposed his voice into their conversation, causing both of them to wheel around, more with surprise than fear, he knew. He was pretty certain that, even distracted as his two apprentices had been, there were very few people who could sneak up on them, of which Halt was one.
“Halt!” Will said as he and Gilan both turned to face their mentor.
One glance at his students showed that neither had expected Halt to be here. After all, he was supposed to have still been at Morgarath’s stronghold.
“I’m sorry, Halt,” Will said, realizing a little belatedly that his mentor had obviously heard everything.
Halt’s steely gaze flicked away from Will when Gilan found his voice, caught on the substance of what their mentor had said first.
“Why can’t I fake Will’s death? It’s too late to stop the man who escaped, and I won’t let Will be hunted down for Morgarath’s pride.”
Halt let out his breath, his arms uncrossing to hang loosely at his sides.
“It won’t work because Morgarath will sooner kill you than listen, Gilan. He found out about Malcolm’s little rebellion and it won’t be long until he finds out that you both were helping him.”
Though it hadn’t seemed possible, Will’s expression shuddered even further at that announcement.
“Helping?” Gilan asked innocently.
Halt glared, not falling for it. “Yes, helping. Malcolm told me about your little project.”
“He did?”
“Apparently, he was under the misapprehension that I already knew about it. What he’s been doing: taking up the guise of Malkallam, stirring up the populace against Morgarath. That was never going to end well. It turns out he was betrayed by someone he trusted, someone who was completely loyal to Morgarath. It won’t be long until it comes out that you two helped him: gave false reports to Morgarath about his movements to protect him. What were you both thinking?” He demanded.
“I was thinking that Malcolm is family,” Will admitted stubbornly.
And Halt couldn’t argue the point. Will was right. As the years had passed, the bird-like healer had grown very close to them.
“He needed help. I couldn’t just not help him.”
For as long as they had known him, Malcolm had been the equivalent of a slave, captured and forced to serve at Morgarth’s whims. Halt knew that had never sat well with his two apprentices. All told, it really should not have come as a surprise that Will and Gilan had risked themselves to help him when Malcolm had managed to set himself up as Malkallam, rebellion leader among the suffering peasantry in Morgarath’s lands. Halt felt the anger slowly drain from him as he thought it. Though it just as quickly sparked again as he swung his gaze towards Gilan.
“And I suppose that’s the same reason you decided to move past simply currying favor with the soldiers and the army?” He demanded, words scathing.
Halt saw Will shoot a confused glance between himself and Gilan. Halt knew Will was well aware that Gilan was often sent by Morgarath to lead his troops. Gilan was skilled at it, and the soldiers respected him—likely far more than they respected most of the other commanders like Foldar who cared nothing for their men’s safety and would stay behind, protected, during battle while they threw away the lives of their own men. Will, however, clearly didn’t see what Halt was upset about until he spoke again.
“I know it was you who got word to the 8th infantry and helped them escape.”
Will’s eyes widened, then widened further still when Gilan didn’t deny it.
“I served with them for years. Their reward for those years of service and being among the most elite of Morgarath’s troops was a false accusation of treason followed by the guarantee of a painful death. And it was all for no other reason than Morgarath’s pride and paranoia at their strength.” Gilan was silent a moment before he looked Halt in the eyes. “The truth is, Morgarath was right to be paranoid—and now the 8th are indebted to me. And they aren’t the only ones. I’ve made connections and curried favor with several of the top divisions.”
“Did you ever stop to consider doing that was treason?” Halt demanded angrily.
Gilan looked genuinely confused by Halt’s fury, confused and frustrated.
“I thought that was what you wanted me to do?”
Halt’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You thought I wanted you to stage a military coup?”
“You can’t have expected that I would ever actually be loyal to Morgarath.” Gilan looked almost offended by the mere notion. “Especially not when you told me yourself that you weren’t loyal to him either—that you were just using him to get what you wanted.” The shadow of a vicious smile twisted his lips as he leaned forward. “Well, I wanted something too.”
Halt felt his blood run cold, a horrible twisting sensation racing across his scars to settle in his chest. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You would betray our position here, everything we have worked for, for the sake of the Kingdom?”
Gilan’s eyebrows rose in surprised incredulity before drawing downward in anger. He shook his head adamantly.
“I don’t care about the Kingdom and its politics; I care about us! Growing up with King Oswald, I saw nothing much better than Morgarath and we have suffered because of it. Training under you, I realized that the only way that we can truly stay safe and free from the wars, whims, and powerplay of others is to be the ones in power. And what about the people like us, those caught up in this and left to suffer and try to stay alive while other people play games with their lives?”
Gilan hadn’t raised his voice but Halt felt himself flinch as if he had. Truth had a bite sharper even than hatred. It was something that had been whispering in the corners of his own mind, a whisper that had grown steadily louder as the years passed by. But now that it had been given voice, it was chilling.
How many of those innocents ruled by Morgarath and King Duncan had loved ones they cared about as much as Halt cared about his apprentices? How many of those people had been like his little sister Caitlyn, who just wanted to live in peace and carve out some small measure of happiness from the world?
Caitlyn had cared about people… so had Crowley. Halt closed his eyes as another truth rang in his mind…. He had started to care again too. As the years passed, he had slowly started to realize that not every person was a potential threat… and that there were things worth protecting—things far more precious than his own survival and safety.
Gilan shook his head softly. “I wanted it all to stop, Halt. I’ve been moving pieces to that end ever since I was given my first command. But if the game is up for me as well before I could finish it, then so be it. Will and I will run together.”
“No.” Halt said firmly, stepping forward and placing a hand on each of his students’ shoulders and squeezing gently. “We will do what we can to help Malcolm and then we will all run together. Morgarath no longer has anything to offer me that I would value more than I value the two of you.”
They couldn’t defect to the Kingdom, that much was certain. People like them, ones who had served the enemy for so long would never truly be trusted. Once a traitor, always a traitor after all. Besides that, Halt had no desire to put himself at the service of a King—none of them would ever be worth trusting.
But if they left the country entirely it would do nothing to solve the problems of the people here. They would have to try something different, and Halt thought then that they might just have the connections they might need to do so. They had the network for gathering information he and Will had set up in King Duncan’s land. They also had the networks that Gilan and Malcolm had set up in Morgarath’s lands.
~x~X~x~
Crowley urged Cropper down the wooded path, coaxing as much speed from the little horse as he dared, considering the low light of the late hour. His mission was of some urgency after all. He needed to get to Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief before first light if at all possible. The plea the Baron had sent to the King was nothing short of an emergency. If it was wholly accurate, it could spell disaster for the Kingdom as a whole.
Baron Douglass was many things, but he’d never been one for undue panic or exaggeration. This was why he, and King Duncan, had decided it would be safest to respond immediately. Duncan had already mobilized a small force and they were only a day behind Crowley. His task had been to ride ahead and provide any necessary immediate assistance and gather all the necessary intel to send back to the army so they would be fully ready when they arrived.
His mouth set itself in a grim line at the thought. Things had been relatively stable for the past year and he had no desire to return to the chaos and near constant warfare of the many years before. And this news was akin to an ill omen, boding its inevitable return.
It had seemed for a while that they were on the back foot against Morgarath. Defeat had been all but guaranteed. All they had been doing was staving off the inevitable—something Crowley had been more than willing to do… up to his last breath. But then, things began to change. Morgarath’s kingdom had begun to destabilize, piece by piece. It had started with the peasants' Rebellion in Morgarath’s lands, and then with the disbanding and would-be execution of the 8th infantry.
The 8th were of Morgaraths most elite troops. They, along with their commander, were the only unit in Morgarath’s army that had earned his grudging respect for their skill, discipline, intelligent tactics, and shocking lack of brutal, cruel, or dishonorable conduct when compared to any other of Morgarath’s divisions or commanders. He supposed that might well be the reason Morgarath had wanted to get rid of them. However, the 8th infantry escaped Morgarath’s judgment and had, along with some more disgruntled troops, joined the peasant uprising. This left Morgarath to fight a war on two fronts, from within and without.
But the change wasn’t just in Morgarath’s lands, it was in the King’s lands too. For them, however, it wasn’t destabilization but its opposite. Key generals of Morgarath’s had been taken out before or during battles. There had been destructive raids on enemy encampments and supply trains undertaken that they had not been a party to. There had been advanced warnings of attacks and plans given, along with the foiling of several assassination attempts. The few reports given back to him of those who had done it were vague, nothing more than rumors of a ‘hooded man’.
And not everything had been on a large scale either. He’d heard more vague reports of people being helped or saved by a ‘hooded man’ all over the King's land and even Morgarath’s. After looking at the reports of these incidents, their locations, and timing, Crowley had come to the conclusion that this… vigilante… for lack of a better word, could not be one man alone, but rather two or three men working under the guise of the ‘hooded man’ to the same end.
It could be that the ‘hooded man’ had started as one individual and the others were copycats. However, their actions and movements were too professional, consistent, and organized for that to be the case. To what ends the ‘hooded man’, or rather 'men', were operating, he was not yet certain. And that unsettled him almost as deeply as the means behind them. To have access to the amount of intelligence needed to pull all that off suggested an information and informant network that would rival that of the Rangers and Couriers combined. And that was a terrifying prospect. His only solace was that they did not seem to be currently acting against the interest of the Kingdom.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a warning rumble from Cropper, some scent or sound causing the little horse to warn of potential danger. Alert now, his eyes were able to pick out the obstacle of several fallen trees and branches spanning the length of the highway ahead. A trap. He pulled Cropper to an immediate stop, turning his head to his left even as he began to wheel the little horse in that direction.
Even amateur roadside bandits would know that most warriors were right-handed, and so they would give themselves an advantage to approach from the left, where a defender would have to wheel or reach awkwardly across to defend. They likely would try to block his retreat as well.
Sure enough, he caught sight of movement from the left and behind. Crowley had an arrow knocked and aimed at the closest shadowed figure on his left, letting his arrow fly even as Cropper pivoted gracefully around. This gave him a larger view of the area. That was when he saw it. They weren’t just coming from the left and from behind, they were coming from all sides and there were far more of them than he had anticipated. Even in the moonlight, he could see that they were also far better armed and armored than any average highwayman group had any right to be.
These men were soldiers. Crowley’s next arrow felled another man and he had only just enough time to roll from his horse’s saddle in order to avoid the quarrel flung towards him from one of the three crossbowmen he could make out. He fell and heard the bolt hum past his ear. He hit the ground in a recovery roll and rose smoothly into a crouch, another arrow drawn aimed, and fired at his enemies, first to one side of the road and then the other. The crossbowman fell along with a swordsman.
That was when reflective defense gave way to grim understanding. Even with a Ranger’s speed and accuracy, he knew there were too many, and he had no cover. Another bolt whizzed past his face, opening a gash across his cheek in its flight. Cropper reared and kicked in a desperate attempt to protect his master from the approaching men, but it wasn’t enough. Crowley set his teeth then, determined that if this was going to be his end, his attackers would pay dearly for it.
Then suddenly, several of the men nearest him fell in quick succession. He could see the glisten of a broadhead arrow protruding from one of the bodies, along with the clothyard shaft from a longbow—vastly distinct from the short quarrels of his adversaries.
It gave Crowley the space and breath he needed to rally, and move to some cover. He once more aimed and shot at blinding speed. The unseen archer that had come to his aid was dropping as many enemies as quickly as he did, if not quicker. Ranger-level shooting, his mind supplied. And it was exemplary Ranger-level shooting at that.
From behind their respective cover, he and his ally were able to take on the last of the soldiers until the clearing was once again silent. Hearing and seeing nothing of the strange ally that had come to his aid, he was about to open his mouth to address the night at large when a voice spoke first.
“Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief is working for Morgarath—has been for some years now, in secret.”
Crowley easily pinpointed the voice’s location in the dark, turning swiftly in that direction, bow still partially drawn for the sake of caution. Having honestly expected one of the voices of his Rangers, he was taken a little aback. The voice did strike a chord in his memory, but not enough to belong to one of the men he’d been working closely with and leading for the past 10 years.
As he watched, he saw a figure slowly melt into view, once again unsettlingly Ranger-like in his movements. His right hand was raised in a gesture of peace, his left hand still clutching his strung longbow. His shape was reminiscent of a Ranger as well. His ally was a cloaked and hooded man… perhaps one of the ‘hooded men’.
“Morgarath’s been getting pretty desperate lately. And all this was his idea of a trap… an assassination attempt.”
“Damn near successful too,” Crowley said with some feeling before adding, the thanks apparent in his words, “if not for you.”
The hooded man offered a nod of acknowledgment. Despite Crowley’s genuine gratitude at the man's intervention, there was something about him that whispered in warning in the back of his mind. It was something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right. But he had precious little time to dwell on it as the man turned to make his leave.
“How did you find out about this? Do you have any proof of what you said about Douglass and Morgarath?” he asked then, his words stopping the man’s planned retreat.
The hooded man stopped, offering only a shrug as he turned back around to face him.
“Who else knew that you’d be on the road this late?” he asked eventually instead of answering. “These were clearly no simple highwaymen. If it's physical evidence you need, you might find it if you search the bodies for correspondence, or got a confession from one who is still alive.”
The man’s voice was quiet, the barest edge of a Hibernian burr lilting the words in a way that was… so familiar. That was when it hit him; the recognition caused a pit to open up in his stomach even as an old pain flared up near his heart.
The hooded man, the one who had been destabilizing Morgarath’s holdings, aided the kingdom, and assisted the peasantry on both sides of the war. Crowley knew him. His fingers flexed on his bow, undecided whether or not to draw it further back. This man was his enemy… but he had not always been. This man had wreaked havoc on the King's land… but he had also just saved Crowley’s life.
“Halt,” he said, the name coming out tight with a painful mix of emotions he could not hold back.
“Crowley,” came the quiet reply, his words thick with an emotion of his own.
A soft breeze rustled the forest branches overhead as they faced each other, a question unanswered riding with the breath of the wind.
Waiting…. That had always been the hardest thing to face whenever that point of a crisis was reached, and this time was no different. When the knowledge that there was nothing more that could be feasibly done set in, an inescapable sense of helplessness inevitably followed in its wake. Worse still, now that franticness and movement had given way to waiting and stillness, the thoughts he had pushed aside in favor of swift action had risen back to the surface of his mind. Amid all the what-ifs and if onlys, there was one thought, one realization, he could not escape.
This was his fault.
Everything that had happened—all of this—was his fault. That was the inescapable conclusion he had come to as he knelt helplessly in the meager shelter, doing nothing but replacing the heated rocks as they cooled and keeping the fire burning.
“Never be too quick to rush into things.”
The memory of Halt’s often spoken warning rang in his ears with all the condemnation of regret—regret he hadn’t heeded it when it mattered most. And now, stranded and alone with Halt’s life in the balance, it was already far too late. And what was worse was that he had no idea how he could fix it or make it right.
Guilt rode chokingly in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fists, turning his gaze to the side, unable, in that moment, to bear keeping it on his mentor’s too still form. Outside, the snow continued to fall, as it had done for the past hour, heedless of Gilan's desperate wish for it to stop; utterly uncaring, as nature so often was, of the two lives that hung in its balance. The quiet muffle of its passage down to earth was interrupted only by the occasional slow, unsteady breath from Halt or Kenric. Alive, both of them, still alive—for now.
The only thing that gave him a modicum of hope was that the intense heaviness the snowfall had started with had only been intermittent. Had it continued as it had started, Gilan had no doubt they might have ended up completely snowed into the shelter. As it was, the snow was deep, but not deep enough to entrap them. This was something that Gilan was growing more and more grateful for as time wore on, and it became more of a battle to keep Halt and the young knight warm.
He felt his nails dig deeper into his palms as he clenched his fists more firmly. The more time that passed, the more he knew they could not stay here. The weather could easily take a greater turn for the worse at any moment. Their firewood was almost gone. Half of their supplies were gone, and the shelter was not enough. It was far too open. Most damming of all was that, despite his best efforts, he knew Halt and Kenric were going to need far more help than he had the means to provide them with. He was also keenly aware of the young knight’s injuries. They hadn't come about by chance or random accident. It was obvious that the knight’s party had been attacked. And it would be just their luck to have whomever it was that had done that return to finish the job now. If that happened, he had no idea how he would fare alone against an enemy force large and bold enough to have attacked and chased off a well-trained patrol of knights.
He needed to get the knight and Halt help and away from here as soon as possible. Both were in dire straits, and he worried that it would only worsen the longer it took for them to get proper care. But therein lay the heart of the problem.
How could he get three people back to Redmont Castle quickly with only one horse?
Blaze could bear two riders safely, so long as the trip wasn’t too long or strenuous. But three was a stretch. Sending Halt and the knight alone while he continued on foot could work; Ranger horses were smart, and he trusted Blaze to be able to find her way back to Redmont. But neither Halt nor the knight were fully conscious, so if something went wrong—as things so often did—there would be no one able to help.
Gilan supposed then that he could make the trip with one and then lead the knights back to get help for the other, but that left him with a choice where two lives hung in the balance. He couldn’t tell which of the two needed help most critically. And, as they were now, he feared that whoever was left to wait wouldn’t have good odds of making it.
His gaze settled on Halt’s pale face. He knew deep in his bones that he could never make a choice like that free of bias. He had no right to play God, and if it came down to choosing between lives to save… he couldn’t… couldn’t…. He placed his head in hands he could not keep from trembling, fingers pulling at his hair as his gaze flitted from Halt to Kenrick and back again. Then he froze, breath catching in a fleeting hope as another idea came to him.
Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to choose between lives at all. His gaze lit on the shield that hung from Blaze’s saddle, and then to the previously sodden rope that had frozen into stiff coils. The trace of a smile made its slow way across his face.
It didn’t take long until Blaze was cantering down the wooded path, two men tied securely to her back, and Gilan being pulled lightly behind. The shield he stood on crunched softly against the ice and snow he skimmed over. He shifted carefully to keep his balance as he guided her from behind.
He eased her on as fast as he dared to go. He didn’t know how much time Kenric had left. He didn’t know how much time that Halt… He felt his throat close up as his breath hitched. His mentor’s head lulled, his body slack in a way that made Gilan feel sick. The cloaks and blankets wrapped tightly around him were likely not enough. And the heated rocks that Gilan had placed inside them wouldn’t keep their heat for much longer.
He let out a shaky breath. They had to make it in time; they just had to.
~x~X~x~
He needed to open his eyes; something told him that… but they were open… weren’t they?
Halt could see the woods around the castle of Dun Kilty, as familiar as it was disquieting. He saw the bank of the water, body jolting as he remembered its wet embrace, remembered the feeling of it in his lungs, the pain of the blows that had been meant to keep him from rising again to the surface. He could feel the cold, the numbing cold, all the way to his very bones. He knelt on the ground as the knowledge of what had happened, the memory, took his breath again as much as the water had.
He knew he had almost died… knew that he was dying.
Suddenly, he was no longer alone; someone was kneeling beside him, a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder, shaking him with an urgency born of fear. Turning, he saw Pritchard. Though his eyes were as kind as Halt remembered them, his expression was pinched with worry.
But that was nothing compared to the concern and pain that sank deep into his own chest as he stared into his mentor’s eyes. It wasn’t possible, not when he had… not when… Pritchard couldn't be here… but he had been there, hadn’t he? He had been the one Halt had gone to after.
“Pritchard?” he whispered.
“Halt, you have to fight it,” Pritchard told him, voice firm but still warm. “You won’t survive if you don’t.”
Halt shook his head, shivering. …he didn't… didn’t understand… He could still feel the water’s icy grip, constricting, freezing…. But he was on the bank now, wasn’t he? Ferris and the boat were nowhere in sight.
“You need to focus,” Pritchard said, then more softly, “You’re dying, Halt.”
“I know,” he whispered. He could feel the certainty of it as strongly as the ice that seemed to grip his bones and slow his breath. “He tried to drown me…” he said slowly. He was still drowning, wasn’t he? He frowned at the thought, knowing something wasn’t right about that. “But I got out of the water, I made it to the shore?” He knew that was right, but couldn't shake the sensation of the water’s icy grip. “I got out…”
“But you’re not drowning, Halt,” Pritchard insisted, “You’re freezing to death.”
That rang true; he could feel it deep within his chest, despite the warm green of the forest around him.
“You need to get up; you need to wake up!” No longer shaking him, Pritchard stood, reaching out a hand to him, kind eyes encouraging him to take it. But Halt found he couldn't move.
“Open your eyes, Halt!” He was pleading now, firm. “You can do it. You have to open your eyes. Promise me, Halt. It wasn’t your time then, and I’m damn well not about to let it be your time now either! You have to get up! You need to trust me.”
He did trust Pritchard; he had always trusted Pritchard. He would have done anything for his old mentor. He tried to shake off the exhaustion, tried to reach out his hand, and tried to open his eyes.
The green woods around Pritchard began to be speckled with gentle drifting white flakes, the heather becoming fluffy white drifts. His fingers brushed against nothing as Pritchard’s form was no longer as clear as it had been. But it was still clear enough for him to see Pritchard offer him one last parting smile. Part of him no longer wanted to open his eyes because he knew the loss it would bring. But he had promised…
And then Pritchard was gone, replaced by a world of ice and swirling white. He could feel the motion of a horse beneath him and the weight of another person at his back. Had Gilan managed to get him onto Blaze? He didn’t have the strength to turn his head to check behind him. But he tried desperately to cling to consciousness all the same, for his apprentice’s sake. He was not sure how long he was able to manage it before, eventually, the swirling white faded to black once more.
The next time he awoke, it was to the stark clean lines and herbal smell of the Redmont infirmary. He only had enough strength to catch a glimpse of Bronwyn, the court physician, before the effort of holding his eyes open became too much.
~x~X~x~
The first few days back at the castle and in the infirmary were a blur to Halt. On top of the hypothermia, or perhaps as a consequence of it, he had taken ill. He was too sick to focus on anything past the misery, his mind clogged with sickness, his body pushed past the point of exhaustion, and too ill to get up any more than necessity dictated.
He hazily recalled Baron Arald visiting him not too long after he had first awakened, telling him that he’d look after Gilan while he rested in the infirmary. He distantly heard Bronwyn’s unhappy murmurs about Kenric and his condition, about how it was going to be a coin toss as to whether or not he’d make it. Mostly, he was aware of Gilan sitting next to him every evening, both too miserable, and Halt’s mind too unfocused, for conversations.
He was especially cognizant of his young apprentice’s absence on his third day in the infirmary. His awareness sharpened back to the keenest focus he’d been able to manage since the accident when he was told that Gilan had gone back to the forest as a guide for Sir Rodney and a large party of knights to stop the bandits that had attacked Kenric’s party.
Much to Halt’s relief, Gilan was back the next morning, no worse for wear as far as Halt could tell, with news that the bandits had been defeated and arrested. Coincidentally, that was also the morning that he was finally deemed healthy enough to leave—provided that he promised to follow Bronwyn’s strict instructions to rest and take things easy for a week.
By then, Halt was willing to make almost any promises necessary to get out of the infirmary. He was feeling well enough and clear-headed enough to grow antsy with the confinement. Gilan’s immediate promise to Bronwyn to take care of things and look after Halt seemed to be enough for the no-nonsense healer to finally let him leave.
After a brief meeting with Arald, and a short ride, the two were once again at the cabin. The sight of its worn wooden walls immediately relaxed the tension that had begun to build up in Halt’s shoulders the longer he’d been in the infirmary. He was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed for a change—something he did immediately upon falling into it.
~x~X~x~
Halt spent the next day following the healer’s instructions for rest. Gilan was as helpful as he’d promised the healer he would be. He made sure the fire stayed stoked. He cooked the meals himself. He would also brew and bring Halt his medicinal tea at the correct intervals, always making sure he was comfortable and had what he needed. Halt didn’t eat much.
Still achy from sickness, he found himself feeling lower than he had for a long time, an old familiar pain settling close to his heart. He knew the pain’s source; the fact that his thoughts invariably set on, and returned to, Pritchard and whatever it was that he had seen after the accident. Whether it was a hallucination or a dream, he wasn’t certain. But the experience sat with him, heavy in his chest.
The wistful notion that it had been anything more than a hallucination or a dream was one he wouldn’t allow himself to entertain; it would only make the loss fresh again. Lost in thought and memory, he wasn’t feeling up for much interaction and so did not at first notice the silence that accompanied his apprentice’s every action as he worked.
It wasn’t until the following morning that Halt became certain that something wasn’t right. Gilan had just brought him his tea. As he had done the day before, he set it silently by Halt’s bedside. It was only then that Halt realized that he hadn’t spoken much at all the whole time he had been at the infirmary. More troubling still was the fact that Gilan was not meeting his gaze. As he thought back, he realized that his apprentice had not once done so since the accident.
“Gilan?” he asked, sharp eyes picking out the minute flinch he received in response before the boy turned to face him…. Face him, but not look at him, Halt noticed. Gilan kept his gaze pointed towards the ground.
“Yes, Halt?” he asked then. “Did you need something?”
Yes, Halt supposed he did. Because there was nothing about this that struck right. He was certain now that there was something wrong with his student.
“Have you been hurt?” Halt asked, already looking over his apprentice for any visible injury.
Gilan shook his head, offering a smile.
“I’m fine,” he said lightly.
But genuine and sincere as he looked and sounded, Halt knew his apprentice far too well by now to be taken in by it.
“No,” Halt shook his head adamantly and repeated the question more earnestly, trying his best to sit up. “Are you alright?”
“I think I should be the one asking you that,” Gilan deflected cheerfully.
“But you didn’t ask. I did,” Halt pointed out, not about to allow the deflection.
Gilan’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before he was able to bring it back to its full brightness.
“As I said, I’m perfectly fine.”
“Try again,” Halt said, words flat.
“Halt?” Gilan asked, uncertain, taken aback by the request as much as its abruptness.
Halt sighed, expression softening. With effort, he managed to sit himself more upright.
“Gilan, would you believe me if I told you right now that I was perfectly well?”
Though still uncertain about the sudden line of inquiry, Gilan had enough wherewithal to answer it honestly. He shook his head to indicate the negative.
“No si–um, Halt, I wouldn’t”
Halt nodded. “Because your eyes can tell you well enough that I’m not perfectly alright…”
Gilan flinched visibly at that, taking an inadvertent half-step back before muscle memory caused him to straighten, as if coming to attention for a dressing down by a commanding officer.
“I have eyes too, Gilan,” Halt finished softly, words gentle now.
Gilan, however, did not seem to have registered the change in tone. Instead, he'd grown so pale he looked like he was about to be sick.
“Gil?” Halt asked, brows pinching.
I… I’m sorry, Halt. I’m sorry,” was the only answer he received, the words tight and stilted, barely above a broken whisper. “I never… I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
Now it was Halt’s turn to be taken aback as he took in the almost imperceptible tremble to his apprentice’s lips, the redness growing in his eyes. Fully concerned now, Halt rose to tired feet, closing the distance between them in two strides. He reached out, not liking the way Gilan seemed to shy away from his presence.
“Slow down, Gil,” Halt said carefully. “What is it you think you need to be sorry for?”
The look Gilan shot him was nothing short of incredulous.
“You can’t have forgotten what I did.”
Halt merely shook his head, honestly uncertain of what it was that his student was referring to. He wondered then if Gilan had told him something while he’d been partially asleep or if something more had happened while he had not been fully conscious.
“It was my fault!” Gilan burst out. “All of it was! You were almost killed because I rushed into things again, because I wasn’t observant enough to see things for what they were, to see what was right in front of my face. Surely, you can recall that!”
Gilan cringed at his own outburst before once again avoiding Halt’s gaze, expression pinched. For a moment, Halt didn’t say anything, understanding settling over him. He took another pace forward, close enough to reach out a hand to grasp his apprentice’s shoulders.
“Do you know what I recall, Gilan?” He said finally. “I recall you finding a way to pull me out of the water when I wasn’t able to on my own. I recall you doing everything you could to keep me from freezing to death. I remember you getting both of us and the injured knight safely back through the woods and away from the bandits. I remember you getting me to the healer in time. And it isn’t something I am going to forget.
“Yes, you made a mistake and encountered something you weren’t prepared for and didn’t know about. But you’re an apprentice, I don’t expect you to know everything about every situation. You’re still meant to be learning.” He took a breath repeating words he had said before, words that he had first learned from Pritchard. “Mistakes are only errors if you don’t learn from them.”
Gilan looked up at him then, eyes glistening before he closed the final distance between them, pulling Halt into a hug.
“Thank you,” Gilan said, voice muffled by Halt’s shirt.
Halt knew he meant it for more than just his words now, but for everything. He wrapped his own arms around his apprentice’s back, letting the gesture voice the thanks he had in turn. They had both saved each other.
“Um, Halt?” Gilan asked tentatively when they broke apart.
“What is it?” Halt asked, expecting something of a serious nature in light of all that had just happened. In hindsight, experience should have taught him to know better.
“Since it proved to be so useful, I don’t suppose we could add shield-sledding to the Ranger’s curriculum, could we?”
Halt sighed inwardly at the familiarity of Gilan’s seeming inability not to ruin serious and reflective moments with inane comments. But for all his inward, and sometimes outward, complaints about that particular trait, its reappearance now also made him feel relieved; a whisper that things were, and would be, alright. Shaking his head, he affected an interest in considering the idea.
“You know, that might not be an altogether bad idea,” Halt said, straight-faced. “I think I’ll ask Crowley about it right away.”
“Really?” Gilan looked surprised by his agreement.
“Of course not,” Halt said, tone perfectly flat. However, he could not stop the ghost of a smile from touching his lips.
The feeling of normality that came when Gilan returned the smile with a sharp one of his own, helped relax the last vestiges to tension from Halt’s shoulders.
It took several hours of traveling along the patrol's route before Gilan and Halt found any sign of tracks. By then, they had gone far enough down the King's Road to be deep into the Fernan woods.
They had, after a short deliberation, elected to start at what would have been the patrol's end point and backtrack. It was a bit of a gamble, but the woods were the most likely place that the soldiers might have found trouble. If they had kept to the timetable they had been given, or at least close to it, Halt had estimated that the woods would likely have been where the knights had reached when the storm hit the day before.
As they traveled, the path that wound through the dense trees, which had before been covered in pristine, undisturbed snow, suddenly became hatched and choppy with footfalls. They weren't perfectly clear prints; they had obviously been made while the snow was still falling, for the prints had been almost completely refilled.
The point where Halt and Gilan had run into the tracks was the point where the tracks had veered from the path and into the woods. The two of them had stopped as soon as they came across them, dismounting to get a closer look.
"What do you see?" Halt asked Gilan, breaking the silence that had grown between them as they surveyed the ground. "And why is it odd?"
"There are no horse tracks," Gilan replied promptly from where he crouched by the indentations.
"And what does that tell you?"
Gilan frowned thoughtfully before responding. "The patrol had horses when they left. Since whoever made these tracks did not, maybe these are not the knights? It's odd that there are exactly four sets of tracks, though—a coincidence that four people happened to be traveling down this road at the same time as four knights? This road isn't well traveled after all."
"What's more, they are four adult men, judging by what can be made out by the size and weight," Halt added with a simple nod at Gilan's reasoning. "We need more information before we can know for certain."
"So, we should follow them a ways and see what more we can learn?" Gilan said with a tight smile.
"Are you asking me or telling?" Halt replied with a raised eyebrow.
"How about telling if I'm right, but asking if I'm not," Gilan suggested innocently.
Halt's glare was palpable. "How about, when we get back, you get to mend the roof as well as the fences."
"Telling, then," Gilan said with a half-smile, putting his hands up in surrender.
Halt merely grunted in acknowledgment, gesturing for him to get on with it. Gilan quickly grabbed a small stick off a nearby tree to prod a little further at the prints in the hopes of seeing if he could remove some of the looser flakes enough to see the tread pattern of the boots or shoes. If he could somehow ascertain the type of shoe, it could help him narrow down the status of the owner. He soon realized that too much snowfall had made that impossible. However, as he dug deeper, he had come across a deep crimson stain, stark against the white.
"Halt!" Gilan pointed to where he had disturbed the snow. "It's blood."
The grim acknowledgment in the older Ranger's eyes was all the response he gave.
As the two began to follow the prints, the suspected injury of one of the men became more apparent. There was more blood which coincided with one of the men's gaits being off. It dragged worse the further the trail went, and it became clear that the two men that had been either side of the bleeding man had started to support more and more of the injured man's weight.
As they traveled further, Gilan became aware of the faint scent of woodsmoke.
"There," Halt said quietly, pointing deeper into the trees. After the two had made certain the area was clear of any visible enemies, they cautiously approached the haphazard snow-covered shelter that Halt had spotted. It was a simple affair of canvas strung by tope between trees at a slant to make a sort of lean-to tent that was open on one side. It seemed almost completely abandoned at first glance—aside from still smoldering embers of the campfire that had been made near the open front.
Soon, they were close enough that Gilan recognized the slumped form of a man lying still beneath the shelter. He felt an ugly sensation twist in the pit of his stomach because he simultaneously recognized the color of the man's surcoat and knew him to be one of the knights from the patrol. Both mentor and apprentice were soon kneeling at the fallen knight's side.
"It's Kenric," Gilan said softly, hands reaching unconsciously out towards the injured man.
A rough, bloodstained bandage had been wound around the young knight's chest. He looked pale and was lying so still that Gilan couldn't tell if he was unconscious or worse. He looked urgently toward Halt as the grizzled Ranger put his hands gently to the knight's neck to check for a pulse.
"He's alive," Halt said, before checking the young knight over carefully, including the wound. His mouth set in a grimace as he finished. "He seems stable for now; the other knights must have cleaned and stitched the wound. But it's a bad one, and he feels like he's starting to run a fever. He needs help soon." He glanced around the makeshift camp, assessing.
Gilan could guess at his thoughts. The fire the other knights had built for Kenric had burned to ashes, and yet they were nowhere to be seen.
"Where did the others go? Why would they leave him alone like this?"
"They likely wouldn't willingly," Halt answered, looking to where three sets of tracks went deeper into the woods. "It could be that they were looking for a better shelter and got turned around in the storm, or something else happened."
Regardless of which, it was likely that the other three could still be in serious danger. Though they were loath to leave Kenric alone, they couldn't just abandon the other men.
"We'll go a ways further after their trail together. If it becomes clear they are not nearby, then you will come back and look after Kenrick while I continue the search," Halt decided finally.
They built the fire back up, hoping to keep the young knight as warm as possible while they continued their search. Even as they worked, the air grew suddenly quiet and still, seemingly warming for the briefest of moments before the first flakes of new snowfall began to drift down. Gilan reached out with one hand to idly catch one of the frozen crystals as it fell. His lips turned down ever-so-slightly at the corners as the number of snowflakes increased rapidly. Between the new snow and the state of the injured knight, they were running out of time, and fast.
As soon as they were ready, Gilan was off like a shot before Halt could stop him, bounding after the trail, following it at a half-trot. They didn't have much time before the snowfall completely wiped out all trace of the knights' passage. It was already falling much more heavily than before, and looking to only get worse still.
He was aware of Halt and the two horses keeping on behind him as he moved. Even with the small amount of fresh snow that had fallen, the tracks were still easy enough to follow. The new snow had muffled and diminished the evidence of footfalls more thoroughly than before, but the indentations and dips in the snow were still visible.
Gilan did not stop until he reached the point where the tracks themselves did. He stared at the place in confusion. He had followed the trail out from beneath the shade of the forest and into what appeared to be a large snow-covered clearing, edges blurred by the whirl of snow falling thickly down all around. It had started to fall so densely that had become difficult to as much as more than four meters out in any direction.
He stood there, frowning in confusion, not quite understanding how what he saw could be possible. The tracks had simply stopped. The footprints headed out into the clearing and then nothing—just a deep jagged sort of impression, its indentation and edges softened by the mass of new snow. There was nothing else in any other direction, the pristine white completely undisturbed.
It put him in mind of tracks he had seen before of mice or other small animals that had been carried off suddenly by birds of prey. But these had been the tracks of men. There were no birds large enough to carry off a man… That was impossible… which left it that the patrol had dropped something into the snow, a heavy pack or something, before picking it back up and then backtracking, stepping backward into their previous footfalls… but why?
"Gilan!"
Halt's call interrupted his musing thoughts. Impatience, probably at Gilan's having run off heedlessly without him, colored his mentor's tone. Gilan felt the edges of his mouth curl slightly in mild amusement. After all, it wasn't his fault that Halt was becoming too elderly to keep up, he thought with humor. For once, he didn't say as much aloud and instead reported back quickly as he'd been trained to, his mind still puzzled over the nature of the trail he had just seen.
"The trail stops here," he called back over his shoulder.
"Stops?" His mentor questioned from behind him, irritability still clinging to his tone. Whether he was displeased or merely puzzled, Gilan couldn't say.
'"It just ends here at this indentation," he tried to clarify, outlining the shape with his hands for Halt's benefit as he was still too far back to see it clearly.
"Indentation?" Halt repeated as he closed the remaining distance between them.
Gilan nodded a little helplessly. "I don't understand it—"
"Gilan, stop!" Halt shouted suddenly, explosively, sounding more furious than Gilan had ever heard. The tone made him flinch as much as the harsh weight of Halt's hands did as his mentor struck out at him, grabbing him roughly by the back of his tunic with force enough to bruise before throwing him bodily back the way they had come.
Gilan, caught completely off guard, spun around in a half turn at the force of it, striking his back hard against the trunk of a tree. He fell to his hands and knees, winded and dazed, points of pain blooming across his body as his chest seized, trying unsuccessfully to re-catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. He gasped, the awareness of pain growing with the confusion and a curl of fear. Halt, after all, had never shouted at him like that before. Nor had he struck or thrown him down outside of training bouts, for that matter, either.
With wide eyes, he sought out the form of his mentor, cringing, wondering what exactly he had done so wrong. Halt's form loomed in front of him for the fraction of a shaky breath. Then a sickening shooting-sounding crack echoed and tore through the clearing, and Halt was gone, seemingly swallowed up by the ground itself with an icy splash.
Ice…
Suddenly, everything made sense, everything that had happened too fast for him to process in the moment settled firmly, coldly, into place.
"Halt!" He called out, a sick terror causing his voice to crack as he tried to rise back to his feet.
It hadn't been a simple clearing in the woods that he had wandered out into, but rather the surface of a small but frozen snow-covered lake. The snow had fallen so thickly and fast over the lake's surface that it hadn't yet melted again into something identifiable. And there had not been enough wind to blow it clear from the ice. The evidence of what had truly happened had been further muffled by the snow that had covered the traces of fractured ice and blurred everything around them in speckled white. Even as he looked now, the snow let up enough for him to see further out, enough for him to just barely see the lake's unfrozen middle, looking like a small pond surrounded by white. If he hadn't been so overly focused on the tracks and his objective to find the knights, if he had been a little more patient and observant, waited a fraction of a moment longer, he would have seen the danger for what it was. He wouldn't have headed so blithely and unknowingly out into danger.
The patrol had made the same mistake that Gilan had. In the thick snow and fading light of the stormy evening before, the knights had likely missed the signs danger too. The frozen lake hadn't been able to bear the weight of the soldiers any more than it had borne Halt's—or would have borne Gilan's if Halt hadn't thrown him to safety just in time. Horrified, Gilan moved to the edge of what he now knew was ice, just in time to see Halt break the surface of the water with a rough gasp, water churning around him, breath catching with the seizing cold.
Halt turned his body so that he was facing where they had come from, where he knew the ice had borne his weight before. He raised his hands to place them outstretched on the frozen surface in front of him, easing his body towards and onto the frigid shelf.
Gilan took a half-step forward but was stopped by Halt's sharp but breathless warning.
"N-no, stay back! The ice isn't… strong enough… to hold both of us."
Gilan knew that he was right. If he tried to go out onto the ice to try to help pull Halt free, he could well end up dooming them both. An ugly sense of helplessness vied for a place next to the fear that was steadily growing.
"I'm going… to try to… pull myself out," Halt said, words fragmented by shivers and splashing wavelets as he tried to keep his head above water.
With bated breath, Gilan watched as Halt tested his weight to see if it would be borne by the fragile surface, his body still mostly submerged. He was stopped by the sound of warning cracks from the ice, and he once again sank further back into the water.
With the ice not strong enough to hold him, he was left to tread water again, something Gilan knew he would not be able to keep up for long. He needed help and needed it fast. But Gilan hesitated, mind whirling as he tried to think of any way that he could do that. He could lie flat on the surface to distribute his weight better and reach out, but even then, Halt was too far out for him to pull to safety. That left only one option.
"Hold on, Halt!" Gilan called before sprinting into action, unwavering; now he had a set course in his mind. He raced back to the horses. Blaze stood obediently in the shelter of the trees right where Halt had left her, but he couldn't see Halt's borrowed horse anywhere. Belatedly, he realized that Halt must have dropped the reins to chase after him onto the ice, and Warren, not nearly as well trained as a Ranger horse, had already wandered off. He didn't have time to worry about that now, however. Instead, he reached for the coil of rope he had affixed to Blaze's saddle, tying a hasty loop at the end as he ran back, praying he wasn't too late. He ran back, calling Blaze to follow.
He could still see Halt bobbing in the water as he came in sight of the lake, his movements becoming slower and weaker with every passing second. Gilan was out of time. He faced Blaze away from the lake and tied one end of the rope to the saddle before inching out onto the ice, throwing the looped end of the rope to his mentor. The wide loop landed over his head. By now, Halt's hands would probably be too weak and frozen to grip the rope strongly enough to be pulled to safety, but if he could get the loop more firmly around his body, he wouldn't have to.
Gilan watched with bated breath as Halt struggled with the rope. Somehow, the older Ranger managed to get the loop around his shoulders and under his arms. That was all Gilan needed. Without even turning, he gave Blaze the signal to pull that he had practiced with her. For a moment, there was nothing, just an unyielding tension as the rope pulled taught. Then came the sharp crunch and snap of ice giving way, and Halt was pulled up and free, skidding along the top of the more stable ice towards the bank. Blaze continued pulling, and Gilan ran forward as soon as Halt reached the bank. He called a halt to his horse before grabbing at the sopping fabric of his mentor's cloak and tunic to pull him completely clear.
He helped Halt to his feet and away from the water. His mentor was shaking so badly that he could barely stand. Once they were fully clear of the lake, Halt brought shaking hands up to his clothes, trying to pull them off.
Staying in wet clothes in these temperatures was nothing short of a death sentence, Gilan knew, but Halt's fingers were slow and clumsy with cold, shaking so badly that he couldn't get a grip. Gilan rushed to help him, his own fingers growing stiff and aching with the cold as they too got wet. Once they were off, Gilan pulled his own cloak from off his shoulders to wrap around his mentor before racing towards Blaze to get the horse blanket and his bedroll. These, too, he helped wrap around his teacher.
"W-we n-need to get b-back to the kn-night's camp," Halt said, his words fragmented by the chatter of teeth and slowed by the numbness.
Gilan nodded, bringing Blaze closer and having her kneel down so that Halt could more easily mount.
"W-warren?" Halt asked as he struggled on to Blaze.
Gilan shook his head. "He must have run off."
"C-ourse he did," Halt managed.
And Gilan agreed with the sentiment. Of course, there was yet another thing that had gone wrong.
Wordlessly, he set off at a jog towards the knight's camp and his fire, trusting Blaze to follow.
As soon as they reached the rough shelter, Gilan helped Halt down and re-stoked the fire. It had burned low again. Taking the horse blanket from his mentor, he laid it upon the ground. As he helped Halt towards it, he realized with some alarm that he was having to bear most of Halt's weight this time. His mentor listed dangerously as he struggled to keep conscious. He noted also that Halt's shivering had lessened, and his lips had started to take on a bluish hue. Neither were good signs, he knew.
Having grown up with the King's army in the north, he had been trained from a young age to recognize hypothermia and had been trained in survival skills to treat it. He took several rocks that had been used as a ring to contain the fire and pushed them into the coals. In the meantime, he took everything possible from his kit that could be used for warmth, including his spare clothes to add to what he already had wrapped around his mentor's body. Halt tried to help as best he could, and he soon was dressed in Gilan spare clothes and socks. Gilan gave Halt his gloves before wrapping him back up in the cloak and bedroll.
By then, the rocks that Gilan had placed in the fire had grown hot, and he wrapped them in the bandages from his medical kit so they wouldn't be too hot before he placed a few more in the fire to exchange out when the ones he'd wrapped cooled too much to be useful. He brought the heated stones over to where Halt lay. Gilan placed them in between the layer of blanket and cloak near to Halt's core. Knowing that warming him too quickly or warming his extremities first could be just as deadly as the cold.
Halt gave no reaction to this. His eyes had grown hazy as his awareness started to dim. Alarmed, Gilan reached out and shook him, stomach twisting into knots.
"Don't close your eyes! You need to stay awake, you have to stay awake, Halt… Please," the last plea slipped past his lips, the desperation in it sharp enough to draw his mentor's wavering focus.
"S-stay awa—…" The word came out halting and slow from Halt's lips.
Gilan gripped his shoulder more frantically. "Please, stay awake. You can't sleep. It will kill you!"
"Stay… away…" Halt said again, words even more feeble and slurred, his eyes dropping further shut. "Have to… stay away… can't go back… can't ever."
Too afraid to be as confused by the words as he likely would have been otherwise, Gilan shook his shoulder again. "Halt!"
His mentor's eyes opened slowly, glassy and disoriented, unseeing of the world around him. With a trembling hand, he reached upward. Gilan reached out to clasp his hand, but Halt only raised it to himself, rubbing at a spot on his shoulder again and again as if it caused him pain.
"He tried to kill… 'll try again… never stop… need t'run…. can't…. kill… won't."
This time, when Halt again closed his eyes, no amount of shaking or pleading would rouse him.
"Halt!" Gilan called again, but was met with only silence.
“Never be too quick to rush into things.” The memory of Halt’s warning rang in his ears with all the condemnation of regret—regret he hadn’t heeded it when it mattered most. And now, stranded and alone with Halt’s life in the balance, it was already far too late. And what was worse was that he had no idea how he could fix it or make it right.
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Chapter 1
“I finished my studies!” Gilan announced as he practically bounded into the main room of the cabin. He placed a stack of finished geography papers on the table near where Halt sat. “May I go to Redmont Castle?” he asked excitedly, already heading to the door to fetch his cloak.
Halt grumbled in answer and Gilan smiled to himself; he knew the reason why. It was because he’d just thwarted Halt’s usage of one of his favorite retorts with his deliberate wording of ‘may I’ instead of ‘can I’. It had taken him a few times of bitter experience but, lately, he usually managed to steer clear of ‘can I’—unless he wasn’t paying enough attention.
“Can I go to Wensly Village, Halt?” he remembered asking once without thinking.
Halt had nodded immediately, before adding dryly, “Yes, of course you can go to Wensly Village, but will I let you? No.”
Even as Gilan thought on it, Halt glanced around the neat little cabin as if in the hopes of finding some undone chore that would provide a good excuse to say no. He found nothing.
Gilan grinned visibly this time.
Halt, looking slightly disappointed, eventually seemed to shrug.
“Fine by me,” he said finally, “Though it beats me why you’d want to be going anywhere on a day like today; snow’s almost a quarter of a meter deep already, and still coming down.”
“I know,” Gilan said happily. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“That’s not the word I would use.”
“No, I suppose not; considering that you are… well… you, after all.” Gilan inclined his head solemnly, trying his best to hide a smile.
“Perhaps you’d like to expand on that point?” Halt asked dangerously.
Gilan, suddenly seeing what was left of his afternoon off on the verge of being cut short, realized that it would be best to do some hasty back-paddling. He made a quick negative gesture.
“I only meant it as the highest of compliments…” he tried. Then, apparently possessed by a much more daring and foolhardy version of himself, couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to make your condition worse.”
“Condition, is it?” Halt asked blankly, the glare nearing its full intensity.
There was a moment of silence as Gilan shifted slightly, trying to think on how to turn that last bit around. Halt spoke again before he had the chance.
“You know, the rug appears to have suddenly gotten very dirty. I think it could use a good cleaning.”
Gilan’s face fell, his cloak only half on. “Please, Halt—today’s my only chance.”
“Your only chance to… what?”
“Sir Ian is clearing out the Redmont Armory today. He’ll be finished by tomorrow.”
Halt raised an eyebrow. “You want to help Sir Ian clean out and organize the Redmont armory?” When Gilan nodded, he continued, “If you want to clean and organize that badly, you don’t have to go all the way to Redmont Castle to do it. I’m sure I can find plenty of that kind of work right here.”
“Oh, believe me, I know that,” Gilan said, grinning and shaking his head. “No. It’s not that I want to help him clean. It’s just that he promised that, if I helped him, he’d give me that old circular shield that hangs on the south-facing wall of the armory; do you know it?”
“No,” Halt said flatly. “I usually don’t make a habit out of memorizing every piece of armor in the Redmont armory. But, more to the point, what in the name of Tír na nÓg do you want with a shield?” Halt asked, colorfully citing a place known in Hibernian legend. “They are too cumbersome for Rangers to carry around with their standard gear—or have you suddenly forgotten that?”
“I don’t want it to fight with,” Gilan said.
A heavy moment of silence greeted that announcement.
“Perhaps you can tell me what exactly the point of having a shield is if you’re not going to use it to fight with?” Halt asked incredulously, fixing his apprentice with his best scathing look.
Enthusiasm allowed Gilan to weather the look unscathed. In truth, he couldn’t temper the sense of admittedly mischievous excitement that had been building inside him all day even if he wanted to—which, of course, he didn’t. That would simply be no fun at all.
“I need it for a project,” he said enigmatically. Then, before Halt could make any more scathing comments about the exact nature of this project or anything else, he added, “Please, may I go?”
Halt sighed but eventually nodded. “Try not to be back too long after dark.”
Gilan grinned. “Thanks Halt.”
He turned to leave. He had just opened the door to step outside when Halt called after him.
“By the way, you’re not going to be hanging that shield on your wall.”
Gilan turned back, genuinely puzzled. “Why would I want to hang a shield on my wall?”
“How should I know?” Halt snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time today that you haven’t made any sort of sense.”
Gilan only laughed at that and waved farewell to Halt before closing the door and jogging happily over to the stables to fetch Blaze.
~x~X~x~
True to his word, Gilan came back shortly after dark, grinning happily with the shield in hand. Halt glanced at the object in question, silently scrutinizing it. It was circular in shape and convex, bowing outward slightly. It was wooden but the front had been plated with polished metal. In short, it was a typical circular shield; and he could see no reason why it had interested his student so much. Halt shrugged to himself in resignation, knowing he’d probably find out sooner or later.
That night he could hear Gilan staying up late in his bedroom: fiddling with the shield, Halt supposed. The grizzled Ranger had seen Gilan take it, some rope, and leather strips into his room right after their evening meal after all.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Halt learned the nature of Gilan’s ‘project’. After morning chores and lessons, Halt decided to give his apprentice until noon to shovel the path to the cabin free of snow. A few hours in, Halt became aware of the distinct lack of shoveling sounds coming from outside. He stepped out then to see that the walk had been shoveled completely clear. He saw also that much of the missing snow had been piled in the middle of the yard instead of neatly set to either side of the path. At first, he thought they were several isolated humps, but as he looked closer, he realized that they were shaped more like ramps. Halt raised an eyebrow at the haphazard piles littering the yard before realizing that they were not quite as random as he’d previously thought.
Even as he came to the realization, he heard the sounds of hoof beets churning up the snow. He turned towards the sound and the other eyebrow went up to join the first.
Blaze was galloping across the yard and dragging Gilan behind her. He was balanced on the metal shield, a rope that was tied to Blaze’s saddle in one hand, and another rope that he had tied to her bridle like extra-long reins in the other.
Even as Halt watched, the pair turned towards the first snow ramp. Blaze cleared it to the side and, milliseconds later, Gilan angled his body slightly as he stood, roughly steering his craft towards the left so that he went over the ramp. He launched off the end of it, hanging in the air for a few seconds before plunging back to earth. He somehow managed to keep his feet. He landed fairly gracefully, actually, and then continued forwards as Blaze kept on galloping. Soon he was over another ramp. Once again, he easily kept his feet as he landed, careering towards, and then over, the third ramp within seconds.
This jump was much higher than the other two and he didn’t manage to keep his balance as well after he landed it. He teetered dangerously for a moment before crashing off his makeshift sled, letting go of the pull rope and the guide rope as he fell. He tumbled into the snow, sending it flying in a burst of powder.
The shield, without Gilan on it to keep it going, slid along the top of the snow for several paces before gradually coming to a stop. Blaze also came to a stop and then turned to circle around and see exactly what had become of her master. Halt had unconsciously been following nearly parallel, though slightly behind, his mad-cap student’s progress, and arrived at the indentation Gilan had made in the snow at about the same time as the horse.
Gilan had stayed where he’d landed for a moment, slightly winded, but unharmed. He rolled onto his back, still caught up in the breathtaking exhilaration of the speed and moments of near flight and weightlessness. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face—a smile which grew into helpless laughter as he tilted his head back and saw two faces looking solemnly down at him: Blaze curiously, snuffling slightly, and Halt blank faced with a raised eyebrow.
“Interesting use of a shield; I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before,” Halt said dryly, “Though considering how you ended up, I think I can see why. Most people don’t usually enjoy such close personal relationships with snow.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Gilan said, chuckling. He rose easily to his feet, and then dusting himself off. “I think I can get the hang of it.”
“Of course you can,” Halt said, nodding once. “The question is: will it be before or after you wind up in the infirmary?”
Gilan only grinned as we went to fetch the circular shield.
Then curiosity got the better of Halt and he asked, “how did you manage to get Blaze to pull you like that?”
Halt knew that most horses would sooner spook than drag a person on a makeshift sled behind and slightly to the side of them. Ranger horses were better disciplined and more intelligent than most horses, but the fact remained.
Gilan’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “I’ve been training her to get used to it every now and then when I had some free time for these past few months.”
“You mean you’ve been planning this for months?” Halt said in disbelief.
Gilan seemed unfazed by that or the scathing tone and nodded seriously.
“I actually had the idea last winter. I thought it might be fun.”
“Your idea of fun is beginning to get a little worrisome, Gilan.”
“Well at least it’s better than being no fun at all,” Gilan shot back.
“No fun at all? Forgive me for enjoying staying alive. It beats me how you still happen to be around sometimes.”
Halt was about to say more when Blaze let out a horsey sounding call. It was more of a greeting than a warning. Sure enough, Halt looked up to see none other than a castle messenger riding down the path to the cabin.
The young page pulled his horse up sharply as he reached them, taking a few moments to catch his breath before he addressed them. Since the sky had been clear for some time now, the snow that had accumulated on the youth’s hat and cloak had likely come from brushing against the foliage that grew out into the forest path leading to the cabin. That he had not taken the time to avoid the snow laden lower hanging branches only spoke to his haste. This made the nature of the harried words he spoke unsurprising.
“The Baron needs to see you right away Sir… um Ranger Halt! He says it’s a right emergency, it is!”
“I’ll get our kits,” Gilan offered with a quick smile and without being asked. Halt inclined his head, not sparing his student a glance as he made for the cabin. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the messenger.
“Did the Baron say what the emergency was?” Halt pressed, hoping to glean as much information as he could.
But the young page shook his head, dislodging some of the snow from his hat in the process.
“He just said that you were needed right away and that I should come and fetch you as quick as I can.”
Halt nodded once with a sigh, making a gesture of acknowledgement, knowing he would likely get nothing more from the youth.
“Tell the Baron we will be there as soon as we can.”
“Thank you, Sir,” the youth touched a hand to his cap, causing another small cascade of snow, before turning his horse and speeding off as quickly as he had come.
By then, Gilan had returned with their kits and the two of them set off for the stable to saddle Blaze and Warren. Abelard had recently suffered a stone bruise and so was resting at the castle under the care of the horse master and farrier. Because of this, Halt had borrowed Warren from the Baron. He was a sturdy little palfrey that was good tempered and not easily spooked. Though nowhere near the level of a Ranger horse, he was dependable enough.
Whenever a Ranger horse suffered a serious injury, they were usually taken to Old Bob, the Ranger horse breeder to be tended, and given a retired Ranger horse to use in the interim. But since Abelard’s injury hadn’t been that serious of one, nor one that would take a long time to heal, he had opted to simply take the little horse to Redmont instead while he recovered.
As soon as he had Warren saddled, he turned to his apprentice.
“Ready?” he asked.
Gilan grinned at him, after two years together, he well knew their routines.
~x~X~x~
It didn’t take long before they reached Redmont. Gilan easily followed Halt up the winding set of stairs to the Baron’s office. It was a route that had well worn itself into familiarity over the course of his apprenticeship so far. Once through the door, Martin, the Baron’s secretary, hardly hassled them. Instead, he waved them through immediately before wringing his hands together. Gilan felt his eyebrows raise in mild surprise at that incongruity. It added to the growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as to the potentially serious nature of this emergency.
“Halt, you’re here!” Baron Arald stood to greet them as soon as they stepped foot in his office.
Gilan turned sharp ascertaining eyes on Baron, attempting to glean… something, anything at all. Though, for the most part, Arald’s expression gave nothing away, there was a tightness around his eyes and to the set of his mouth.
“Has something happened?” Halt asked immediately—likely as not, he had also noted Martin’s uncharacteristic behavior and had seen the same signs of stress on Arald’s face that Gilan had. “The page said there was an emergency.”
Baron Arald inclined his head, gesturing for them to take a seat on the other side of his desk.
“Yes, and a troubling one at that.” His expression now openly showed concern. “An entire patrol of knights has gone missing. They were due back last night and still haven’t arrived. It’s not entirely uncommon for a patrol to be a little late, but…” he glanced out the window to the snow shrouded outdoors and his shoulders slumped. “With the weather being what it is I must admit I am concerned. The storm yesterday came on fast and without much warning.
“It could be that they have simply been delayed by the storm, or it could be something much worse. To make matters worse, their route took them by Fernan woods. I don’t need to tell you about the frequent bandit activity there. It is even possible that they could have been attacked or ambushed.”
“And you’d rather not leave it up to chance either way,” Halt finished for him. “How many were in the patrol?”
“Four: Sir James, Alban, Godwin, and young Kenric too.”
Gilan winced inwardly, concern causing him to glance at his mentor. Gilan knew Kenric. The young man had just recently been knighted and Gilan had sparred with him more than a few times over the past two years when he went to the Redmont Battleschool to practice his bladework. The three others he did not know as well—other than having seen them around the castle and at the Battleschool a few times in passing. They were all good men and accomplished knights.
Halt was frowning deeply, troubled too. Gilan knew the implications were not good any way it was looked at. If it was bandits, there would have to have been a very large and very bold group to take down four fully trained knights. Having all of them lost or trapped because of the potentially deadly weather was precious little better. He looked back as the Baron spoke again.
“I had Rodney prepare a copy of their route map for you. Hopefully, following it will get you close enough to find some kind of trail or indication.”
Halt took the map he offered before standing. “We’ll leave right away. I saw more snow clouds on the horizon as we rode in. If these are like the ones yesterday, we’ll need to move quickly before we lose the trail.”
“Thank you,” The Baron said, expression still tight. The barest edge of pleading came into his words as he continued to intercede for the sake of his soldiers. “They are all good men, good knights. Find them, Halt. Find them and bring them back home.”
Halt said nothing but nodded once in acknowledgment. Map in hand, he turned and headed for the door. Gilan was up right after him, urgency and anticipation making him restless to be off. Four lives were at stake after all.
