Ranger's Apprentice 1 & 2 Bindup by John Flanagan
In the wider reaches of the tunnel, they found a small sandy patch, almost a grotto, off to one side. They laid Glendyss in it. Will realised that this must have been what the two Celts had been trying to do for their countryman when the stop work horn had sounded.
He hesitated. ‘I wonder what the Wargals will think when they find him here tomorrow?’
Horace merely shrugged. ‘Maybe they’ll think he crawled in here by himself,’ he suggested. Will thought about it doubtfully. But then he looked at the peaceful expression on the dying miner’s face in the gloomy light and he couldn’t bring himself to take the man back outside once more.
‘Just put him a little further in, as far out of sight as you can,’ he said.
There was a small elbow of rock and Horace gently placed the miner behind it. He was now visible only if you looked carefully and Will decided that was good enough. Horace stepped back into the main tunnel. Will noticed that he was still glancing uneasily around.
‘What do we do now?’ Horace asked. Will came to a decision.
‘You can wait here for me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to see where this leads.’
Horace didn’t argue. The thought of going further into that dark, winding tunnel didn’t appeal to him at all. He found a place to sit, close to one of the brighter torches.
‘Just make sure you come back,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to have to come looking for you.’
The tunnel, level at first, began to angle steeply upwards as Will went on, leaving Horace behind him. The walls and floor showed evidence of the Celts’ picks and drills as they had torn and gouged at the rock to widen the path.
Will guessed that the original narrow tunnel had been nothing more than a natural fault in the rock – a mere crevice. But as he went on, he saw how much it had been widened, until there was room for four or five men to walk abreast. And still it climbed up into the heart of the mountains.
A circle of light showed the end of the tunnel. He estimated that he’d travelled maybe three hundred metres in total and the end was another forty away. The light that he could see seemed to be stronger than simple moonlight and, as he carefully emerged from the tunnel, he saw why.
Here, the hills separated, forming a large valley about two hundred metres across and half a kilometre long. To one side, the moonlight showed him massive wooden structures leading up to the higher reaches of the plateau. Staircases, he realised after a few moments’ study. The floor of the valley was lit with camp fires and there were hundreds of figures moving in the flickering orange light. Will guessed that this would be the assembly area for Morgarath’s army. At the moment, it was where the Wargals kept their Celt prisoners at night.
He paused, trying to form a picture of the overall situation. The plateau that formed the greater part of Morgarath’s domain was still at least fifty metres above this point. But the staircases and the less formidable slope of the surrounding hills would provide relatively easy access down to this valley. The valley itself must be some thirty metres above the level where the bridge stood. The sloping tunnel would take troops down to the bridge from here. Once again, Halt’s words echoed in his ear: nowhere is really impassable.
He moved to the left of the tunnel mouth and found cover in a jumble of rocks and boulders while he took stock of the situation. There was a rough stockade in the centre of the valley. Inside the wooden fencing, he could see a large number of small fires, each with a group of figures seated or sprawled around it. This was the prisoner’s compound, he guessed.
Large fires outside the compound marked the places where the Wargals were camped. He could see the hulking, shambling forms clearly against the firelight as they moved around. Yet there was one fire close to him that seemed different. The figures seemed more upright, more humanoid in the way they stood and carried themselves. Curiously, he worked his way closer to it, sliding through the night with barely a sound, moving quickly from one patch of cover to the next, until he was just at the outer ring of light thrown by the fire – a spot where he knew the darkness, by contrast, would seem more intense to those sitting around the fire.
There was a haunch of some kind of meat roasting slowly over the fire and the smell of it set his mouth watering. He’d been travelling for days on cold rations and the meat filled the air with a delicious fragrance. He felt his stomach begin to rumble and fear stabbed through him. It would be unthinkably bad luck to be betrayed by a rumbling stomach, he thought. The fear did the trick, killing his appetite. His digestion more or less under control, he edged his face around a boulder, low to the ground, to get a better look at the figures eating by the fire.
As he did so, one of them leaned forward to slice off a chunk of the meat, juggling the hot, greasy food in his hand as he took it. The movement let the firelight shine clearly on him and Will could see that these were not Wargals. From their rough sheepskin vests, woollen legging bound with tapes and heavy seal fur boots, he recognised them as Skandians.
Further study showed him their horned helmets, round wooden shields and battle axes piled to one side of the camp site. He wondered what they were doing here, so far from the ocean.
The man who had moved finished his meat and wiped his hands on his sheepskin vest. He belched, then settled himself in a more comfortable spot by the fire.
‘Be domned glod when Olvak’s men get ’ere,’ he said in the thick, almost indecipherable accent of Skandia. Will knew that Skandians spoke the same tongue as the Kingdom. Hearing it now for the first time, though, he barely recognised it.
The other sea wolves growled their agreement. There were four of them round the fire. Will edged forward a little to hear them more clearly, then froze, horrified, as he saw the unmistakable shambling form of a Wargal moving directly towards him from the other side of the fire.
The Skandians heard him coming and looked up warily. With an immense feeling of relief, Will realised that the creature was not coming towards him but was approaching the Skandians’ fire.
‘’Ullo,’ said one of the Skandians in a low voice. ‘’Ere comes one of Morgarath’s beauties.’
The Wargal had stopped on the far side of the fire. He grunted something unintelligible at the group of sea raiders. The one who had just spoken shrugged.
‘Sorry, ’andsome. Didn’t catch that,’ he said. There was an obvious note of hostility in his voice. The Wargal seemed to sense it. He repeated his statement, growing angry now. Again, the circle of Skandian warriors shrugged at him.
The Wargal grunted again, growing angrier by the minute. He gestured at the meat hanging over the fire, then at himself. He shouted at the Skandians now, making eating gestures.
‘Ugly brute wants our venison,’ said one of the Skandians. There was a low growl of dissent from the group.
‘Let ’im catch ’is own,’ said the first man. The Wargal stepped inside the circle now. He had stopped shouting. He simply pointed to the meat, then turned his red, glaring eyes on the speaker. Somehow, the silence was more menacing than his shouting had been.
‘Careful, Erak,’ warned one of the Skandians, ‘we’re outnumbered here at the moment.’
Erak scowled at the Wargal for a second, then seemed to realise the wisdom of his friend’s advice. He gestured angrily at the meat.
‘Go on then. Take it,’ he said curtly. The Wargal stepped forward and snatched the wooden spit from the fire, taking a huge bite at the meat and tearing a large chunk loose. Even from where he was lying, scarcely daring to breathe, Will could see the ugly light of triumph in the red, animal eyes. Then the Wargal turned abruptly and bounded out of the circle, forcing several of the Skandians to move hurriedly aside to avoid being trampled on. They heard its guttural laugh as it faded into the darkness.
‘Damn things give me the heebies,’ muttered Erak. ‘Don’t know why we have to have anything to do with them.’
‘’Cause Horth don’t trust Morgarath,’ one of the others told him. ‘If we’re not along, these damn bear-men will keep all
‘And hard marching too,’ put in another. ‘Wouldn’t be any fun with Horth’s men, either, working their way round Thorntree Forest to take the enemy in the rear. That’s rough going, all right.’
Will frowned as he heard that. Obviously, Morgarath and Horth, who, Will assumed, was a Skandian war leader, were planning another treacherous surprise for the Kingdom’s forces. He tried to picture a map of the countryside around the Plains of Uthal, but his memory was sketchy. He wished he’d paid more attention to the geography lessons Halt had taught him.
‘Why is geography so important?’ he remembered asking his teacher.
‘Because maps are important if you want to know where your enemy is and where he’s going,’ had been the reply. Glumly, Will realised now how right he had been. Halt had shaken his head at him then, in that mock serious way he had. Suddenly, thinking of his wise and capable teacher, Will felt very lonely and more than a little out of his depth.
‘Anyway,’ Erak was saying, ‘things’ll be different when Olvak’s men get ’ere. Although they seem to be taking their damned time about it.’
‘Relax,’ said the other speaker. ‘It’ll take a few days to get five ’undred men up them South Cliffs. Think ’ow long it took us.’
‘Yeah,’ said another. ‘But we were blazing a trail. All they ’ave to do is follow it.’
‘Well, they can’t get ’ere too soon for me,’ said Erak, rising and stretching. ‘Well, I’m for sleep, lads, just as soon as I’ve done the necessaries.’
‘Well, don’t do ’em ’ere by the fire,’ said one of the others irritably. ‘Go up behind them rocks there.’
Horrified, Will realised that the Skandian had gestured towards the rocks where he was hiding. And now Erak, laughing at the other man, was turning and heading his way. It was definitely time to go. He scuttled backwards a few metres, then, crawling rapidly on his stomach, used all his training and natural skill to blend with the available cover.
He’d gone perhaps twenty metres when he heard a splashing sound from the spot where he’d been eavesdropping. Then he heard a contented sigh and, looking back, saw the shaggy-haired form of Erak silhouetted against the glow of the hundred or so camp fires in the valley.
Realising that the Skandian was intent on what he was doing, Will slipped through the darkness and back into the tunnel. He went carefully for the first few metres, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light of the torches Then he began to run, his soft hide boots making barely a noise on the sandy floor.
He had found Horace waiting for him, his hand ready on his sword hilt, where he had left him in the tunnel.
‘Did you find out anything?’ the apprentice warrior whispered hoarsely. Will let go a pent-up breath, realising that he’d been holding it for some time now.
‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘All of it bad.’
He held up a hand to forestall Horace’s further questions.
‘Let’s get back across the bridge,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you then.’ He glanced into the side tunnel where they had left the Celt miner.
‘Have you heard anything more from Glendyss?’ he asked. Horace shrugged sadly.
‘He started moaning about an hour ago. Then he went quiet. I think he’s dead. At least he died the way he wanted to,’ he said, then he followed Will back through the dimly lit tunnel to the bridge.
They made their way across the planking again, to where Evanlyn waited with the horses, well back from the bridge and out of sight. When they were close, Will called her name softly, so as to avoid startling her. Horace had left his dagger with Evanlyn and Will thought an armed Evanlyn would not be a person to approach unexpectedly.
As he described the scene at the other end of the tunnel, he hastily scratched a map in the sand for them.
‘Somehow, we’re going to have to find a way to delay Morgarath’s forces,’ he said.
The other two looked at him curiously. Delay them? How could two apprentices and a girl delay five hundred Skandians and several thousand relentless Wargals?
‘I thought you said we should get word to the King,’ Evanlyn said.
‘We don’t have time any more,’ Will said simply. ‘Look.’
They leaned forward, as he smoothed over the diagram he had drawn in the sand and hastily sketched out a new one. He wasn’t sure that it was totally accurate, but at least it included the most important features of the Kingdom, as well as the Southern Plateau, where Morgarath ruled.
‘They said they have more Skandians coming up the cliffs on the south coast – to join with the Wargals we’ve already seen. They’ll cross the Fissure here, where we are, and move north to attack the barons in the rear, while they wait for Morgarath to try to break out of Three Step Pass.’
‘Yes,’ said Horace. ‘We know that. We guessed it as soon as we saw the bridge.’
Will looked up at him and Horace fell silent. He realised the Ranger apprentice had something else to say.
‘But,’ said Will, emphasising the word and pausing for a moment, ‘I also heard them saying something about Horth and his men marching around Thorntree Forest. That’s up here to the north of the Plains of Uthal.’
Evanlyn grasped the point immediately. ‘Which would bring the Skandians north-west of the King’s army. They’d be trapped between the Wargals and Skandians who have crossed the bridge and the other force from the north.’
‘Exactly,’ said Will, meeting her gaze. They could both appreciate how dangerous that situation would be for the assembled barons. Expecting a Skandian attack through the fenlands, to the east, they’d be taken by surprise from not one, but two different directions, caught between the arms of a pincer and crushed.
‘Then we’d better warn the King, surely!’ insisted Horace.
‘Horace,’ said Will patiently. ‘It would take us four days to reach the Plains.’
‘Even more reason to get going. We haven’t a moment to waste!’ said the young warrior.
‘And then,’ put in Evanlyn, seeing Will’s point, ‘it would take at least another four days for any sort of force to get back here and hold the bridge. Maybe more.’
‘That’s eight days all told,’ said Will. ‘Remember what that poor miner said? The bridge will be ready in four days. The Wargals and Skandians will have plenty of time to cross the Fissure, assemble in battle formation and attack the King’s army.’
‘But …’ Horace began and Will interrupted him.
‘Horace, even if we get warning to the King and the barons, they’ll be badly outnumbered and they’ll be caught between two forces – with no way to retreat. The swamps of the fenlands will be behind them. Now I know we have to get a warning to them. But we can also do something here to even the numbers.’
‘Plus,’ Evanlyn put in, and Horace turned to face her, ‘if we can do something to stop the Wargals and Skandians crossing here, the King will have the advantage over this northern force of Skandians.’
Horace nodded. ‘They won’t be outnumbered, I guess,’ he said.
Evanlyn nodded, but then added, ‘That’s part of it. But those Skandians will be expecting reinforcements to attack the King from the rear – reinforcements that will never arrive.’
Understanding dawned in Horace’s eyes. He nodded slowly, several times. Then the frown returned. ‘But what can we do to stop the Wargals here?’ he asked.
Will and Evanlyn exchanged a glance. He could see they’d come to the same conclusion. They both spoke at the same time.
‘Burn the bridge,’ they said.
Blaze’s head hung low as he trotted slowly into the outskirts of the King’s camp on the Plains of Uthal. Gilan swayed wearily in the saddle. He had barely slept in the past three days, snatching only brief rests once every four hours.
Two guards stepped forward to query his progress and the young Ranger fumbled inside his shirt for the silver amulet in the form of an
Gilan rubbed his gritty eyes ‘Where is the War Council tent?’
One of the guards pointed with his spear to a larger than normal tent, set up on a knoll overlooking the rest of the camp. There were more guards there, and a large number of people coming and going, as one would expect at the nerve centre of an army.
‘There, sir. On that small rise.’
Gilan nodded. He’d come so far, so fast, finishing the four-day journey in just over three days. Now, these few hundred metres seemed like miles to him. He leaned forward and whispered in Blaze’s ear.
‘Not much farther, my friend. One more effort, please.’
The exhausted horse’s ears twitched and his head came up a little. At Gilan’s gentle urging, he managed to raise a slow trot and they passed through the camp.
Dust drifting on the breeze, the smell of woodsmoke, noise and confusion: the camp was like any army camp anywhere in the world. Orders being shouted. The clang and rattle of arms being repaired or sharpened. Laughter from tents, where men lay back relaxing with no duties to be performed – until their sergeants found them and discovered jobs for them to be doing. Gilan smiled tiredly at the thought. Sergeants seemed to be totally averse to seeing their men having an easy time of it.
Blaze came to a halt once more and Gilan realised, with a jerk, that he’d actually nodded off in the saddle. Before him, two more guards barred the way to the War Council compound. He looked at them blearily.
‘King’s Ranger,’ he croaked, through a dry throat. ‘Message for the Council.’
The guards hesitated. This dust-covered, half-asleep man, seated on a lathered, exhausted bay horse, might well be a Ranger. He was certainly dressed like a Ranger, as far as they could tell. Yet the guards knew most of the senior Rangers by sight, and they had never seen this young man before. And he showed no sign of identification.