The Battle of Hackham Heath by John Flanagan
Nine of them he knew already, of course. They were the ones who had joined him and Crowley as they had moved through the Kingdom recruiting a force of Rangers loyal to the King and willing to face Morgarath. Nine, he thought sadly. There had been ten before poor Pritchard was killed outside the tunnel through which Morgarath had escaped from Castle Gorlan.
But their numbers had been boosted since word had spread abroad of Morgarath’s retreat to the Mountains of Rain and Night. A further nine former Rangers had made their way back to Araluen to resume their service to the King. Hopefully, more would follow. They had been scattered to other countries by Morgarath’s determined persecution of the Corps. Most had been wrongfully accused of major crimes and forced to resign—and flee the country.
Halt muttered angrily. Crowley was far better equipped to assess them than he was. Crowley probably knew most of them, whereas Halt was a relative newcomer to the Kingdom and to the Ranger Corps.
He had to admit, however, that Farrel was an enormous help. Even though he was still incapacitated with a badly broken leg, he could attend to administrative work. And he was one of the older Rangers. He knew all of the returning Rangers—if not personally, at least by name and reputation. He and Halt had been going through the records and he was giving Halt a quick assessment of the men.
In most cases, the assessments were positive. That was hardly surprising as the Rangers were a handpicked group. But at least one of them had caused him to raise his eyebrows warily.
“Denison,” Farrel said now, tapping the file. “He could prove to be a problem.”
Halt glanced at the sheet in front of him. The man had been a Ranger for ten years. That should have meant he would be a solid addition to their small force.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked bluntly.
Farrel pursed his lips, trying to frame his answer as fairly as possible. “Well . . . he can be a little arrogant. A little full of his own importance, if you know what I mean. I sensed when he first arrived that he was wondering why Crowley had been appointed Commandant. Denison is more experienced. He’s been a Ranger far longer than Crowley.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s a better man,” Halt said.
Farrel nodded agreement. “That’s true. You know it and I know it. Probably Crowley does too. But don’t try to tell that to Denison. Since he arrived, I’ve been expecting a confrontation between him and Crowley—along the lines of, Why should I take orders from you, you jumped-up whippersnapper?”
“And of course, I’m not only younger than Crowley and newer in the job, I’m a foreigner to boot,” Halt said.
Farrel drummed his fingers on the table, trying to find a tactful way to agree. Then he decided there was no need for tact.
“Exactly,” he said. “I think he’ll resent it if you start bossing him around.”
Halt pursed his lips. “I don’t plan on bossing him around, as you put it. But surely he won’t disobey a direct order.”
“He shouldn’t, that’s for sure. Just don’t be surprised if he does.”
“Wonderful,” Halt muttered. “Just what I need.”
He looked up at the tent entrance as Crowley’s clerk peered around. Timothy was a young man, barely out of his teens. But he read and wrote prodigiously well, and Crowley had recruited him as a clerk.
“Halt?” he said. “The men are assembled outside.”
He jerked his head back over his shoulder, indicating the cleared space outside, in front of the tent. Halt had called an assembly of the eighteen Rangers he had been left to command. Crowley had spent the past week getting to know them and assessing them. Halt hadn’t seen the need: That was Crowley’s job and he was welcome to it. Now he had been caught out by his lack of attention.
“I’ll be right out,” he said. He stood, gathering the files together in one bundle. Farrel was having a difficult time standing from the low chair he had taken. Halt seized his upper arm and heaved him to his feet. Farrel nodded his gratitude.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be glad when this leg has healed.” He set his wooden crutch under his armpit and loped out behind Halt.
Seventeen pairs of eyes looked up expectantly as the two Rangers emerged into the sunlight. Halt scanned the group keenly. Half were strangers, although he had seen them around the camp over the past few days.
All were dressed in the Ranger uniform and most of them were shorter than average height—although with powerful shoulders built up by years of practice with the heavy longbows they all carried. Constant practice with an eighty-pound draw did wonders for the development of shoulder and back muscles, Halt mused to himself.
He realized that he’d been standing gawking at them for some seconds now, and they were obviously expecting him to say something. After all, he had called this meeting. He noticed one man on the outskirts of the group, leaning nonchalantly on his longbow. He was taller than the others and had a swarthy face, dominated by a large, aquiline nose.
I’ll bet that’s Denison, he thought. Then he finally found his voice.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. As ever when he was nervous, the Hibernian burr in his words was more heavily accented than normal.
There was a mumbled chorus in reply. He sensed an air of expectation in the group. They assumed they were going to hear their assignments for the next week or two. He considered what he was about to say.
They’re not going to like it, he thought.
“Some of you I know already,” he continued, letting his gaze travel around the semicircle of men. He was answered by nods and even grins from the group he and Crowley referred to as the originals. The remainder regarded him expectantly. They were neither friendly nor unfriendly. They were waiting to see what to make of him.
“The rest of you, I’m sure I’ll get to know quickly,” he said.
“What are our assignments?” one of the men asked. He was a short and rather stout character. He was going bald on top and his hair formed a wispy fringe around the crown of his head.
“I’ll get to that . . .” Halt paused expectantly, holding the other man’s gaze, a note of inquiry in his voice and expression.
The Ranger got the message. “Cedric.”
Halt gave him a friendly nod. “Cedric. Thank you. As I said, I’ll get to your assignments, but first I need to know who’s who. Let’s start with you.” He indicated a younger man on the left-hand end of the line. “Just step forward and give me your name if you would. I hope I’ll remember them. If not, bear with me.”
He essayed a grin but none of them returned it. So much for pleasantries, he thought.
The young Ranger declined to step forward. There was really no need to do so, Halt realized on reflection.
“I’m Robert,” he said. “Five years’ service.”
That’s four more than me, Halt thought. Then the next man spoke.
“Bedford. Fifteen years.”
And so it went on round the line, each man giving his name and length of service, Halt acknowledging each with a curt nod. Finally, it came to the taller, swarthy man at the extreme right-hand end of the line, standing back a few paces.
“Denison,” he said. “Ten years.”
Aside from Bedford, at fifteen years, Denison had served longer than any of the others. Halt regarded him with interest. “I’m sure I’ll draw heavily on your experience and advice, Denison,” he said.
Denison raised one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “I’m sure,” he agreed. But his tone was considerably less than agreeable. Halt chose to ignore the challenge implicit in the man’s voice.
“And as you all probably know, I’m Halt. And I’ve been serving the King for a little over eighteen months now.”
The Rangers shuffled their feet and exchanged glances. They seemed singularly unimpressed by his length of service. He couldn’t really blame them. He cleared his throat and
“As Cedric indicated, you’re all wanting to know what your assignments are for the next few weeks. Well, you have one. Archery. The King doesn’t have enough archers, so we’re going to be his archery force. We’re withdrawing to a place called the Ashdown Cut, where Morgarath’s army can only attack us on a narrow front. I figure that nineteen of us can make a pretty sizable hole in his numbers.”
“Twenty,” Farrel corrected him. “I might have a broken leg, but I can still shoot.”
Halt grinned at him. “Twenty then. We’ll take them on at Ashdown Cut, then withdraw again to another spot of our choosing.”
“And what’s the point of all this running away?” Denison demanded.
Halt met his gaze evenly. “We’re buying time,” he said. “We’re chipping away at his numbers, fighting him on ground that we choose, and giving the fiefs time to reinforce us. Once Morgarath is engaged with the main army, the barons won’t need to keep their men at home to defend their villages and castles. As Morgarath’s strength declines, ours will grow, until we can face him and defeat him once and for all.”
Most of the Rangers nodded. They could see the sense of what he said. He added something he knew they wouldn’t like.
“That means I need to see how well you shoot,” he said. “I know how good the nine men who’ve been serving with Crowley and me are. But I need to see how good the rest of you are.”
Their disapproving expressions told him he’d been right. On the other hand, several of the originals made no attempt to hide their grins.
“It seems to me,” said Denison, “that we’re all being too frightened by these fuzzy-wuzzy creatures Morgarath has recruited.” Several of the others made noises of agreement. “I say we attack him now and have done with it.”
“These fuzzy-wuzzy creatures you talk about,” Halt replied, keeping his voice low to contain his anger, “are totally ruthless, totally fearless. They will climb over each other’s dead bodies to get at us and kill us. I have seen them tear a man to pieces. And he has nearly a thousand of them.”
That brought a few startled expressions from them. Nobody had told them so far how many Wargals Morgarath had recruited. The Rangers exchanged uncertain looks. But Denison plowed on.
“I’m more than a little concerned,” he said, “that our leadership group is lacking in experience. We have a new King and a Ranger Commandant who’s still wet behind the ears.” He paused, and looked meaningfully at Halt. “Then there’s you.”
Farrel had been standing behind Halt and to the left, leaning on his crutch. Now he shuffled forward to stand level with Halt.
“Denison,” he said pleasantly, “how did you spend the past eighteen months?”
Denison scowled at him. “As you know, I was forced to leave the Kingdom. I obtained employment with Baron Heinrich von Grall of Teutlandt. I was commander of his foresters.”
“In other words, you were a glorified gamekeeper,” Farrel sneered. “That sounds pretty dangerous. I’m surprised you weren’t gored by an enraged stag.”
Denison opened his mouth to reply, but Farrel forestalled him, raising his voice to talk over him.
“Let me tell you what Halt was doing while you were chasing bucks and does,” he said. “Halt and Crowley decided that something had to be done about Morgarath. A lot of us felt that way, but they were the ones who did something about it. They scoured the Kingdom, searching for Rangers who hadn’t run off to Teutlandt at the first sign of trouble.”
Denison flushed and Halt noticed that a few of the other Rangers suddenly looked down, as if they’d found their shoes very interesting.
Farrel kept on. “They captured one of Morgarath’s messengers and discovered the plot he was hatching. They rescued Prince Duncan from Castle Wildriver and sent the rest of us to capture the man who was impersonating him on the northern frontier. Then they led us all at Castle Gorlan while King Duncan and Baron Arald faced off against Morgarath and drove him back into his castle, not to mention organizing the rescue of King Oswald from Gorlan. Since then, Halt has reconnoitered Morgarath’s stronghold in the Mountains of Rain and Night—something no one else has been able to do—and brought back vital information on these terrible beasts he has recruited.
“On top of that, he rides better than most of us and shoots better than all of us. He’s no beginner. He was trained for four years by Pritchard. Some of you may remember him.”
The newer additions to the group exchanged looks. They were impressed by Halt’s credentials, as enunciated by Farrel.
“Now I, for one, am happy to follow his lead and obey his orders. And I think that goes for the rest of us who have followed him and Crowley for the past year and a half.”
He paused and looked around the group. The Rangers who had campaigned against Morgarath all growled agreement. The others reluctantly signified their assent. Only Denison remained recalcitrant. He tried another tack.
“You say we’re buying time until the fiefs reinforce us,” he said. “What makes you think that’ll happen?”
Halt smiled and pointed to the edge of the forest beneath the park. A party of armed men was riding slowly up the slope toward them. There were at least forty of them, and he could make out the blue-and-gold banners of Castle Redmont. The rider at the head of the column was unmistakable. It was Baron Arald.
The Rangers watched as the new arrivals drew closer. Then Arald detached from the group and cantered toward them. He greeted Halt and Farrel cheerfully.
“Morning, Halt. Morning, Farrel. How’s the leg?”
Farrel smiled. “Hurts like blazes, sir. But it’s mending. It’s good to see you.”
“Have the enemy gone from Redmont Fief, sir?” Halt asked.
Arald shook his head, his cheerful expression fading at the mention of the Wargals overrunning his fief.
“No. But they won’t stay there long. They won’t break into the castle. I’ve left Lady Sandra in command, and my battle master Rodney is an excellent soldier. I’ve brought half our garrison to join you. The others will be along as soon as these cursed Wargals have moved on.” He looked around the assembled group. “Good to see we’ve got so many Rangers to call upon,” he said. They mumbled greetings. “Well, must be off. I’d better let the King know I’m here.”
He cantered away, his horse’s hoofs throwing clods of grass and dirt in the air behind him.
Halt smiled at Denison. “You were wondering if the fiefs would ever send reinforcements,” he said. “I’d say that’s starting to happen.”
Reluctantly, Denison allowed an answering smile to cross his face. “I’d say you’re right,” he said. He held out his hand in a gesture of peace, and Halt took it, shaking it firmly.
20
WITHOUT THE ENCUMBRANCE OF THE QUEEN’S CARRIAGE and the need to stop continually to allow her to rest, Crowley made much better time on his return journey to Woldon Abbey.
A day and a half after leaving Castle Araluen, he rode into the clearing in the trees where the abbey was situated. As he reined Cropper in, Sir Athol stepped off the colonnaded ground-floor verandah to greet him. One of the archers was a few paces behind.
“Ranger Crowley, you’re back,” Athol said. There was an obvious question behind the simple statement of fact.
Crowley nodded. “We’ve got trouble headed this way,” he said. “A band of Morgarath’s creatures has changed direction and is on its way here.”
“Creatures?” Athol said. “What creatures?”
“Morgarath has recruited an army of semi-human beasts called Wargals,” Crowley told him. “They’re like your worst nightmare.”
Athol’s face betrayed his concern at this news. He turned to the archer. “Where’s Edmund?” he asked, then explained to Crowley, “Edmund is the other archer who’s with us.”
“He’s scouting to the south,” the archer replied. “If
“Expect to see him then,” Crowley said sharply. “Because they’re coming.” He glanced to the main door of the abbey, where Abbess Margrit had just emerged, her hands folded in front of her, in the wide sleeves of her habit. She looked calm and unruffled.
“Ranger Crowley,” she said. “What brings you back so soon?”
“Morgarath’s forces are heading this way, Mother Abbess. The King sent me to fetch Queen Rosalind and take her back to Castle Araluen.”
There was an awkward pause as the Abbess and the two members of the Queen’s bodyguard exchanged a glance. They obviously knew something that Crowley didn’t.
“That could be difficult,” the Abbess said eventually. “The Queen is already in labor.”
“In labor?” Crowley repeated stupidly.
Margrit frowned at him. “She’s having the baby. That’s how these things happen.”
Crowley groped for words. He had no idea how to deal with this turn of events. “Isn’t it a little early?” he asked. He had the impression that the baby wasn’t due for another month, at least.
Margrit nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is. And it’s all the more difficult for the Queen because of it. The labor is not going well. She’s very weak.”
“Can I see her?” Crowley asked.
Margrit raised an eyebrow. “To what end?”
He hesitated, uncertain as to what he should say.
She continued, with a hard edge to her voice. “Perhaps you don’t believe me?”
Crowley made a hasty negative gesture. “No! No! I just thought . . .” His voice trailed off and then he looked the Abbess squarely in the eye. “I don’t know what I just thought,” he admitted, and she nodded.
“Perhaps you should rest and have something to eat,” she said. “You’ve obviously ridden a long way. We’ll attend to the Queen.”
Unconsciously, he beat the dust off his jacket, then he dismounted, realizing how stiff he was from the many kilometers he had ridden. “Do you have any idea how much longer it will go on?” he asked.