Part 2 (1/2)

Yes, he thought, particularly Alyss.

Across the campfire, Gilan observed Will through half-closed eyes. It wasn't easy being Halt's apprentice, he knew. Halt was a near-legendary figure and that laid a heavy burden on anyone apprenticed to him. There was a lot to live up to. He decided that Will needed a little distraction.

”Right!” he said, springing lithely to his feet. ”Lessons!”

Will and Horace looked at each other.

”Lessons?” said Will, in a pleading tone of voice. After a day in the saddle, he was hoping more for his bedroll.

”That's right,” Gilan said cheerfully. ”Even though we're on a mission, it's up to me to keep up the instruction for you two.”

Now it was Horace's turn to be puzzled. ”For me?” he asked. ”Why should I be taught any Ranger skills?”

Gilan picked up his sword and scabbard from where they lay beside his saddle. He withdrew the slender, s.h.i.+ning blade from its plain leather receptacle. There was a faint hiss as it came free and the blade seemed to dance in the s.h.i.+fting firelight.

”Not Ranger skills, my boy. Combat skills. Heaven knows, we'll need them as sharp as possible before too long. There's a war coming, you know.” He regarded the heavyset boy before him with a critical eye. ”Now, let's see what you know about that toothpick you're wearing.”

”Oh, right!” said Horace, sounding a little more pleased about this turn of events. He never minded a little sword practice and he knew it wasn't a Ranger's skill. He drew his own sword confidently and stood before Gilan, point politely lowered to the ground. Gilan stuck his own sword point-first into the soft earth, and held out his hand for Horace's.

”May I see that, please?” he asked. Horace nodded and handed it to Gilan hilt-first.

Gilan hefted it, tossed it lightly, then swung it experimentally a few times.

”See this, Will? This is what you look for in a sword.”

Will looked at the sword, unimpressed. It looked plain to him. The blade was slightly blued steel, simple and straight. The hilt was leather wrapped around the steel tang and the crosspiece was a chunky piece of bra.s.s. He shrugged.

”It doesn't look special,” he said apologetically, not wanting to hurt Horace's feelings.

”It's not how they look that counts,” said Gilan. ”It's how they feel. This one, for example. It's well balanced, so you can swing it all day without getting overtired, and the blade is light but strong. I've seen blades twice this thick snapped in half by a good blow from a cudgel. Fancy ones too,” he added, with a smile, ”with engravings and inlays and jewels.”

”Sir Rodney says jewels in the hilt are just unnecessary weight,” said Horace. Gilan nodded agreement.

”What's more, they tend to encourage people to attack you and rob you,” he said. Then, all business again, he returned Horace's sword and took up his own.

”Very well, Horace, we've seen that the sword is good quality. Let's see about its owner.”

Horace hesitated, not sure what Gilan intended.

”Sir?” he said awkwardly.

Gilan gestured to himself with his left hand. ”Attack me,” he said cheerfully. ”Have a swing. Take a whack. Lop my head off.”

Still Horace stood uncertainly. Gilan's sword wasn't in the guard position. He held it negligently in his right hand, the point downward. Horace made a helpless gesture.

”Come on, Horace,” Gilan said. ”Let's not wait all night. Let's see what you can do.”

Horace put his own sword point-first into the earth.

”But you see, sir, I'm a trained warrior,” he said. Gilan thought about this and nodded.

”True,” he said. ”But you've been training for less than a year. I shouldn't think you'll chop too much off me.”

Horace looked to Will for support. Will could only shrug. He a.s.sumed that Gilan knew what he was doing. But he hadn't known him long, and he'd never seen him so much as draw his sword, let alone practice with it. Gilan shook his head in mock despair.

”Come on, Horace,” he said. ”I do have a vague idea what this is all about.”

Reluctantly, Horace swung a halfhearted blow at Gilan. Obviously, he was worried that, if he should penetrate the Ranger's guard, he was not sufficiently experienced to pull the blow and avoid injuring him. Gilan didn't even raise his sword to protect himself. Instead, he swayed easily to one side and Horace's blade pa.s.sed harmlessly clear of him.

”Come on!” he said. ”Do it as if you mean it!”

Horace took a deep breath and swung a full-blooded roundhouse stroke at Gilan.

It was like poetry, Will thought. Like dancing. Like the movement of running water over smooth rocks. Gilan's sword, seemingly propelled only by his fingers and wrist, swung in a flas.h.i.+ng arc to intercept Horace's blow. There was a ring of steel and Horace stopped, surprised. The parry had jarred his hand through to the elbow. Gilan raised his eyebrows at him.

”That's better,” he said. ”Try again.”

And Horace did. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings.

Each time, Gilan's sword flicked into position to block the stroke with a resounding clash. As they continued, Horace swung harder and faster. Sweat broke out on his forehead and soon his s.h.i.+rt was soaked. Now he had no thought of trying not to hurt Gilan. He cut and slashed freely, trying to break through that impenetrable defense.

Finally, as Horace's breath was coming in ragged gasps, Gilan changed from the blocking movement that had been so effective against Horace's strongest blows. His sword clashed against Horace's, then whipped around in a small, circular motion so that his blade was on top. Then, with a slithering clash, he ran his blade down Horace's, forcing the apprentice's sword point down to the ground. As the point touched the damp earth, Gilan swiftly put one booted foot on it to hold it there.

”Right, that'll do,” he said calmly. Yet his eyes were riveted on Horace's, making sure the boy knew that the practice session was over. Sometimes, Gilan knew, in the heat of the moment, the losing swordsman could try for just one more cut-at a time when his opponent had a.s.sumed the fight was over.

And then, all too often, it was.

He saw now that Horace was aware. He stepped back lightly from him, moving quickly out of the reach of the sword.

”Not bad,” said Gilan approvingly. Horace, mortified, let his sword drop to the turf.

”Not bad?” he exclaimed. ”It was terrible! I never once looked like...” He hesitated. Somehow, it didn't seem polite to admit that for the last three or four minutes, he'd been trying to hack Gilan's head from his shoulders. He finally managed to compromise by saying: ”I never once managed to break through your guard.”

”Well,” Gilan said modestly, ”I have done this sort of thing before, you know.”

”Yes,” panted Horace. ”But you're a Ranger. Everyone knows Rangers don't use swords.”

”Apparently, this one does,” said Will, grinning. Horace, to his credit, smiled wearily in return.

”You can say that again.” He turned respectfully to Gilan. ”May I ask where you learned your swordsmans.h.i.+p, sir? I've never seen anything like it.”

Gilan shook his head in mock reproof. ”There you go again with the 'sir,'” he said. Then, in answer: ”My Swordmaster was an old man. A northerner named MacNeil.”

”MacNeil!” Horace whispered in awe. ”You don't mean the MacNeil? MacNeil of Bannock?”

Gilan nodded. ”He's the one,” he replied. ”You've heard of him then?”