The Tournament at Gorlan (32 page)

“Are you considering bolting?” Halt asked.

Arald thought about the question for a few seconds. “Not really. But you never know when it might come in handy.”

As they walked farther through the passage, Arald gestured with his torch at the water that was running down the walls and pooling on the floor. “We must be under the moat,” he said. They stepped through it and continued.

Halt sensed that the tunnel was beginning to slope upward. “We're getting close to the exit.” For some reason, he lowered his voice, although the likelihood that Morgarath or his men would be waiting for them was slim. Then a glimmer of light showed ahead of them, rapidly growing into a lit rectangle as they got closer.

They stepped out into the open air. The tunnel mouth was just inside the edge of the woods, concealed within a tangle of vines and brambles. Halt peered closely at them, seeing where they had been cut away in the past few days. The muddy ground around the exit had been churned by dozens of feet. But the tracks quickly died out as they moved across the thick grass, soaked by the rain of the preceding four days.

“Tracks are washed away,” Halt muttered. “But this is where they came out, all right.”

“Question is,” said Arald, “where have they gone?”

Halt shrugged. “They could have gone in any direction.”

“North, maybe?” said Arald. “After all, that's where he had Tiller raiding across the border, so he might have some kind of base there.”

“Maybe,” Halt said. He was unconvinced. “But as I say . . .”

His voice trailed off. He had caught sight of something in the trees about twenty meters away. It wasn't easy to see. It was mottled green and gray and blended into the forest background. But the wind had stirred it and the movement had caught his attention.

“Oh . . . no . . . ,” he said softly, in a stricken voice. He began to run through the trees toward it.

Pritchard was lying on his back, eyes wide-open. There were half a dozen gaping wounds on his body. He had obviously been attacked by three or four men. His bow was lying nearby, snapped in half. They must have emerged from the tunnel, catching him by surprise. Then they killed him and left him to lie here. The flutter of movement Halt had seen had come from a corner of his cloak.

He dropped to one knee beside his old teacher, the man who, years ago, had replaced his own father in his affections. He felt hot tears forcing their way through his eyes and running freely down his cheeks.

Vaguely, he was aware that Arald had followed him and was standing a few paces back, unsure of what to say or do.

Halt bowed his head and said in a broken voice: “I'd only just found him again. And now he's gone.”

He remained kneeling, head bowed, beside his old friend and mentor for some minutes, thinking of the time they'd spent together in Dun Kilty, and of the sheer joy he had felt at their recent reunion. Finally, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt on his cheeks. Dry eyed, he rose to his feet and looked up into the morning sky.

“You'll pay for this, Morgarath. I swear on Pritchard's life, you'll pay for this.”

T
HE
M
OUNTAINS
O
F
R
AIN
A
ND
N
IGHT

T
HE CAVE WAS SMOKY AND DRAFTY BUT AT LEAST IT WAS DRY
. Outside, the rain blew in almost horizontal sheets across the rock-strewn plateau.

Morgarath sat, hunched over by the fire, facing the terrifying beast he had lured to his cave. It had taken months to find the Wargal, and now he had finally begun to win his confidence. The Wargal was the leader of a tribe of similar beasts. He had cajoled it with gifts of fresh meat—treasured by the Wargals for its scarcity in these cold, dripping mountains.

And it had taken days after that to establish a pattern of dominance over the primitive creature's mind. It had been a slow process. Morgarath had begun by emptying his mind of all conscious thought, allowing it to be open to receive messages from outside. That in itself had taken days to achieve. Then, on one memorable occasion, he had seen an image growing in his mind—even though his eyes were shut.

It was hazy and unfocused at first, and when he tried to concentrate on it, it receded. He realized that he mustn't try to focus with his conscious mind. And when he cleared his mind of conscious thought, the image returned—clearer and sharper this time.

He realized, with a start, that the image was himself. He was seeing what the Wargal chief was seeing.

He began to try to form an image of his own—difficult to do when he had to keep his conscious mind at bay. He envisaged himself sitting on a high throne, and the Head Wargal was bowing down before him, placing its head under his hand in
submission.

Then he switched tack. He imagined Duncan, terrible in his red surcoat and glittering mail, cutting and hacking at a group of Wargals, killing and maiming them.

Morgarath had been doing this for a week now, always projecting the same image. But today he felt a slight jolt in his consciousness—an impression of repellence.

The Wargal had seen what he was projecting, and was disturbed and frightened by it.

Morgarath half opened his eyes and saw the creature's lips draw back from its fangs in a snarl.

He closed his eyes again and added to the image. Now a black-clad figure, with long white-blond hair, strode in front of the Wargals to protect them and to face Duncan. His long, two-handed sword swung in a gleaming arc to block Duncan's blade as the red-garbed warrior tried to kill another helpless Wargal.

The sword flashed quickly up and down, severing Duncan's head from his shoulders and sending it spinning among the rocks. The headless torso remained standing for a moment, then slowly toppled over.

The surviving Wargals swarmed around the black-clad figure, bowing before him in gratitude and submission. Morgarath held the image in his mind for several minutes.

Then he felt a rough touch on his hand and he opened his eyes slowly.

The Wargal chieftain had moved closer and was kneeling before him. It took Morgarath's right hand in both its savagely clawed upper paws and placed it on its own head, bowing before Morgarath.

The former lord of Gorlan smiled grimly, allowing his hand to rest on the bowed head before him.

“Oh yes, my ugly friend,” he crooned. “I think we're going to get on very well indeed.”

About the Author

JOHN FLANAGAN
grew up in Sydney, Australia, hoping to be a writer, and after a successful career in advertising and television, he began writing a series of short stories for his son, Michael, in order to encourage him to read. Those stories would eventually become
The Ruins of Gorlan
, Book 1 of the Ranger's Apprentice epic. Now with his companion series, Brotherband Chronicles, the novels of John Flanagan have sold millions of copies and made readers of kids the world over.

Mr. Flanagan lives in the suburb of Manly, Australia, with his wife. In addition to their son, they have two grown daughters and four grandsons.

You can visit John Flanagan at

www.RangersApprentice.com

www.BrotherbandChronicles.com

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