Ranger's Apprentice, Book 9: Halt's Peril

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9780142428511: Ranger's Apprentice, Book 9: Halt's Peril

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The Rangers are in trouble and not everyone will survive. The international bestselling Ranger's Apprentice series turns up the tension in John Flanagan's latest epic of battles and bravery.

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About the Author:

John Flanagan grew up in Sydney, Australia hoping to be a writer. It wasn’t until he wrote a highly uncomplimentary poem about a senior executive at the agency he worked, however, that his talent was revealed. It turned out one of the company directors agreed with John’s assessment of the executive, and happily agreed to train John in copywriting.

After writing advertising copy for the next two decades, John teamed with an old friend to develop a television sitcom, Hey Dad!, which went on to air for eight years.

John began writing Ranger’s Apprentice for his son, Michael, ten years ago, and is still hard at work on the series. He currently lives in the suburb of Manly, Australia, with his wife. In addition to their son, they have two grown daughters and four grandsons.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

There was a raw wind blowing off the small harbor. It carried the salt of the sea with it, and the smell of imminent rain. The lone rider shrugged. Even though it was late summer, it seemed to have been raining constantly over the past week. Perhaps in this country it rained all the time, no matter what the season.

“Summer and winter, nothing but rain,” he said quietly to his horse. Not surprisingly, the horse said nothing.

“Except, of course, when it snows,” the rider continued. “Presumably, that’s so you can tell it’s winter.” This time, the horse shook its shaggy mane and vibrated its ears, the way horses do. The rider smiled at it. They were old friends.

“You’re a horse of few words, Tug,” Will said. Then, on reflection, he decided that most horses probably were. There had been a time, quite recently, when he had wondered about this habit of his—talking to his horse. Then, mentioning it to Halt over the campfire one night, he’d discovered it was a common trait among Rangers.

“Of course we talk to them,” the grizzled Ranger had told him. “Our horses show a lot more common sense than most people. And besides,” he’d added, a note of seriousness creeping into his voice, “we rely on our horses. We trust them and they trust us. Talking to them strengthens the special bond between us.”

Will sniffed the air again. There were other smells apparent now, underlying the salt and the rain: Tar. New rope. Dried seaweed. But strangely, there was one scent missing—one he would have expected in any seaport along the eastern coast of Hibernia.

There was no smell of fish. No smell of drying nets.

“So what do they do here if they don’t fish?” he mused. Aside from the slow clop of his hooves on the uneven cobbles, echoing from the buildings that lined the narrow street, the horse made no answer. But Will thought he already knew. It was why he was here, after all. Port Cael was a smugglers’ town.

The streets down by the docks were narrow and winding, in contrast to the wide, well-laid-out streets of the rest of the town. There was only an occasional lantern outside a building to light the way. The buildings themselves were mostly two-storied, with loading doors set on the second floors, and lifting gantries so that bales and barrels could be brought up from carts below. Warehouses, Will guessed, with storage room for the goods that shipowners smuggled in and out of the port.

He was nearly down to the docks themselves now, and in the gap that marked the end of the street he could see the outlines of several small ships, moored to the dock and bobbing nervously on the dying efforts of the choppy waves that managed to force their way in through the harbor mouth.

“Should be around here somewhere,” he said, and then he saw it: a single-story building at the end of the street, with a low-lying thatched roof sweeping down to just above head height. The walls may have been whitewashed at one time, but now they were a dirty, smudged gray. A fitful yellow light shone through the small windows along the street-side wall, and a sign creaked in the wind over the low doorway. A seabird of some kind, crudely rendered.

“Could be a heron,” he said. He looked around curiously. The other buildings were all dark and anonymous. Their business was done for the day, whereas in a tavern like the Heron, it was just getting under way.

He dismounted outside the building, absentmindedly patting Tug’s neck as he stood there. The little horse regarded the meanlooking tavern and then rolled an eye at his master.

Are you sure you want to go in there?

For a horse of few words, there were times when Tug could express himself with crystal clarity. Will smiled reassuringly at him.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy now, you know.”

Tug snorted scornfully. He’d seen the small stable yard beside the inn and knew he’d be left there. He was always ill at ease when he wasn’t on hand to keep his master out of trouble. Will led him through the sagging gate into the stable yard. Another horse and a tired old mule were tethered there. Will didn’t bother to tether Tug. He knew his horse would stay there until he returned.

“Wait over there. You’ll be out of the wind,” he said, gesturing toward the far wall. Tug looked at him again, shook his head and ambled to the spot Will had indicated.

Just yell if you need me. I’ll come running.

For a moment, Will wondered if he were being too fanciful in attributing that thought to his horse. Then he decided not. For a second or two, he entertained an image of Tug bursting through the narrow door into the tavern, shouldering drinkers aside to come to his master’s aid. He grinned at the thought and closed the stableyard gate, lifting it so that it didn’t drag on the rough cobblestones. Then he moved to the tavern entrance.

Will was by no means a tall person, but even he felt it necessary to stoop a little under the low doorway. As he opened the door, he was hit by a wall of sensations. Heat. The smell of sweat. Smoke. Spilled, stale ale.

As the wind rushed in through the open door, the lanterns flickered and the peat fire in the grate on the far wall suddenly flared with renewed life. He hesitated getting his bearings. The smoke and the flickering light from the fi re made it even harder to see inside than it had been outside on the dark street.

“Close the door, fool!” a rough voice bellowed, and he stepped inside, allowing the door to shut behind him. Immediately, the fire and the lantern light steadied. There was a thick pall of smoke from the fire and dozens of pipes. It sat just above head height, trapped by the low thatched roof. Will wondered if it ever had a chance to disperse or whether it just hung there from one day to the next, growing in intensity with each passing evening. Most of the tavern’s patrons ignored him, but a few unfriendly faces turned toward him, assessing the newcomer.

They saw a slim, slightly built figure, wrapped in a dull gray and green cloak, face concealed beneath a large hood. As they watched, he pushed the hood back and they saw that his face was surprisingly youthful. Little more than a boy. Then they took stock of the heavy saxe knife at his belt, with a smaller knife mounted above it, and the massive longbow in his left hand. Over his shoulder, they saw the feathered ends of more than a dozen arrows protruding from the quiver at his back.

The stranger might look like a boy, but he carried a man’s weapons. And he did so without any self-consciousness or show, as if he was completely familiar with them.

He looked around the room, nodding to those who had turned to study him. But his gaze passed over them quickly, and it was apparent that he posed no risk—and these were men who were well used to gauging potential threats from newcomers. The slight air of tension that had gripped the tavern eased and people went back to their drinking. Will, after a quick inspection of the room, saw no danger to himself and crossed to the rough bar—three heavy, roughsawn planks laid across two massive casks.

The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a sharp-nosed face, round, prominent ears and a receding hairline that combined to give him a rodentlike look, glanced at him, absentmindedly wiping a tankard with a grubby cloth. Will raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. He’d be willing to bet the cloth was transferring more dirt to the tankard than it was removing.

“Drink?” the tavern keeper asked. He set the tankard down on the bar, as if in preparation for fi lling it with whatever the stranger might order.

“Not out of that,” Will said evenly, jerking a thumb at the tankard. Ratface shrugged, shoved it aside and produced another from a rack above the bar.

“Suit yourself. Ale or ouisgeah?”

Ouisgeah, Will knew, was the strong malt spirit ...

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