Ranger of Kings (William of Alamore Series Book 1) Read online

  They wove between squires hurrying to pull on boots and cloaks, stepping into the dining hall. The King sighed, running a hand through his still-wet hair. “You and Sir Ross have matching opinions. You know, that’s happening alarmingly more often.”

  Laster snorted derisively. “I guess he’s getting smarter.”

  The black-haired knight entered the dining hall, hurrying to the King. “So, you will be leading us?” he demanded.

  “Not exactly. I want us to separate into three groups. I will lead one, Sir Ross another, and I hope you will lead the last,” the King saw Sir Laster raise his eyebrows out of the corner of his eye. The sneering knight, however, said nothing.

  “Good thinking. I was going to suggest Ross, he keeps his head and seems good when leading,” the gangly knight said, nodding. Sir Laster snorted again and strode away, toward the still open double doors to the entry hall.

  “Yes, Rockwood. He’s done that since before he was even a knight here.”

  Sir Rockwood’s squire, a sleepy-looking brown-haired twelve-year-old, came into the dining hall and started toward them. “I guess I better help my squire learn his responsibilities,” Rockwood said, grinning again. “First week on the job and he’s getting to deal with this chaos. Poor little Lord of Lonric looks a bit lost,” he gripped the King’s shoulder for a brief moment then headed toward his squire.

  ***

  “We’ll split into three parties, two with twenty, led by Ross and Rockwood, and a smaller of ten, which I will lead. The group of ten will charge first and straight on, driving them into the walls of Bronswick. Before they have time to scatter or turn on us, I want the other two groups to close in on the sides. Stir them up, get the soldiers scared. If they run, so much the better. Chase them for only a short ways, just enough to let them taste defeat.”

  It was an hour later; the knights were in their lightest chain mail, wearing only as much armor as they knew their horses could handle. Soldiers, swords at their sides and spears and lances in hand, emanated a palpable excitement and confidence. Even the horses shifted with barely contained energy and stamped their hooves in the lessening rain.

  “We ride out now,” yelled the King.

  The soldiers whistled loudly, a few clapping their hands as the wild adrenalin of inevitable fighting ran through them. All felt tense, eager for this battle. Other than skirmishes against outlaws and small bands of overly confident Thornten soldiers crossing the border, they hadn’t had a true battle in some time.

  The King’s normally high strung blue roan stallion stood unusually quiet in the hold of a black-haired boy as Revlan mounted. The boy softly rubbed the horse’s face before walking to a smaller grey gelding and pulling himself on with ease.

  Sir Ross, on his large black and white wall-eyed paint stallion, glanced toward the King. He knew the man well enough to tell that, despite his confident show of bravado, something was worrying him. Something more, the knight was sure, than the upcoming battle.

  As they rode over the drawbridge, he steered his horse next to the King’s own, looking behind him at the soldiers only long enough to wave forwards the boy on the grey horse. He turned to the King, knowing he wouldn’t protest to the black-haired boy listening. The boy was going to have to learn at some point. Sir Ross had a suspicion that whatever was bothering the King was why he had sought to meet the hooded man outside of Alamore’s walls. As they drew ahead, the King quietly relayed to them what he had told the hooded man. Sir Ross felt the King’s discomfort creep into his own bones and, glancing at the dark eyes of the boy, he could see that he too understood. A skirmish with Thornten at Bronswick seemed, now, a simple way in which to risk their lives.

  ***

  They reached the edge of the battle at dawn, drawing swords and fitting bolts into crossbows. The eager feeling had faced, replaced with an eerie quiet. The unspoken realization that some men would never return home was evident as they heard the echoing clamor of weapons from the far side of the rise that stood between them and Bronswick.

  Sir Ross urged his horse into a slow canter, listening to the sound of the soldiers and knights in his wake. It took them less than ten minutes to reach the outskirts of the trees that lined the two fighting armies, but it felt like an eternity.

  Sir Ross reined in his horse, holding up a hand to signal that the others should halt. Even in the grey light of a sun trying to rise and drive away the last of the storm, he could see the cost of this latest attack. Before him, men and horses across a field made slick with blood and rainwater, the dead and dying lying where they had fallen. Turning to face his own men, face drawn, he unsheathed his weapon at last.

  The rough-cut blue stone was the only decoration in the sword’s hilt. The blade reflected the light of the fire that shone about the battlefield. Holding it low, his eyes traveled from grave face to grave face. The thirteen-year-old boy had been delegated to his charges. Despite obviously being the youngest fighter, the tall boy met Sir Ross’s eyes with steely determination, his sword in hand. A pang of misgivings made him wish that the young man was back at the castle. He shook himself. Wishful thinking wouldn’t protect the boy. Breaking his eyes away, he loosened his horse’s rein.

  “We wait until we’ve heard the sound of the King and his charge reach the Thornten army. Then we move. And I want to see those horses speed. Run down the Thornteners for as far as you can before resorting to combat. Break their lines,” He hesitated. “Remember, this battle, today, might be one of many to come. Thornten is pressing upon us more, attacking more and, no doubt, hoping to overthrow the King and claim Alamore,” He managed a rare smile. “But if they think they can stomp us out easily then curse their stupidity,” There were a few nervous chuckles. His smile slid away and he tightened his reins slowly. His horse tensed, awaiting the next cue. A fresh clamor was heard; the King’s charge.

  Ross cried out, “It’s an honor to serve with all of you. Alamore couldn’t ask for better!” the echoing swords of fresh fighting were deafening. Pressing his legs against his horse’s sides, Sir Ross pulled the stallion into a rear and spun round to face the battle.

  “ALAMORE!” he roared. His horse’s front hooves hit earth and tore the soft ground as he charged toward the fighting. Soon, men were around him on all sides, pushing their horses onwards into the battle.

  The enemy army saw them and scattered as Rockwood let out a war-whoop to announce that he and his twenty followers were also entering the midst of battle. The roar of “FOR ALAMORE AND KING REVLAN!” echoed on all sides as they collided with the fighting on the opposite side. Soon the sound of sword on sword split the air in two, the screams of wounded and dying men and horses, growing louder as men from both sides fell.

  The King was locked in battle with a knight who was clearly beginning to regret attempting to fight Revlan’s superior swordsmanship. As the knight flailed with his blade, the King parried easily and turned his heel, sticking his spur into the knight’s horse. The horse bolted out of the battlefield, the knight clutching to the saddle for his life. The King smiled slightly as more men, thinking the knight was the first in a retreat, galloped after him.

  Sir Ross blocked a knight’s downward slash with ease, his expression one of near boredom. The knight attacking him swiped again, looking livid at Ross’s lack of challenge. As the third slash was parried, Ross at last reacted. Lifting his sword to leave an obvious hole in defense he watched the knight, wild-eyed with success, take the bait.

  Ross brought his sword hilt down against the blade, stopping the strike again, and smacking the flat of the blade against the knight’s fist. The knight howled in pain but didn’t release his sword. He struck again, this time at Ross’s black and white stallion. Narrowing his eyes, Ross struck, his sword a silver streak, and turned to fight another knight, not looking to see where his previous opponent fell.

  Sir Rockwood was on foot, weaponless, his horse having vanished into the fray of men. A man was bearing down on him with a sword drawn. Rockwood fe
ll onto one knee, grabbing up the discarded shaft of a spear. The head had been snapped off. The man approaching roared with mirth, lifting his sword to dispatch the wiry Alamore knight. Despite the unfairness of the fight, Sir Rockwood was laughing. The staff was no match as he swung it into the air to block. He was showered in splinters as it broke with the sword’s blow. Rockwood raised his eyebrows.

  “Ah, that’s a bummer.”

  He grinned, let out a shrill whistle, and jumped out of the way just as his large horse returned, crashing through the swordsman. “Good boy. But you even consider throwing me off to the side like that again and I’ll box your bleeding ears,” Rockwood shouted over the ruckus, swinging himself into the saddle and unsheathing his sword from the saddle scabbard.

  ***

  As the sun’s first rays broke the sky to the east the last of the Thornten soldiers fled, five Alamore soldiers galloping after them. It was over. The King dismounted and strode to Ross who was holding a hand over a gash in his arm.

  “Go tell those inside the castle,” said King Revlan exhaustedly, running a hand through his dark hair, “to tend to our wounded as well as their own. Then come back out here to help me with...” the King’s voice tapered off as he looked over the blood-stained and body strewn earth, his stomach in knots.

  “Yes, King,” Ross understood. His joints ached from the battering of blades that his chainmail had stopped from being fatal, yet he obeyed the King without even growling in his normal way. This was no time to question. He knew how sick the King felt about the loss of life.

  As he led his horse toward the castle, Sir Ross, normally so hard to shake, found himself on the verge of being sick at the sight of a small grey horse lying in a growing pool of blood. The rider was nowhere to be seen. Closing his eyes for a moment, he swallowed down the sorrow and wondered how many would even notice that their youngest fighter would not return.

  ***

  They started the return journey the next day spattered with mud, blood, and sweat and accompanied by five wagons of injured men and those returned to their families to bury. Not many spoke, fresh memories of the men who’d fallen in the battle weighing them down. The King looked back, a knot in his throat, still half expecting to see the grey horse and young black-haired rider.

  The boy had acted so much older than his age. Quiet, with fierce determination, only ever known by one of the Alamore squires, having always stayed aloof with the younger and training with the older when he could.

  The horse’s hooves echoed on the drawbridge, snapping him to reality. Instinctively, he touched his pocket, just once, to reassure himself that his most prized heirloom was still safe.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The boy sat on the steps of a small shabby house, on the edge of town, one street from the main road. His hair, brown and untidy, was overgrown and falling over his vivid blue eyes. Dirt on his face covered the darkening bruise along his jaw. Running his hand along swelling, he scowled at the cracking leather of his boots. He had walked into his own house as his father stood in the main room, speaking with a stranger. He hadn’t even had time to close the door behind him before his father had wheeled round with a furious snarl and struck out. Now, hours later, the dust long settled behind the expensive-looking horse the stranger had ridden away, he still didn’t dare to try to reenter.

  A whoop made him look up as two boys, about his own age, came sprinting from the main road. Both brandished round edge practice swords. They wore standard brown work tunics with the Alamore crest on the left side of the chest; a silver stag’s head over three diagonal slashes of gold. It was clear that these two were squires from the castle.

  The lankier boy, with light brown hair, swung wildly. The other taller boy, golden hair falling over his eyes, parried it with apparent boredom.

  From his perch on the steps, the boy watched the two and he longed to be like them, a squire of Alamore. They were set apart from the town and farm boys, and he silently wished to be one of them instead of another no one. He could be fighting for the country and the King.

  The pain in his face receded quickly as he imagined himself as a knight on a big white horse, like the horses’ knights rode through the town on their journeys. In his mind, he was earning gold by fighting the enemy. He wouldn’t live like his father, who got money somewhere, though never seemed to work, wandering off for hours, and sometimes days. He felt sure it was why his mother had left those months ago. He pinched his arm to bring himself from the darkening thoughts. It would only cause trouble to think ill of his father.

  He noticed how both squires had to be around his own age, new to squire hood and their squire uniforms. The boy glanced at his own attire; filthy, his boots too tight and the leather cracking from the sun, his tunic a baggy hand-me-down of his father’s own. The wooden swords made dull noises as they struck, bringing his head back up. The brown-haired squire made a leap at golden-haired, who blocked again with the same almost bored sweep, bringing his wooden sword up, away from his stomach. The boy on the steps winced. Even he could see the opening and he knew almost nothing about sword fighting.

  The brown-haired boy lunged and the other moved his sword down with all his strength, slashing aside the other and off-balancing his opponent. As the brown-haired boy flailed to keep from hitting the ground, the golden-haired squire brought the flat of his wood sword against the other boy’s side, sending him sprawling. The boy on the steps stared, awestruck. They were better than any of the town boys, even the older ones, and these were squires who’d probably just turned old enough to train. The boy in the dirt started laughing as the golden-haired lowered his wooden sword and held out a hand.

  “You okay?” the golden-haired squire asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, just swallowed a pound of dirt with my pride,” The other started to pull himself up with the other’s arm, then glanced toward the boy on the steps. The boy lowered his head, his blue eyes fastened on the dirt. He’d never be equal to them. They’d probably didn’t like him watching.

  “What’s your name?” he looked up with a start, meeting the brown eyes of the brown-haired squire who now stood above him. He hadn’t noticed his approach.

  The boy swallowed his excitement at being spoken to, keeping his face almost uncaringly calm. “William. Will,” he replied, his voice quavering despite his attempt at nonchalance. Will noticed the squire’s gangly frame made him seem taller than he really was and his grin made Will trust him immediately. He couldn’t be much older than himself, Will decided, making him at most thirteen.

  “Ah well, I’m Rowan Lonric, squire of Rockwood and all of that other titled rubbish,” introduced the squire, making a low, rather clumsy, bow. “Do you want to try to sword fight with us? I’ve got an extra practice sword. I normally break them so I brought another one just in case,” Rowan asked as he straightened.

  Will’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe his luck. Practice with squires? Real squires from the castle? He considered resisting in case his father saw and got angry, but the idea died almost as fast as it was born. This was too good a chance to miss! He’ll hit me anyway, so I might as well earn it with a laugh.

  “Can I really?”

  “Of course! You just saw that Greyhead there, completely flattened me. Maybe two of us would give him a bit more challenge, right?” he didn’t wait for Will’s response before nodding in answer to his own question. “Exactly. I’ll go get the other sword,” Rowan turned on his heel and started down a side alley that led toward the main road. Will pulled himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his tunic, suddenly nervous as the other boy stepped toward him. Something about this squire was more serious, yet his green eyes seemed inviting enough.

  Switching his wood sword to his left hand, the tip pointed into the dirt as though the blade were steel opposed to wood, he held out his right hand to Will. Will was surprised to find this squire taller than himself and Rowan but without the gangly appearance that made the other squire look so t
all. He was of slimmer built than Will, his shoulders not as broad, making him an agile swordsman, as Will had seen. There was a boyish roundness left in his face, though Will had no doubt it would narrow with age. The green eyes looked apprehensive and as though they’d seen too much for his young age. Still, as he grasped Will’s hand, his grip was strong and the eyes didn’t break away.

  “Colin Greyhead of Lonnac,” the squire introduced himself, faintly smiling. “Sir Ross Hayvern’s squire.”

  Will wondered why the name of the knight sounded so familiar. It had to be an impressive knight for him to even have heard of him.

  “I’m just Will.”

  Colin nodded as they broke off the handshake. “Ever sword fought?”

  Will lowered his eyes, shaking his head. “Not seriously, just with sticks.”

  “Well it’s a start,” Colin said encouragingly, slapping him on the back. “Rowan and I were just using sticks until a couple months ago when we became squires. You’ll be fine. Rowan flails and I bluff.” He chuckled and Will, feeling somewhat more heartened, managed a grin.

  Rowan returned then, carrying two practice swords. “Here, you go. So, you’ve met Colin, He’s almost pretty good. If he takes my advice, I’ll make a master swordsman of him yet,” Rowan said, tossing Will the less battered of the two practice weapons.

  Colin rolled his eyes and Will laughed, turning the practice sword in his hands. It was heavier than he’d expected, the handle well sanded and the hilt and blade almost perfectly balanced. He noticed a hole in the hilt had been filled with metal to even out the weight.

  He tossed it between his hands, fascinated with the quality. It was far more impressive than the swords that his friend, Zudin, had crafted from sticks and rotted pieces of fence.

  “Will’s going to train with us if you don’t mind.”

  “Nope, happy to train with him.” Colin looked at Will, and Rowan, his smile faded and his face tensed as he slid his left hand onto the hilt of his sword as well, rising it to just below chest level.