Rangers Apprentice Book 12 Read Online Free

  ABOUT THE Volume

Will, you lot took an oath to the Ranger Corps. Does it mean cypher to you now?

A senseless tragedy has destroyed your life. Y'all are determined to punish those responsible, but you must not turn your back on the Ranger Corps.

At present a routine mission has uncovered a shocking spider web of crime. Shortly you will be forced to cull betwixt taking the dark path of revenge, and saving innocent lives . . .

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Character Profiles

Maps

Chapter Ane

Affiliate Two

Affiliate Three

Chapter 4

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter 9

Affiliate X

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Affiliate Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Xv

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter 19

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Xx-i

Chapter Twenty-two

Affiliate Twenty-three

Affiliate Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter 20-seven

Chapter 20-viii

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Xxx

Chapter 30-one

Affiliate Thirty-two

Chapter 30-three

Chapter Thirty-iv

Chapter 30-five

Chapter 30-vi

Chapter Xxx-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Xxx-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-2

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-half-dozen

Chapter Forty-vii

Chapter Forty-eight

Affiliate Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-i

Chapter 50-two

Chapter Fifty-3

Chapter Fifty-4

Chapter 50-five

Epilogue

About the Writer

Also by John Flanagan

Brotherband extract

Copyright

For my family

CHARACTER PROFILES

WILL has been a Ranger for many years, having trained with the legendary Ranger Halt. Delivered to Castle Redmont as an orphan, he does not know the truthful story of his parents. When he was younger he dreamed of becoming a Knight, only he found his true path as a Ranger. Will is known for his loyalty and bravery, and has proven himself in countless battles. Now a grown human, he has recently been struck with personal tragedy, and the once mischievous and spirited young man has grown grim and humourless, and is now driven by a black passion for revenge.

MADDIE – or, to give her formal title, Princess Madelyn of Araluen – is the 15-year-onetime daughter of Princess Regent Cassandra and Sir Horace. Vivid and cheerful, she frequently defies the wishes of her parents to spend her time hunting game in the forests around Castle Araluen. Though she is heir to the throne, she does non wish to spend her life in a protective cocoon, and longs for a chance to learn the skills necessary for leading men into battle.

HALT is a renowned member of the Ranger Corps, known for his mysterious ways and his unstoppable nature. Halt is a superb archer and uses a massive longbow. Like all Rangers his skill with the bow is uncanny, deadly accurate, and devastatingly swift. Although he rarely shows emotions, he thinks of Will every bit his son. He is now officially retired, but notwithstanding occasionally carries out missions at the request of the Corps Commandant.

HORACE is the premier Knight of the Kingdom. Like Will he was an orphan, and grew up as a ward of Castle Redmont. Equally a younger boy he used to groovy Will, but now they are firm friends, having helped each other out on countless missions. He later married Princess Cassandra, the heir to the throne of Araluen, and his daughter will one day rule equally Queen. He is undecayed, loyal to the chivalry lawmaking of conduct, and known for his hearty appetite.

GILAN was once Halt'due south amateur and is the only Ranger who carries a sword. He is alpine and humorous, in sharp contrast to his sometime principal. He is mostly considered the best in the Corps at unseen movement. For all his jokes and light-hearted manner, Gilan is serious about existence a Ranger, and his skills accept seen him promoted quickly to the upper ranks of the Corps.

JORY RUHL is a former mercenary who now leads a gang of criminals who have been preying on villages in Anselm and its neighbouring fiefs, capturing children and enervating ransoms from their parents. Having shown he is prepared to murder innocents to preserve his liberty, Volition is determined to cease him and his gang at whatever price.

HAVE You lot GOT WHAT Information technology TAKES TO BE A RANGER?

The Rangers are an aristocracy Special Forces Corps in the medieval Kingdom of Araluen. They are the eyes and ears of the Kingdom, the intelligence gatherers, the scouts and the troubleshooters.

Rangers are proficient archers and carry ii knives – one for throwing, and ane for hunting. They are also highly skilled at tracking, concealment and unseen movement. Their power to become virtually invisible has led common folk to view them with fright, thinking the Rangers must use black magic.

Occasionally, a young man who is judged to have the qualities of honesty, courage, agility and intelligence will be invited to undertake a five-yr apprenticeship – to develop his natural abilities and instruct him in the almost supernatural skills of a Ranger.

If he passes his start year, he is given a bronze medallion in the shape of an oakleaf.

If he graduates, the bronze will be exchanged for the silverish oakleaf of an Oakleaf Bearer – a Ranger of the Kingdom of Araluen.

IT HAD BEEN a poor harvest in Scanlon Estate. The wheat ingather had been meagre at best, and the apple orchards had been savaged by a blight that left three-quarters of the fruit blemished and rotting on the trees.

Equally a result, the share farmers, farm labourers, orchardists and fruit pickers were facing hard times, with three months to get before the adjacent harvest, during which time they would have nowhere most plenty to eat.

Squire Dennis of Scanlon Manor was a kind-hearted man. He was also a practical one and, while his kind-hearted nature urged him to help his needy tenants, his applied side recognised such an action every bit good business. If his farmers and labourers went hungry, chances were they would move away, in search of piece of work in a less stricken region. Then, when good times returned to Scanlon Estate, at that place would exist insufficient workers bachelor to reap the harvest.

Dennis had acquired considerable wealth over the years and could ride out the difficult times ahead. But he knew that such an option wasn't available to his workers. Appropriately, he decided to invest some of his accumulated wealth in them. He set a workers' kitchen, which he paid for himself, and opened it to the needy who lived on his estate. In that style, he ensured that his people received at to the lowest degree ane proficient meal a day. It was nothing fancy – usually a soup, or a porridge fabricated from oats. Simply it was hot and nourishing and filling and he was confident that the cost would be more repaid by the continuing loyalty of his tenants and labourers.

The kitchen was in the parkland in front of the manor house. It consisted of rows of trestle tables and benches, and a large serving tabular array. These were sheltered from the worst of the weather by canvas awnings stretched over poles above them, creating a large marque

e. The sides were left open. In bad weather, this often meant that the wind and pelting blew around the tables. But farm folk are of hardy stock and the arrangement was far better than eating in the open.

In fact, kitchen was a misnomer. All the cooking was done in the vast kitchen inside the estate house, and the food was carried out to exist served to the hungry tenants and their families. The estate workers understood that the food was provided gratuitous of charge. But it was a matter of principle that any who could afford a small payment would do and then. Most often, this was in the form of a few copper coins, or of produce – a brace of rabbits or a wild duck taken at the pond.

The kitchen operated for the two hours leading up to dusk, ensuring that the workers could relish a nighttime'southward sleep without the gnawing pains of hunger in their bellies.

It was about dusk when the stranger pushed his way through to the serving tabular array.

He was a big man with shoulder-length muddy blond hair. He was wearing a wagoner's leather vest, and a pair of thick gauntlets were tucked into his belt, aslope the scabbard that held a heavy-bladed dagger. His eyes darted continually from side to side, never remaining long in one spot, giving him a hunted look.

Squire Dennis's master steward, who was in charge of the serving table, looked at him suspiciously. The workers' kitchen was intended for locals, not for travellers, and he'd never seen this man before.

'What do you want?' he asked, his tone less than friendly.

The wagoner stopped his darting side-to-side looks for a few seconds and focused on the man facing him. He was nearly to bluster and threaten but the steward was a heavily built human being, and there were ii powerful-looking servants behind him, obviously tasked with keeping order. He nodded at the cauldron of thick soup hanging over the fire backside the serving table.

'I want nutrient,' he said roughly. 'Oasis't eaten all 24-hour interval.'

The steward frowned. 'Y'all're welcome to soup, only you'll accept to pay,' he said. 'Free food is for estate tenants and workers simply.'

The wagoner scowled at him, but he reached into a grubby purse hanging from his belt and rummaged around. The steward heard the jingle of coins equally he sorted through the contents, letting some drop back into the purse. He deposited three pennigs on the table.

'That do?' he challenged. 'That's all I've got.'

The steward raised a disbelieving eyebrow. He'd heard the jingle of coins dropping back into the purse. But it had been a long twenty-four hours and he couldn't be bothered with a confrontation. All-time to requite the man some food and get rid of him as soon as possible. He gestured to the serving girl by the soup vat.

'Requite him a basin,' he said.

She dumped a salubrious portion into a wooden bowl and set it earlier him, adding a hunk of crusty staff of life.

The wagoner looked at the tables around him. Many of those seated were drinking noggins of ale besides. There was nothing unusual in that. Ale was relatively cheap and the squire had decided that his people shouldn't take a dry meal. There was a cask backside the serving table, with ale dripping slowly from its spigot. The wagoner nodded towards information technology.

'What almost ale?' he demanded.

The steward drew himself up a trivial straighter. He didn't like the man'southward manner. He might exist paying for his repast, merely information technology was a paltry amount and he was getting good value for his money.

'That'll cost actress,' he said. 'Two pennigs more.'

Grumbling, the wagoner rummaged in his handbag again. He showed no sign of embarrassment at producing more coins after claiming that he had none. He tossed them on the table and the steward nodded to one of his men.

'Give him a noggin,' he said.

The wagoner took his soup, bread and ale and turned away without another word.

'And thanks,' the steward said sarcastically, but the blond man ignored him. He threaded his way through the tables, studying the faces of those sitting there. The steward watched him go. The wagoner was evidently looking for someone and, equally obviously, hoping non to encounter him.

The retainer who had drawn the ale stepped close to him and said in a lowered vocalization, 'He looks like trouble waiting to happen.'

The steward nodded. 'Best permit him eat and be on his manner. Don't give him any extra, even if he offers to pay.'

The serving human being grunted assent, so turned as a farmer and his family approached the table, hopefully looking at the soup cauldron.

'Step up, Jem. Permit'southward requite y'all and your family something to stick your ribs together, eh?'

Holding his soup bowl and ale loftier to avoid bumping them against the people seated at the tables, the wagoner made his mode to the very rear of the marquee, close past the sandstone walls of the great manor business firm. He sat at the final table, on his own, facing the front, where he could see new arrivals every bit they entered the big open tent. He began to eat, but with his optics constantly flicking up to watch the front of the tent, he managed to spill and dribble a good amount of the soup downwardly his beard and the front of his apparel.

He took a deep draught of his ale, still with his eyes searching higher up the rim of the wooden noggin. There was only a centimetre left when he set information technology downward over again. A serving girl, moving through the tables and collecting empty plates, paused to look into the noggin. Seeing it well-nigh empty, she reached for information technology. But the wagoner stopped her, grasping her wrist with unnecessary force and so that she gasped.

'Go out it,' he ordered. 'Haven't finished.'

She snatched her wrist abroad from his grip and curled her lip at him.

'Big man,' she sneered. 'Finish off your concluding few drops of ale then.'

She stalked away angrily, turning in one case to glare back at him. Equally she did, a frown came over her face. There was a cloaked and cowled effigy standing directly backside the wagoner'due south chair. She hadn't seen him arrive. I moment, there was nobody about the wagoner. Then the cloaked man appeared, seemingly having risen out of the earth. She shook her head. That was fanciful, she thought. Then she reconsidered, noting the mottled green and grayness cloak the man wore. It was a Ranger'southward cloak, and folk said that Rangers could do all manner of unnatural things – like actualization and disappearing at will.

The Ranger stood straight behind the wagoner'south chair. So far, the ill-tempered human being had no idea that he was in that location.

The shadow of the cowl hid the newcomer'south features. All that was visible was a steel-grey bristles. Then he slipped back the cowl to reveal a grim face, with night eyes and gray, roughly trimmed hair to friction match the bristles.

At the same time, he drew a heavy saxe knife from below the cloak and tapped its flat side gently on the wagoner's shoulder, leaving it resting at that place so the wagoner could meet information technology with his peripheral vision.

'Don't turn around.'

The wagoner stiffened, sitting bolt upright on his bench. Instinctively, he began to turn to view the man behind him. The saxe rapped on his shoulder, harder this time.

'I said don't.'

The control was uttered in a more than peremptory tone, and some of those nearby became aware of the scene playing out at the tabular array. The low murmur of voices died abroad to silence as more people noticed. All eyes turned towards the rear table, where the wagoner sat, seemingly transfixed.

Somewhere, someone recognised the significance of the grey mottled cloak and the heavy saxe knife.

'It's a Ranger.'

The wagoner slumped as he heard the words, and a haunted look came over his face up.

'Y'all're Henry Wheeler,' the Ranger said.

At present the haunted wait inverse to one of abject fear. The large man shook his head apace, spittle flight from his lips as he denied the proper name.

'No! I'thou Henry Carrier! You've got the incorrect man! I swear.'

The Ranger'due south lips twisted in what might have been a smile. 'Wheeler . . . Carrier. Not a very imaginative stretch if yous're planning to modify your name. And y'all should take got rid of the Henry.'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' the wagoner babbled. He began to

plow to face his accuser. Over again, the saxe rapped him sharply on the shoulder.

'I told you. Don't turn around.'

'What do you desire from me?' The wagoner's vocalisation was rising in pitch. Those watching were convinced that he knew why the grim-faced Ranger had singled him out.

'Perchance you could tell me.'

'I haven't washed anything! Whoever this Wheeler person is, information technology's not me! I tell you, you've got the wrong man! Leave me be, I say.'

He tried to put a sense of command into the last few words and failed miserably. They came out more than as a guilt-laden plea for mercy than the indignation of an innocent man. The Ranger said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said three words.

'The Wyvern Inn.'

At present the guilt and fright were all also evident on the wagoner's face.

'Think it, Henry? The Wyvern Inn in Anselm Fief. 18 months ago. You were there.'

'No!'

'What about the name Jory Ruhl, Henry? Call back him? He was the leader of your gang, wasn't he?'

'I never heard of no Jory Ruhl!'

'Oh, I think you have.'

'I never have! I was never at any Wyvern Inn and I had zero to do with the . . .'

The big man stopped, realising he was about to captive himself with his words.

'So you weren't there, and you had nothing to practise with . . . what exactly, Henry?'

'Nil! I never did nix. Yous're twisting my words! I wasn't there! I don't know anything about what happened!'

'Are you lot referring to the fire that y'all and Ruhl set in that inn, past whatsoever chance? There was a woman killed in that fire, call back? A Courier. She got out of the building. Only there was a child trapped inside. Nobody of import, just a peasant daughter – the sort of person you would consider beneath your detect.'

'No! Y'all're making this up!' Wheeler cried.

The Ranger was unrelenting. 'Just the Courier didn't call back she was unimportant, did she? She went back into the burning edifice to relieve her. She shoved the girl out through an upper-floor window, and then the roof collapsed and she was killed. Surely you lot remember now?'

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