The First Ranger

1: Araluen Fief

A mounted knight rose the crest just north of Castle Araluen and reined in his horse. He patted its neck soothingly as thanks for its willingness for the overnight journey from which he had just returned. It was mid-morning and the brisk clouds were clearing away, giving the graceful castle a pale gold glow. The grizzled knight loved this sight; the fact that he had seen it too many times to count did nothing to lessen the beauty of the building. Finished with his brief check and moment of woolgathering, he nudged his horse onward and it responded with a slow, relaxed trot. Due to the urgency of this mission, he was tempted to urge it faster but was logical enough to know that the horse was exhausted. He also knew that five minutes' difference wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

He rode under the drawbridge after exchanging pleasantries with the sentries on duty, then dismounted and looped one arm through his horse's reins while he stretched his back, thumping his fists into the small of it. The ache that this caused bore testimony to the fact that he was no longer a young man, as he liked to think he was. So did the color of his normally close-cropped beard, which had been black but was now salt-and-pepper gray.

The Chamberlain, walking by, noticed the tired rider and a look of delight crossed his face when he realized who it was, almost immediately replaced by a small frown of concern. "A pleasure to see you again, Sir Gael! But were you not in the north, dealing with the Scotti?"

Gael nodded gravely. "Aye, I was," he concurred. "But the battles are going badly. I was sent south again to report our losses."

The Chamberlain nodded his understanding. "You will be needing to see the King, then," he said, and without waiting for a reply he shouted to a page coming out of the keep stables. The boy came up to them and accepted the reins to Gael's chestnut horse. The horse followed him gratefully into the stables. Gael, after seeing that his horse was tended to, set up the stairs for the King's office on the fourth floor of the keep.

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King Herbert stared at him, aghast. "Three hundred and fifty?" he exclaimed, incredulous.

The aging knight nodded. It was only the fifth time the King had said that, each time in the same exact tone of disbelief. "Yes," he answered simply. "And a further four dozen wounded. As you know only too well, we sent up five hundred foot troopers, one hundred and fifty cavalrymen, and ninety archer units. Ten of the archers are included in the wounded, but they were all alive when I left. That leaves one hundred and ten cavalry, one hundred and ninety remaining foot troopers, and the eighty other archer units. And the raids are becoming more organized. It is quite possible that they will be launching an actual invasion soon."

The King slammed his hand down on the table, the palm making a sharp crack that echoed the angry monarch's feelings. Simultaneously, he let go a few curses and quickly made a gesture of apology to the other man.

Gael shrugged, understanding the man's feelings. Still, he needed to let the King know the extent of the bad news. "The reason I was sent down in the first place, apart from the fact that I'm getting a bit old for combat, is that we ran out of report pigeons. Baron Rolland of Macindaw refused to supply us with more. The same goes when we requested more men from him."

The King snorted in disgust. "Typical! Rolland does not care about anything or anyone but himself and his well-being. He would probably join the Scotti if they paid him enough."

Gael said nothing but agreed with his King. The fact was, Araluen was practically in anarchy. The previous few generations of Kings had not exactly done much to endear the Barons to the ruler or each other, and the result was the current condition of the country. The island nation was rich in farmland and had a wide variety of other landscapes – rugged forests to the north, windswept plains to the southeast, and mountainous terrain appropriately named the Spiny Mountains exactly in the center. Trouble was, no one could agree on one leader. At least four and possibly up to half a dozen separate fiefs thought that they were the prime choice, but none in that number was the King, nor were they in Araluen Fief. Baron Marshall of Redmont believed that his fief would be the best for the royal capital because of the fact that Redmont Fief was one of the largest fiefs.