Read Ranger's Apprentice the Lost Stories Online
Tabular array of Contents
Copyright Page
Title Page
Dedication
Foreword
DEATH OF A HERO
Chapter 1
Affiliate 2
Chapter 3
Chapter four
Chapter 5
Chapter vi
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
THE INKWELL AND THE DAGGER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Affiliate 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter vi
Chapter vii
THE ROAMERS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter three
Chapter 4
Chapter five
Chapter 6
Chapter vii
Chapter 8
Chapter ix
Imperial PROSE
Chapter 1
Affiliate 2
Chapter 3
Affiliate four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Affiliate seven
DINNER FOR V
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Affiliate iii
Chapter 4
Affiliate 5
Chapter half-dozen
THE BRIDAL Trip the light fantastic toe
Chapter one
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Affiliate 6
THE HIBERNIAN
Chapter one
Affiliate two
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
THE WOLF
Affiliate 1
Chapter 2
Chapter three
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
AND ABOUT TIME Likewise...
AFTERWORD
Also past John Flanagan:
PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.s.a.A.
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(a sectionalization of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.).
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(a division of Pearson Australia Grouping Pty Ltd).
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd).
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Copyright © 2011 by John Flanagan. Map copyright © 2011 past David Elliot.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54788-5
http://us.penguingroup.com
Also by John Flanagan:
THE RANGER'Southward Amateur EPIC
BOOK ane: THE RUINS OF GORLAN
BOOK 2: THE BURNING Span
BOOK 3: THE ICEBOUND LAND
BOOK 4: THE Boxing FOR SKANDIA
Volume v: THE SORCERER OF THE North
Volume six: THE SIEGE OF MACINDAW
BOOK seven: ERAK'S RANSOM
BOOK viii: THE KINGS OF CLONMEL
Volume 9: HALT'Due south PERIL
BOOK 10: THE EMPEROR OF Nippon-JA
THE BROTHERBAND CHRONICLES
BOOK 1: THE OUTCASTS
This book is dedicated to those Ranger fans around the globe
who accept fabricated the concluding six years then enjoyable for me.
The stories that follow are in response to questions
you have asked me over the years.
Thanks all.
FOREWORD
Redman Canton
The Republic of Aralan States
(formerly the medieval Kingdom of Araluen)
July 1896
PROFESSOR GILES MACFARLANE GROANED SOFTLY Equally HE EASED his agonized back. He was getting too old to remain crouched for long periods like this, gently whisking dust away from the excavated ground before him equally he sought to release yet another artifact from the earth that had held it captive for so long.
He and his squad had come upon this ruined castle several years ago. They had mapped the outline of its triangular main walls—an unusual shape for a castle. The jagged stump of the ancient go on tower stood in the heart of the space they had cleared. The complanate tower was barely four meters high at present. But even in its ruined state, MacFarlane could see that it had been a formidable building.
Their first digging season had been spent determining the outer limits of the edifice. The following twelvemonth, they had begun a series of cantankerous trenches, digging down to discover what lay beneath the build-up of earth and rock and detritus that had collected over twelve hundred years.
Now, in the third flavor, they were downwardly to the fine piece of work, and beginning to unearth the aboriginal treasures of the dig. A belt buckle here. An arrowhead there. A knife. A cracked ladle. Jewelry whose design and general appearance dated to around the middle of the tenth century in the Common Era.
On ane momentous day, they had unearthed a granite plaque, carved with the likeness of a tusked boar. Information technology was that piece that had identified the castle beyond doubt.
"This was Castle Redmont," MacFarlane had told his hushful assistants.
Castle Redmont. Contemporary of the fabled Castle Araluen. Seat of Baron Arald, known equally i of the legendary King Duncan's staunchest retainers. If Redmont had really existed, then surely all the tales of its people might have a basis in fact. Possibly, MacFarlane thought, hoping across promise, he would observe proof that the mysterious Rangers of Araluen had actually existed. It would be a staggeringly pregnant discovery.
But as this season had progressed and the trenches had been dug deeper withal, there had been no find as important as that get-go one. MacFarlane and his people had to be content with the normal fare of excavations—nondescript metal tools and ornaments, pottery shards and remnants of cooking vessels.
They searched and dug and brushed, hoping every day that they would observe their personal Holy Grail. But as the summer earthworks season passed, MacFarlane had begun to lose promise. For this year, at least.
"Professor! Professor!"
He stood, rubbing his back again, every bit he heard his name being called. Ane of the young volunteers from the university who augmented his paid staff was running through the digging, waving as she saw him. He frowned. An archaeological dig was no place to be moving and so recklessly. A slight misstep could ruin weeks of patient work. So he recognized her equally Audrey, one of his favorites, and his expression softened. She was young. The young were often reckless.
She drew level with him and stood, shoulders heaving, as she recovered her breath.
"Well, Audrey, what is information technology?" he said, after giving her a little time.
Still panting, she pointed down the loma toward the River Tarb.
"Across the river," she said. "Amid a tangle of trees and bushes. Nosotros've establish the outline of an ancient motel."
He shrugged, not excited past this revelation. "In that location was a village down in that location," he said. "It's not surprising." But Audrey was shaking her head and grasped his arm to lead him downwards the loma.
"It's way exterior the village limits," she said. "It was on its ain. Yous must come and run across it!"
MacFarlane hesitate
d. It would be a long walk downhill, and an even longer one back up. So he shrugged mentally. Enthusiasm similar Audrey'south should be encouraged, he thought, not stifled. He allowed the girl to lead him down the rough, zigzag path.
They crossed the old span that spanned the river. Never 1 to miss a chance to teach, he indicated to the daughter how the supports at either end were much older than the center span.
"The middle section is much newer," he said. "These bridges were designed then that the heart span could be removed or destroyed in the issue of an attack."
Ordinarily, Audrey would have hung on his every word. The professor was a personal hero for her. But today she was in a fever of excitement to evidence him her find.
"Yes, yes," she said distractedly, urging him on. He smiled indulgently as she tugged at his sleeve, leading him away from the remains of the ancient village. The going became tougher every bit they entered the forest and had to make their mode along a narrow path, through the shut-growing large copse and unkempt undergrowth. Finally, Audrey turned off the path and, bending double, forced a way through a tangle of vines and creepers. MacFarlane followed awkwardly, then stood in some amazement as he found himself in a small-scale clearing, surrounded by ancient oaks and more than modern dogwood.
"How on globe did you find this?" he asked.
Audrey blushed. "Oh . . . I . . . er . . . needed a picayune privacy . . . you know," she said awkwardly.
He nodded, waving a mitt. "Say no more."
She led him frontwards, and looking where she pointed, his adept centre could see the unmistakable outline of a small hut or motel. Most of the structure had rotted abroad, of course. Just there were still a few vestiges of the upright columns remaining.
"Oak," he said. "Information technology'll last for centuries."
The outlines of the rooms and dividing walls could still be made out—faint signs imprinted into the ground itself over the centuries, even though the original construction was long gone. And the flattened, level ground of the interior floor was all also obvious.
"At that place may have been a stable at the rear," she said, her vocalization hushed in this aboriginal place. "I establish a few metallic pieces—bits and what might have been harness buckles. And the remains of a bucket."
MacFarlane turned in a deadening circle, studying the dim outline of the edifice.
"It's a different layout to the hamlet houses," he said, almost to himself. "Completely unlike."
He took a couple of steps, intent on making a rough measurement of the motel's dimensions, then stopped all of a sudden.
"Did you hear that?"
Audrey nodded, eyes wide. "Your final footstep. Information technology sounded as if the ground were hollow."
They dropped to their knees together and scrabbled at the dirt and foliage mold. Audrey rapped her duke on the basis and again they heard the sound of a hollow space below. MacFarlane never moved anywhere without a pocket-sized paw spade in his chugalug. He took it at present and began tossing the earth aside. So the blade thumped against something solid—solid, merely with a certain give in it.
Working quickly, testing the ground for that hollow sound continually every bit he went, he cleared a rectangular space, some xl centimeters by fifty. Audrey leaned forward and brushed the remaining globe from the center. They found themselves looking at an aboriginal, desiccated timber panel. A brass band was fix in one side and MacFarlane gently eased the spade under it, lifting information technology.
The panel came with it, splintering and half disintegrating, to reveal a stone-lined space underneath.
A space that independent an ancient wood-and-brass chest.
In one case more, the professor used the spade to edge the chapeau of the chest open up. Audrey put a hand on his to stop him.
"Should nosotros be doing this?" she asked. She knew MacFarlane would normally never disturb an artifact similar this without taking the utmost care to preserve it from harm.
He met her gaze.
"No," he said. "But I'thou not waiting any longer."
The lid opened with surprising ease. Brass hinges, he thought. If they had been iron, they would accept fallen to powdery rust long ago. Gently, barely containing his enthusiasm, he lifted it back and peered inside.
The breast was full of pages of manuscripts—written on parchment or vellum that was now breakable and delicate. Gently, he eased one canvas upwardly. The edges crumbled but the middle remained intact. He leaned forrad, craning to read the closely written words on the folio. Advisedly, he studied other pages, treatment the breakable manuscript pages with practiced intendance, making out names, places, events.
Then he gently replaced the sheets and leaned back on his haunches, his optics glistening with excitement.
"Audrey," he said, "do you know what we've found?"
She shook her head. Obviously, from his reaction, this was something major. No, she thought, more that, something unprecedented.
"What is it?" she asked.
MacFarlane threw back his head and laughed, withal unwilling to believe it.
"Nosotros never knew what had become of them," he said, and when she cocked her head in an unspoken question, he explained further.
"The Rangers. Halt, Will Treaty and the others. The chronicles and the legends simply take us equally far as the point where they returned from their voyage to Nihon-Ja. Only now we have these."
"But what are they, Professor?"
MacFarlane laughed aloud. "They're the rest of the tale, my girl! We've establish the Lost Stories of Araluen!"
Expiry OF A HERO
1
Information technology HAD BEEN A LONG, Difficult THREE DAYS.
Will had been on a bout of the villages surrounding Castle Redmont. It was something he did on a regular footing, keeping in affect with the villagers and their headmen, keeping track of the everyday goings-on. Sometimes, he had learned, little pieces of gossip, seemingly trivial at the time, could become useful in heading off future problem and friction within the fief.
Information technology was role of beingness a Ranger. Information, no thing how unimportant it might seem at outset glance, was a Ranger's lifeblood.
Now, late in the afternoon, equally he rode wearily up to the motel set among the trees, he was surprised to encounter lights in the windows and the silhouette of someone sitting on the pocket-sized verandah.
Surprise turned to pleasure when he recognized Halt. These days Will'south mentor was an infrequent visitor to the cabin, spending most of his time in the rooms provided for him and Lady Pauline in the castle.
Will swung down from the saddle and stretched his tired muscles gratefully.
"Hullo," he said. "What brings you hither? I hope you've got the coffee on."
"Coffee's prepare," Halt replied. "Tend to your horse and and then join me. I demand to talk to you." His vocalism sounded strained.
Marvel piqued, Volition led Tug to the stable behind the cabin, unharnessed him, rubbed him downwardly and ready out feed and fresh water. The piffling horse butted his shoulder gratefully. He patted Tug'southward neck, then headed dorsum to the cabin.
Halt was still on the verandah. He had set out ii cups of hot coffee on a small side tabular array and Will sat in one of the wood-and-sail chairs and sipped gratefully at the refreshing mash. He felt the warmth of it flowing through his chilled, strong muscles. Winter was coming on and the wind had been cold and cutting all 24-hour interval.
He gazed at Halt. The gray-bearded Ranger seemed strangely ill at ease. And despite his claim that he needed to talk to Will, one time the usual greetings were out of the style, he seemed nigh reluctant to begin the conversation.
"You had something to tell me?" Will prompted.
Halt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And so, with an obvious try, he plunged in.
"There's something y'all should know," he said. "Something I probably should have told you long ago. It'southward just . . . the fourth dimension never seemed correct."
Volition'due south curiosity grew. He had never seen Halt in such an uncertain mood. He waited, giving his mentor time to settle his thoughts.
"Pauline thinks information technology'south time I told y'all,"
Halt said. "And then does Arald. They've both known virtually it for some time. Then maybe I should just . . . get on with it."
"Is information technology something bad?" Volition asked, and Halt looked direct at him for the showtime time in several minutes.
"I'm non sure," he said. "You might recollect so."
For a moment, Will wondered if he wanted to hear it, any information technology might be. And then, seeing the discomfort on Halt's face, he realized that, good or bad, it was something that his instructor had to get off his chest. He gestured for Halt to continue.
Halt paused for a few more seconds, and then he began.
"I suppose it starts after the concluding battle against Morgarath's forces, at Hackham Heath. They'd been retreating for several days. Then they stopped and made a stand up. We'd broken their main assault and we were forcing them back. But they were rallying on the right, where they'd establish a weak point in our line . . ."
2
South of Hackham Heath
"SIRE! THE Right FLANK IS IN Trouble!"
Duncan, the young Male monarch of Araluen, heard the herald's shout above the terrible din of battle. The clash of weapons and shields, the screaming and sobbing of the wounded and dying, the shouted orders of commanders rallying their troops and the involuntary, inarticulate cries of the soldiers themselves every bit they cut and stabbed and shoved against the implacable enemy formed an about deafening matrix of sound around him.
Duncan thrust one time more at the snarling Wargal earlier him, felt the sword become home and saw the snarl change to a puzzled frown as the fauna realized it was already dead. So he stepped back, disengaging himself from the immediate battle—physically and mentally.
A young knight from the Araluen Battleschool apace took his place in the line, his sword already swinging in a murderous arc as he stepped frontward, cutting through the Wargal front rank, like a scythe through long grass.
Duncan rested for a moment, leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. He shook his head to articulate it.
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