All things considered, and with a great deal of reluctance, the Battlemaster was beginning to feel that he would have to expel Horace from Battleschool. All the evidence seemed to point in that direction. Yet his instincts told him he was wrong. That there was some other factor he wasn't aware of.

In point of fact, there were three other factors: Alda, Bryn and Jerome. And even as the Battlemaster was considering the future of his newest recruit, they had Horace surrounded once more.

It seemed that each time Horace managed to find a place where he could escape their attentions, the three older students tracked him down. Of course, this wasn't difficult for them, as they had a network of spies and informants among the other younger boys who were afraid of them, both in and outside the Battleschool. This time, they had cornered Horace behind the armory, in a quiet spot that he had discovered a few days before. He was hemmed in against the stone wall of the armory building, the three bullies standing in a half circle before him. Each of them carried a thick cane and Alda had a piece of heavy sacking folded over one arm.

"We we been looking for you, Baby," said Alda. Horace said nothing. His eyes shifted from one to the other as he wondered which of them would be the first to make a move. "Baby's made a fool of us," Bryn said. "Made a fool of the entire Battleschool." That was Jerome. Horace frowned, puzzled by their words. He had no idea what they were talking about. Alda's next statement made it clear. "Baby had to be rescued from the big, bad boar," he said. "By a little, creeping apprentice sneaker," Bryn added, the sneer heavy in his tone.

"And that makes us all look bad." Jerome shoved him against the shoulder as he spoke, pushing him back against the rough stone of the wall. His face was red and angry and Horace knew he was building himself up for something. Horace's hands bunched into fists at his side. Jerome saw the action.

"Don't threaten me, Baby! Time you learned a lesson." He stepped forward threateningly. Horace turned to face him and, in the same instant, knew he had made a mistake. Jerome's move was a feint. The real attack came from Alda, who whipped a heavy hessian sack over Horace's head before he could resist, pulling a drawcord tight so that he was contained from the waist up, blinded and helpless.

He felt several loops of the drawcord falling over his shoulders to fasten it, then the blows began.

He staggered blindly, helpless to defend himself as the three boys rained blows down on him from the heavy canes they had been carrying. He blundered into the wall and fell, unable to break his fall with his arms immobilized by his side. The blows continued, falling on his unprotected head, his arms and his legs as the three boys continued their mindless litany of hate." Call for the sneaker to save you now, Baby."

"This is for making us all look like fools."

"Learn respect for your Battleschool, Baby. " On and on it went as he writhed on the ground, trying in vain to escape the blows. It was the worst beating they had ever given him and they continued until, gradually, mercifully, he fell still, semiconscious. They each hit him a few more times, then Alda dragged the sack clear. Horace drew in one giant shuddering breath of fresh air. He ached and hurt viciously in every part of his body. From a long distance away, he heard Bryn's voice. "Now let's teach the sneaker the same lesson. " The others laughed and he heard them moving away. He groaned softly, longing for the release of unconsciousness, wanting to let himself sink into its dark, welcoming arms so that the pain would go away, at least for a while.

Then the full import of Bryn's words struck him. They were going to give the same treatment to Will-for the ridiculous reason that they felt his action in saving Horace had somehow belittled them and their Battleschool. With a gigantic effort, he pushed the welcoming folds of darkness back and struggled to his feet, moaning with the pain, chest heaving, head spinning, as he supported himself against the wall. He remembered his promise to Will: If you ever need a friend, you can call on me.

It was time to make good on the promise.

Chapter 22

WILL WAS IN THE OPEN MEADOW BEHIND HALT'S COTTAGE, practicing. He had four targets set up at different ranges and was alternating his shots at random between the four of them, never firing at the same one twice in a row. Halt had set the exercise for him before he had gone to the Baron's office to discuss a dispatch that had come in from the King." If you fire twice at the same target," he had said," you'll begin to rely on the first shot to determine your direction and elevation. That way, you'll never learn to shoot instinctively. You'll always need to fire a sighting shot first. " Will knew his teacher was right. But that didn't make the exercise any easier. To add to the difficulty, Halt had stipulated that he should let no more than five seconds elapse between each shot.

Frowning in concentration, he let the last five arrows of a set go. One after the other, in rapid succession, they flashed across the meadow, thudding into the targets. Will, his quiver empty for the tenth time that morning, stopped to survey the results. He nodded in satisfaction. Every arrow had hit a target, and most of them were clustered in the inner ring or the bull's-eye itself. It was shooting of an exceptionally high quality and it proved to him the value of constant practice. He wasn't to know it, of course, but there were already few archers in the kingdom, outside of the Ranger Corps, who could have matched him. Even the archers in the King's army weren't trained to shoot with such individual speed and accuracy.

They were trained to fire as a group, sending a mass of arrows against an attacking force. As a result, their training concentrated more on coordinated actions, so that all arrows were fired simultaneously.

He had just set the bow down, preparatory to recovering his arrows, when the sound of a footstep behind him made him turn. He was a little surprised to see three Battleschool apprentices watching him, their red surcoats marking them as second-year trainees. He didn't recognize any of them, but he nodded a friendly greeting. "Good morning," he said. "What brings you down here?" It was unusual to find Battleschool apprentices this far from the castle. He noted the thick canes that they all carried and decided they must have set out for a walk, The closest of them, a handsome, blond-haired boy, smiled and said: "We're looking for the Ranger's apprentice." Will couldn't help smiling in return. After all, the Ranger cloak that he wore marked him unmistakably as an apprentice Ranger. But perhaps the Battleschool apprentice was only being polite. "Well, you've found him," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"We've brought a message from the Battleschool for you," the boy replied.

Like all Battleschool trainees, he was tall and well muscled, as were his companions. They moved closer to him now and Will instinctively backed off a pace. They were a little too close, he felt. Closer than they needed to be to pass on a message. "It's about what happened at the boar hunt," said one of the others. This one was red-haired, with a heavy dusting of freckles, and a nose that showed distinct signs of having been broken-probably in one of the training combats that Battleschool students were always practicing. Will shrugged uncomfortably. There was something in the air he didn't like. The blond boy was smiling still. But neither the redhead nor their third companion, an olive-skinned boy who was the tallest of the three, looked as if they thought there was anything to smile about.

"You know," Will said, "people are talking a lot of nonsense about that. I didn't do much."