Erak's Ransom: Book Seven (Ranger's Apprentice, Band 7) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John Flanagan grew up in Sydney, Australia, hoping to be a writer. John began writing Ranger’s Apprentice for his son, Michael, ten years ago, and is still hard at work on the series and its spinoff, Brotherband Chronicles. He currently lives in the suburb of Manly, Australia, with his wife. In addition to their son, they have two grown daughters and four grandsons.

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The sentry never saw the dark-clad figure ghosting through the night toward Castle Araluen.

Merging with the prevailing patterns of light and shade thrown by the half-moon, the interloper seemed to blend into the fabric of the night, matching the rhythm of the trees and cloud shadows as they moved with the moderate wind.

The sentry’s post was in the outer cordon, outside the walls of the massive castle, by the southeastern tower. The moat rippled gently behind him, its surface stirred by the wind so that the reflections of the stars in the dark water were set shimmering in a thousand tiny points of light. Before him stretched the massive parkland that surrounded the castle, carefully tended, immaculately mown and dotted with fruit and shade trees.

The ground sloped gently away from the castle. There were trees and small shady dells where couples or individuals could sit and relax and picnic in relative privacy, sheltered from the sun. But the trees were small and they were well spaced out, with plenty of open ground between them so that concealment would be denied to any large attacking force. It was a well-ordered compromise between the provision of privacy and relaxation and the need for security in an age when an attack could conceivably happen at any time.

Thirty meters to the left of where the sentry stood, a picnic table had been fashioned by attaching an old cart wheel to the sawn-off stump of what had been a larger tree. Several rustic benches were placed around the table and a smaller tree had been planted to one side to shade it at noon. It was a favorite spot for the knights and their ladies, affording a good overview of the green, pleasant parklands that sloped away to the distant dark line of a forest.

The intruder was heading toward this table.

He slipped into the shadows of a small grove forty meters from the bench, then dropped belly-down to the ground. Taking one last look to get a bearing, the dark figure snaked out of the shadows, facedown, heading for the shelter of the table.

Progress was painstakingly slow. This was a trained stalker who knew that any rapid movement would register with the sentry’s pe-ripheral vision. As shadows of clouds passed over the park, the crawling figure would move with them, rippling unobtrusively across the short grass, seeming to be just one more moving shadow. The dark green clothing aided concealment. Black would have been too dark and would have created too deep a shadow.

It took ten minutes to cover the distance to the table. A few meters short of the objective, the figure froze as the guard suddenly stiffened, as if alerted by some sound or slight movement—or perhaps just an intuitive sense that all was not quite right. He turned and peered in the general direction of the table, not even registering the dark, unmoving shape a few meters from it.

Eventually satisfied that there was no danger, the sentry shook his head, stamped his feet, marched a few paces to the right then back to the left, then shifted his spear to his left hand and rubbed his eyes with his right.

He yawned, then settled into a slump, his weight resting more on one foot than the other. He sniffed wryly. He’d never get away with that relaxed posture on daylight sentry duty. But it was after midnight now and the sergeant of the guard was unlikely to come and check on him in the next hour.

As the sentry relaxed again, the dark figure slid the last few meters to the shelter of the table. Rising slowly to a crouching position, he studied the situation. The sentry, after his shuffling and stamping, had moved a few meters farther away from the table, but not enough to cause a problem.

There was a long leather thong knotted around the intruder’s waist. Now, untied, it could be seen to be a sling, with a soft leather pouch at its center. A smooth, heavy stone went into the pouch and the figure rose a little, beginning to swing the simple weapon in a wide slow circle, using a minimal wrist movement and gradually building up speed.

The sentry became aware of a foreign sound in the night. It began as a deep-throated, almost inaudible hum, and slowly grew higher in pitch. The change was so gradual that he wasn’t sure at what point he became aware of it. It sounded like an insect of some sort . . . a giant bee, perhaps. It was difficult to detect the direction the sound was coming from. Then a memory stirred. One of the other sentries had mentioned a similar sound some days previously. He’d said it was . . .

Clang!

An unseen missile smashed into the head of his spear. The force of the impact snatched the weapon from his loose grasp, sending it cartwheeling away from him. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword and he had it half drawn when a slim figure rose from behind the table to his left.

The cry of alarm froze in his throat as the intruder pushed back the dark cowl that had concealed a mass of blond hair.

“Relax! It’s only me,” she said, the amusement obvious in her voice. Even in the dark, even at thirty meters’ distance, the laughing voice and the distinctive blond hair marked her as Cassandra, Crown Princess of Araluen.

2

“It must stop, Cassandra,” Duncan said. He was angry. She could see that. If it hadn’t been obvious from the way he paced behind the table in his office, she would have known it from the fact that he called her Cassandra. His usual name for her was Cass or Cassie.

And today, he was thoroughly annoyed with her. He had a full morning’s work ahead of him. His desk was littered with petitions and judgments, there was a trade delegation from Teutlandt clamoring for his attention and now he had to take time out to deal with a complaint about his daughter’s behavior.

She spread her hands palm-out before her—a gesture that mixed frustration and explanation in equal parts.

“Dad, I was just—”

“You were just skulking around the countryside after midnight, stalking an innocent sentry and then frightening the devil out of him with that damn sling of yours! What if you’d hit him, instead of the spear?”

“I didn’t,” she said simply. “I hit what I aim at. I aimed at the spearhead.”

He glared at her and held out his hand.

“Let me have it,” he said, and when she cocked her head, not understanding, he added, “The sling. Let me have it.”

He saw the determined set to her jaw before she spoke.

“No,” she said.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you defying me? I am the King, after all.”

“I’m not defying you. I’m just not giving you that sling. I made it. It took me a week to get it just right. I’ve practiced with it for months so that I don’t miss what I aim at. I’m not handing it over so you can destroy it. Sorry.” She added the last word after a pause.

“I’m also your father,” he pointed out.

She nodded acceptance of the fact. “I respect that. But you’re angry. And if I hand over my sling to you now, you’ll cut it up -without thinking, won’t you?”

He shook his head in frustration and turned away to the window. They were in his study, a large, airy and well-lit room that overlooked the park.

“I cannot have you stalking around in the dark surprising the sentries,” he said. He could see they had reached an impasse over the matter of the sling and he thought it best to change his point of attack. He knew how stubborn his daughter could be.

“It’s not fair to the men,” he continued. “This is the third time it’s happened and they’re getting tired of your silly games. The...