Review
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Praise for the New York Times bestselling Tournament at Gorlan
* "Action and intrigue, great characters, and a properly y
villain make this book an absolute necessity for any library.
With appeal for both boys and girls, libraries can anticipate a
waiting list for this title and great anticipation for the
sequel."–School Library Connection, starred review
"Flanagan’s familiar mix of action, humor, and cliff-hanger
endings will have fans and newbies hooked."–School Library
Journal
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About the Author
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John Flanagan grew up in Sydney, Australia, hoping to be a
writer, and after a successful career in advertising and
television, he began writing a series of short stories for his
son, Michael, in order to encourage him to read. Those stories
would eventually become The Ruins of Gorlan, Book 1 of the
Ranger’s Apprentice epic. Together with his companion series,
Brotand Chronicles, the novels of John Flanagan have sold
millions of copies and made readers of kids the world over. Mr.
Flanagan lives in the suburb of Manly, Australia, with his wife.
In addition to their son, they have two grown daughters and four
grandsons.
You can visit John Flanagan at
www.RangersApprentice.com
www.BrotandChronicles.com
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
It had been raining for a week.
Not heavy rain, but a steady, persistent, soaking rain that
finally overcame the protective oil in their woolen cloaks and
worked its way into the fabric itself, making it heavy and
sodden.
And cold.
As they had done for the previous few nights, Halt and Crowley
were camping out in the woods. Halt suggested that they should
avoid towns and villages until they were sure they were clear of
Morgarath’s sphere of influence, and Crowley initially agreed.
Halt, after all, had more experience of traveling as a fugitive
than he did. Now, however, he wasn’t quite so sure about the
decision.
They were sitting under a rectangular oilskin sheet that they
had spread between four trees, with the lower side angled so that
the rain would run off it. The ground beneath them was saturated
and they had constructed low cots from tree branches to keep them
off the wet earth. Each cot consisted of a rectangular frame,
with a series of short crosspieces, and leafy boughs laid across
it to form a rough mattress. Each day, they would disassemble the
frames and carry the longer timber pieces with them, lashed in a
bundle.
A few meters away, their horses were tethered. The animals
huddled together, sharing their body warmth and keeping their
hindquarters turned to the wind and rain.
Halt shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. As he
moved, a runnel of water ran off the cowl and landed on his nose,
continuing its downward passage to drip off the end. Seeing it,
Crowley laughed.
Halt turned an accusing eye on him. “What do you find so
amusing?” he asked coldly.
Crowley, also huddled inside his cloak, nodded his head toward
his friend. “You sitting there, hunched over and dripping, like
an old man with a runny nose,” he said. Unfortunately, the
shrugging movement dislodged a stream of water from his own cowl
and the drops ran down his nose. He sniffed, the smile dying on
his face.
“You find it amusing that I’m soaked to the skin and dying of
cold?” Halt asked.
Crowley made as if to shrug, then realized that such a movement
would send more water running, and restrained himself. “Not
amusing, perhaps. But certainly diverting.”
Halt turned, very carefully, to face him. “And from what does
this divert you?” he asked, with careful attention to his
grammar. When Halt was in a bad mood, he invariably paid careful
attention to his grammar.
“From the fact that I’m also sitting here with water running off
my nose, cold, wet and miserable,” Crowley said.
Halt considered that. “You’re uncomfortable?”
Crowley nodded, sending more water cascading. “Totally,” he said.
“Some Ranger you turned out to be,” Halt told him. “I thought
Rangers could face the worst discomfort in the line of duty with
a smile on their lips and a song in their heart. I didn’t realize
they would sit around whining and complaining.”
“Facing discomfort doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to whine and
complain about it. Besides, only a few minutes ago, I was
laughing and cheerful.” Crowley shivered, and pulled his cloak
tighter. More water ran off it. “These cloaks are good up to a
point. But once the water has soaked into them, they’re worse
than nothing.”
“If you were sitting here wrapped in nothing you’d soon see the
difference,” Halt replied. Crowley grunted, and a brief silence
fell over the campsite, broken only by the persistent patter of
rain on the leaves and the occasional stomp of one of the horses’
hooves.
They were faced with another cold supper. The air was so moisture
laden that getting a spark to take from Halt’s flint and steel to
ignite a handful of tinder would be beyond his capabilities. And
even if he could manage that, there was no dry firewood. Usually,
they traveled with an emergency supply of tinder and kindling,
but they had run out of both two days previously.
Pity, Halt thought. Even a small fire would have provided some
warmth, and the flames would have given them a psychological
boost as well. He reached for the pack on the cot beside him and
found a piece of beef jerky. He bit some off and began to chew
methodically, his jaws working on the tough, flinty meat. Maybe
the exercise of chewing the jerky would warm him, he thought. The
meat was certainly tough enough to require considerable effort
from his jaws. Slowly, the smoked meat flavor began to release
from the jerky and fill his mouth. Then, of course, he realized
how very hungry he really was, and how little rtunity he
would have to relieve that hunger.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Being cold and
hungry was miserable. Being wet was equally so. Being all three
was well nigh unbearable.
“I’ve been thinking . . . ,” Crowley began, leaving the sentence
hanging for a few seconds.
Halt shook his head. “And here am I without pencil or parchment
to record this momentous event.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow in his direction. At least, he thought,
that didn’t send water cascading down his face. He raised his
other eyebrow as well, just to make sure. No cascade, so he
relaxed them both.
“I think we might have crossed the border out of Gorlan Fief,” he
continued. Halt grunted, a noncommittal sound.
Crowley took that as a signal to expound on his theory. “That
river we crossed late this afternoon, I think that might have
been the Crowsfoot River, and that’s the border between Gorlan
and Keramon Fiefs.”
“Equally,” said Halt, “it might have been the Salmon River, and
as I recall from the , that’s still kilometers inside Gorlan.”
But Crowley shook his head. “The Salmon is much narrower—much
faster running. And it’s farther west, closer to Redmont. So
unless our navigation is well off the mark, we wouldn’t have come
close to it.”
“Well, you were the one doing the navigating,” Halt said.
Crowley gave him a hurt look. “My reading and sense of
direction aren’t wonderful. But I’m rarely twenty or thirty
kilometers offline.”
“Rarely, of course, implies that sometimes you are,” Halt pointed
out. But Crowley stuck to his point.
“Not this time. And as I say, the Salmon is narrower and faster
running.”
Halt decided to concede. “So, if you are right, what point are
you making?”
Crowley shifted as cold water ran down inside his cloak. Halt was
right, he thought, it might feel miserable sitting huddled in a
soaking cloak, but at least it still kept most of the water
out—and it did allow some body heat to be retained, damp as it
might be.
“My point is, if we’ve moved out of Gorlan Fief, we might be able
to look for an inn in a village and spend a few nights.”
“You think Morgarath would stop at the border between the two
fiefs?” asked Halt.
Crowley stuck out his bottom lip. “Perhaps not Morgarath
himself,” he admitted. “But if he had sent some of his men after
us—and we don’t even know for sure that he has—they might well
decide to turn back once they reached the limits of the fief.
Particularly in this sort of weather. They won’t be enjoying it
any more than we are.”
“It’s possible,” Halt said. “So do you have a village in mind?”
Crowley nodded. He’d been studying the before the light
failed. “There’s a village called Woolsey,” he said. “I’d guess
it’s about ten kilometers away and a little off the beaten track.
It’s big enough to have a tavern or an inn. And if it doesn’t, we
could always look for lodgings with one of the villagers.”
Halt said nothing, considering the idea. Then a problem occurred
to Crowley.
“Of course, we’d need money,” he said. “Usually when I’m
traveling, I pay with a chit that can be recled from the
Corps. But I can hardly do that now.”
Since their confrontation with Morgarath, and the fight with his
men, they had decided that Crowley should relinquish his identity
as a Ranger. Morgarath’s men would be looking for a member of the
Corps. So far, Morgarath was probably unaware that Halt had
joined Crowley. To this end, Crowley had set aside his mottled
Ranger cloak and was wearing a simple wool cloak in a dark gray
color. Halt’s cloak was a forest green. Both colors were adequate
for concealment, and not as instantly recognizable as Ranger
cloaks.
“I have money,” Halt said, and Crowley looked at him with .
“But it’s Hibernian. I’m not sure if innkeepers here will accept
it.”
“Is it gold?” Crowley asked and, when Halt nodded, he continued.
“They’ll accept it.”
“Well then,” Halt said, “tomorrow we’ll head for Woolsey village.
It’ll give us a chance to dry out our clothes and our gear. And
the horses will benefit from spending a couple of nights in a
stable.”
“Or even a week?” Crowley suggested optimistically.
Halt turned a baleful eye on him, peering at him through the
multiple drips of water that were now running from his cowl.
Crowley shrugged. “A couple of nights is good.”
“Let’s turn in,” Halt said, yawning. It had been a long day and
the thought of a dry bed on the morrow was an attractive one. He
lay down carefully and, shivering slightly, wrapped the soaking
wet cloak around him, pulling the cowl high up over his head. A
gust of wind shook the tarpaulin above them and water cascaded
down on three sides. He shivered again.
“To blazes with Morgarath’s men,” Halt muttered. “I want a nice
roaring fire tomorrow night.”
“And a hearty beef stew,” came Crowley’s muffled voice.
“And a hearty beef stew,” Halt agreed.
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