Ignoring History - Ranger's Apprentice Fanfiction

Chapter 34

"I think," Gilan started, "and feel free to say if I'm wrong, that this isn't your first encounter with an Araluen in the past few months."

The king didn't answer, and Gilan sighed.

"I see," he said, bowing his head down. "Well, thank you for seeing us. We will be leaving now."

Turning away, Gilan nodded at Arald and Jurgen. They headed towards the door.

"Wait!"

Gilan stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to find King Swyddnd, standing, with a hand outreached. The Embassy gave him a nasty look. "I—we—" He took a deep breath. "Good luck," he said. "Know that while we do not openly support you, we root for your success. I am sorry we cannot do anything more."

Gilan tried to smile. He bowed. And without a word, he turned and walked out of the room with Arald and Jurgen trailing behind him. It didn't take long for them to retrieve their horses and exit the castle gates.

"What was that about?" Arald said as he mounted his horse.

Gilan winced, a grim look on his face. "I think Morgarath was a step ahead of us on this front," he said. "He must have blackmailed them somehow."

"But how did you know?"

"You mean without seeing the looks on their faces?" Gilan said. "From what I've heard in the past, King Swyddned isn't a stupid man. He wouldn't just give his people up like that."

"I just hope Morgarath didn't do anything too brutal," Jurgen said. "The Celts would rather mine their land than defend it, so they would have been hit pretty hard."

"It's Morgarath we're talking about," Arald said. "He's always ruthless. He probably has Celtica twirled around one of his fingers."

"Probably," Jurgen nodded. He scratched the back of his head. "But I don't think we should worry too much about it. Our main focus now is returning to the army and defeating Morgarath's army before they can do any more harm."

Gilan nodded. "Right," he said. "If we defeat Morgarath, then Celtica will be free from whatever he did. We'll knock two birds with one stone."

"We should hurry, then," Arald said, looking up at the sky. "I'm sure the battle has started by now, and Rodney is going to need as much help as he could get."

They rode back towards the border in silence, each deep in their own thoughts. And for Gilan, that meant sinking back into his doubts and concerns. He grasped onto his sword, mindlessly fiddling his fingers. It was one thing to be late to battle and another one to have brought no help. If nothing else, at least they had King Swyddned's support. It may have meant nothing without anything to back it up, but at least, Gilan knew that Celtica wouldn't be declaring war on Araluen.

It was only a small comfort though, and Gilan knew deep down that it didn't really matter what Swyddned thought. What mattered was the outcome of the battle, how well he would be able to handle himself.

He had trained his whole life, and it all led up to this point. A chance to change Araluen for the better, a chance for justice. But was he strong enough? Was he good enough? If he failed, then would the whole revolution fail? Would he be the cause of everyone else's success, or would he be the reason they fell short?

Gilan took a swig from his canteen, feeling the bitter taste of cold coffee run down his throat. He gulped. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Gilan forced himself to relax. All that was left off Jenny's flower was a flimsy stem—the white petals had fallen off somewhere—but it was enough.

Just try, he told himself. He heard Jenny's voice repeating it over and over. Just try and try and try. Just try to live, just try to survive.

Nodding to himself, Gilan took a deep breath. He started to close his eyes, but something flickered in the corner of his eye. He blinked.

Gilan looked towards the mountain range that was situated in the distance—the Mountains of Rain and Night. He rubbed his eyes, squinting into the distance.

"What is it?" Jurgen said.

Gilan glanced at the ranger, then back at the mountains. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "I thought I saw something, but it must have been my imagination. You know... since we pulled an all-nighter. I'm sure I'll be fine."

Jurgen frowned. "Do you want to stop? We can rest for a little bit before joining the others. You're going to need all of your energy for battle."

"No, no." Gilan attempted a grin. "I'm all good. It'd be best if we get there sooner."

"If you say so."

"I know so. Come on, we're almost there anyways."

Before long, the song of battle reached their ears. Gilan shared a glance with Arald and Jurgen before drawing his sword. He looked down at his reflection and nodded to himself before lowering the visor of his helmet. "Ready?" he said, more to himself than anyone.

"For Araluen," Arald said.

Gilan inhaled. He raised his sword. "For Araluen."

And so the three rode headfirst into battle.

Gilan yelled as he entered the fray, standing in his saddle. He waved his sword at the soldiers below him, knocking several off balance. Swinging his leg over his horse, Gilan huffed. He jumped off and rolled onto the ground.

Quickly standing, Gilan quickly found an opponent. He swung his sword, jumping around as if he was dancing. It was like a hurricane, the whole thing—how he knew everything and nothing at once. Gilan didn't even notice when he stopped thinking. He let instinct take over his movements, swinging and sidestepping at a moment's notice. If anyone were to have been watching him, they would have found a rhythm to the way he moved.

Wiping a spot of blood off his sword, Gilan turned to meet another sword. The blades collided, the sound of metal harsh in Gilan's ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted another soldier barging straight for him. His breath hitched as he dropped to the ground, allowing his two opponents to crash into each other.

Gilan quickly moved away, his sword hungry for another fight. He breathed. As time passed, Gilan found himself to be more at ease with himself. He almost forgot about the immense pressure that was weighing him down.

That didn't last long though.

"Wargals!" came the frenzied cry of Sir Rodney. "They have wargals!"

Gilan almost choked on his own spit. He spun around to face the Mountains of Rain and Night, stumbling back at the tens of wargals—large dog-like creatures with beady red eyes. A gasp tore through his throat, which went dry. "I thought they weren't real!" he yelled to no one in particular. "I thought they were merely legends! Myths! This can't be—"

Without warning, his voice cut out. Gilan froze in place. He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn't. His hands went clammy.

Because behind the wargals were something far more terrifying. Behind the wargals were another creature far more worthy of epic legends and folklore.

The kalkara.

And Gilan made the mistake of looking one in the eye.