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last three or four minutes, he’d been trying to hack Gilan’s head from his shoulders. He finally managed to compromise by saying: “I never once managed to break through your guard.”
    “Well,” Gilan said modestly, “I have done this sort of thing before, you know.”
    “Yes,” panted Horace. “But you’re a Ranger. Everyone knows Rangers don’t use swords.”
    “Apparently, this one does,” said Will, grinning. Horace, to his credit, smiled wearily in return.
    “You can say that again.” He turned respectfully to Gilan. “May I ask where you learned your swordsmanship, sir? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    Gilan shook his head in mock reproof. “There you go again with the ‘sir,’” he said. Then, in answer: “My Swordmaster was an old man. A northerner named MacNeil.”
    “MacNeil!” Horace whispered in awe. “You don’t mean the MacNeil? MacNeil of Bannock?”
    Gilan nodded. “He’s the one,” he replied. “You’ve heard of him then?”
    Horace nodded reverently. “Who hasn’t heard of MacNeil?”
    And at that stage, Will, tired of not knowing what was going on, decided to speak up.
    “Well, I haven’t, for one,” he said. “But I’ll make tea if anyone chooses to tell me about him.”

4
    “S O TELL ME ABOUT THIS N EIL PERSON,” SAID W ILL, AS THE three of them settled comfortably by the fire, steaming mugs of herb tea warming their cupped hands.
    “MacNeil,” Horace corrected him. “He’s a legend.”
    “Oh, he’s real enough,” said Gilan. “I should know. I practiced under him for five years. I started when I was eleven, then, at fourteen, I was apprenticed to Halt. But he always gave me leave of absence to continue my work with the Swordmaster.”
    “But why did you continue to learn the sword after you started training as a Ranger?” Horace asked.
    Gilan shrugged. “Maybe people thought it was a shame to waste all that early training. I certainly wanted to continue, and my father is Sir David of Caraway Fief, so I suppose I was given some leeway in the matter.”
    Horace sat up a little straighter at the mention of the name.
    “Battlemaster David?” he said, obviously more than a little impressed. “The new supreme commander?”
    Gilan nodded, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “The same,” he agreed. Then, seeing that Will was still in the dark, he explained further: “My father has been appointed supreme commander of the King’s armies, since Lord Northolt was murdered. He commanded the cavalry at the Battle of Hackham Heath.”
    Will’s eyes widened. “When Morgarath was defeated and driven into the mountains?”
    Both Horace and Gilan nodded. Horace continued the explanation enthusiastically.
    “Sir Rodney says his coordination of the cavalry with flanking archers in the final stage of the battle is a classic of its kind. He still teaches it as an example of perfect tactics. No wonder your father was chosen to replace Lord Northolt.”
    Will realized that the conversation had moved away from its original gambit.
    “So what did your father have to do with this MacNeil character?” he asked, returning to the subject.
    “Well,” said Gilan, “my father was a former pupil as well. It was only natural that MacNeil should gravitate to his Battleschool, wasn’t it?”
    “I suppose so,” Will agreed.
    “And it was only natural that I should come under his tutelage as soon as I could swing a sword. After all, I was the Battlemaster’s son.”
    “So how was it that you became a Ranger?” Horace asked. “Weren’t you accepted as a knight?”
    Both Rangers looked at him quizzically, somewhat amused by his assumption that a person only became a Ranger after failing to become a knight or a warrior. In truth, it was only a short time since Will had felt the same way, but now he conveniently overlooked the fact. Horace became aware of the extended lull in the conversation, then of the looks they were giving him. All of a sudden, he realized his