The Burning Bridge- Character Reaction

32

It was an hour later when they returned to the large room, their stomachs full (mostly), and with the Rangers plus Horace still nursing one final cup of coffee.

Alyss raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "Coffee at this hour?" she asked. Will grinned, and raised his mug in a mock toast.

"It keeps us sane. Well," he amended, "as sane as we can get, at least." She smiled and shook her head.

Rodney picked up the book and flipped through the pages. "Four more chapters," he noted. "We'll get this finished by tonight."

Cassandra looked over at the third book and frowned, her fingers tracing the title. "The Icebound Land is next," she said.

Will choked on his coffee. "What?" he gasped once he was done coughing. His face had paled slightly, and Halt eyed him with concern. "I'm fine," he said, waving away the concern. Halt continued to watch him, however, as Rodney began reading.

THE KINGDOM'S MAIN ARMY ADVANCED SLOWLY ACROSS THE littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.

In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the kingdom. It was a rare honor for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.

Horace made a face as he remembered the carnage of the battlefield. Why anyone would think being on that as an honor was beyond him.

Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully coordinated, almost choreographed actions involving skillful warriors performing brave acts of chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.

Horace flushed as everyone turned to look at him. "I was just a kid," he muttered.

Instead, he had watched in horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. But now, as they rode forward, details began to emerge and he was horrified as he saw the red surcoats of Battleschool apprentices among the dead. Horace's expression darkened.

He saw one body, limp and lifeless as the stretcher bearers turned it over, and beneath the blood and dirt that smeared the pale face, he recognized Paul, a Year 4 apprentice who had been an assistant sword drill instructor. Over the past months, as Horace's natural skill with the sword had become evident, he and the older boy had become casual friends. When Horace was hurriedly packing his kit for the trip to Celtica, Paul had come to the barracks to lend him a warm cloak and a pair of strong boots. Now he was dead and the debt would never be repaid. Horace felt a sense of emptiness and loss.

Horace looked at the ground. It had been that same senior cadet that had been told to call him out on his "lack of attentiveness." How far things had gone, he thought.

Cassandra squeezed his hand tightly, and he gave her a wan smile.

He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster's grim face told him that it was always this way.