Summer's End

A/N: Happy autumn to everyone in the northern hemisphere (and happy spring to everyone else who is not)! I guess I got in the fall spirit and was being pestered by a little niggling All Hallows Eve plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone until I started writing it down. Long story short, I went with it X) This is mostly meant to be a fun little short, probably about only 3 chapters long. Anyhow, I had quite a lot of fun writing this and I hope it proves to be just as fun to read! (Please see the end of the work for historical notes if you're interested in that sort of thing XD)

Summary: The Festival of Summer's End has arrived and mischief is in the air. (Takes place during the first few months of Gilan's apprenticeship with Halt.)

Note: This short could contain minor spoilers for Ranger's Apprentice Books 8 and 9 (specifically in regards to Halt's backstory). You have been warned! XD

Disclaimer: I have nothing but respect for John Flanagan and the world and characters he's created. I own absolutely nothing and do not profit from this in any way other than my enjoyment and hopefully the enjoyment of others.

Summer's End

Prolouge

Hollis watched the flames dwindle and could not stop his mouth from curling into a sneer of distaste. The disappointment in his chest burned hotter than the coals and ashes he could see in front of him. Months of careful planning and preparation had culminated into this disaster, this waste. Every bucket of water the knights tossed into the flames of the silversmith's house was like rubbing salt into a fresh wound. And the soft patter of the rain bouncing off the hood of his cloak only served to remind him that even the weather had been conspiring against him.

He gritted his teeth as he watched the knight patrol, the rain, and numerous concerned neighbors snuff out the success of his plan as surely as they snuffed out the fire he had set. The last of the flames perished in a final whoosh of smoke. The good citizenry of Wensly Village cheered their success—and consequently cheered Hollis's failure. Barely able to suppress a snarl of rage, he turned and strode away, heading to the combination tavern and inn to try and drown his anger and disappointment in a freshly poured tankard.

As the evening, and the number of drinks he downed, wore onwards, he found that his resentment for this whole situation had as well. He had spent so long trying to figure out a way to rob the silversmith without leaving any trace behind to pin the crime back on his shoulders; he had eventually come up with what he knew was still an ingenious plan—despite the fact that it had failed.

He had waited patiently for the silversmith to get in a new shipment of silver ingots, for the local Ranger to leave on business and, finally, for the silversmith to leave for his daily evening drink at the tavern and inn, before putting his plan in motion.

The silversmith's home, due to the nature of his occupation, was extremely secure against robbery. He would never have been able to easily break-in. Even if he had somehow found a way, that would have only been the first step. Ambrose was an overcautious sort and kept all his valuables in a solid oak safe—the key to which he hid thoroughly.

All those obstacles had been meant to be overcome with his idea of starting a fire. Everything was supposed to burn to the ground, including the safe box where the man kept all the silver and precious jewels. The incidence was to have been marked off as a simple tragic accident, and Hollis would have been able to secretly pick through the rubble later that very night to find the jewels and precious metals before anyone was the wiser. And if the fire was hot enough to melt the more identifiable pieces, then all the better for him.

But Ambrose had come home early and sounded the alarm to a nearby group of knights on patrol... and the rest was history now. So here he was—with nothing. He slammed his tankard down before he was distracted by a conversation at the table behind him.

"They were able to put it out but the fire destroyed most of his home. I hear he's going to be staying here at this inn, until his house is mended enough to live in again," one man was telling another.

Hollis frowned in thought, wondering if an opportunity to rectify his failure might just have presented itself.

Now that the silversmith was going to be staying here at the inn—likely with all his valuables in tow—his room would definitely not be as fortified against robbery as his house had been. Breaking in and taking what he pleased would be easy enough. But he couldn't think of a way to do it cleanly. After all, he lived here in Wensly—which was why he'd gone to such great lengths to come up with a plan that could never lead back to him, a plan where he'd never be identified as a culprit.

Then he stopped short, frowning as he thought. All Saints' Day and All Saints' Eve were only a few days away.

That meant that, in only a few days, many people would be going guising, or souling. This was a practice that had arisen partially from the All Saints' Day bent towards honoring the fallen and partially because the old Celts and Gaels believed that the walls between this world and the spirit world were thinnest around that time—which meant that spirits could easily cross over into this world. Consequently, the old Celts and Gaels had come up with the idea that hanging lanterns, lighting bonfires, and dressing up as spirits, could ward real spirits away or trick them into leaving a person alone, thus keeping them safe on that dangerous night. The practice had stayed even when the more Alarluen influences from the All Saints' Day festival mingled with the old Celtic ones. In a couple of days, the village would be distracted celebrating All Saints' Eve and Summer's End—and many people would be going around in guise.

He felt the wheels of his mind begin to turn. He had an idea of how to fix this, how to get what he wanted. All he needed was a crew.

Chapter 1

Gilan wiped sweat off of his brow, stopping a moment to catch his breath before moving to start the next set of the exercises he was working through. He'd only been a Ranger's apprentice for a few months and already it seemed that he had worked harder than he had during all the years he'd spent in Battleschool combined. But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he would never trade this for what he'd had before. He was happier here than he'd ever been training as a knight—despite his new mentor's grim mannerisms, he thought with a faint smile. Ranger training was something that meant everything to him, something that he'd wanted for himself…

Well, it wasn't the only thing he wanted for himself at the moment. He couldn't help but sneak a quick glance in the direction of Wensly village before looking towards where Halt sat on the veranda of the little cabin in the woods, reading reports.

He had something he desperately wanted to ask the grizzled Ranger, but had been putting off for the better part of the day. This was because he'd been waiting for the right moment; he needed all the help he could get in getting a favorable answer after all. And this moment wasn't the right one. If he tried to ask Halt now before he'd finished all his exercises and lessons, he was positive that it wouldn't go over well.

Sighing softly, he got back to work. Over the past month, Halt had been teaching him how Rangers moved and fought. It involved more than just silent movement, he'd quickly learned. It included the way he held and carried himself—and the way he moved in general.

Rangers used an entirely different fighting style when it came to hand to hand combat than knights did. Halt had demonstrated its efficiency to devastating effect. Gilan had been knocked flat in moments the first time they'd sparred—and he'd previously been able to hold his own fairly well against other Battleschool apprentices back home at Caraway.

The Ranger's style seemed more about using an opponent's strength against them, coupled with the best positioning for, and most effective, offensive strikes—which was more like how he'd been taught to use his sword by Mac'Neil than the hand to hand combat he'd be taught by Sir Rowland. And that was only the combat.

The other part of it was about movement itself. Aside from silent movement, he was learning how to make movements both economical and powerful, how to keep the body's momentum going in a smooth continuous motion, how to blend a run into a jump, into a vault and back into a run or a roll, and how to see the landscape and environment as tools to that purpose. It was about learning how to land softly and safely when making a jump from a tall height: same idea about keeping in motion to land in a roll and them back up again to lessen the impact. It was also about learning ways to safely make long-distance jumps, and the more advanced principles of climbing things safely. All of which were skills that Ranger's needed and could well save lives. At least, that was how Halt had explained it when Gilan had mustered up the courage to ask.

Some of these skills were fairly innate to Gilan already, but not all of them. And the latter were taught by repeated odd agility exercises. Halt had him doing set after set of exhausting drills that included quadrupedal exercises, dips, balancing, something that looked similar to a sort of vertical push up, and different types of jumping exercises.

Gilan hadn't really worked out the point of all of them yet, and Halt hadn't been very inclined to share any further. To be entirely honest, Gilan was having a little trouble seeing how they would all blend together into something like Halt had described.

In fact, he wasn't entirely certain that Halt wasn't just having him on—that this was some sort of elaborate and extended joke in recompense for that rather ill-conceived prank Gilan had pulled a couple of weeks ago. He winced slightly at the memory; Halt certainly hadn't found it very funny—although there wasn't really much, so far as Gilan could tell, that the grim Ranger found truly funny. He stopped in the middle of the sort of push-ups he was doing as he thought it, suddenly suspicious, wondering if Halt was having a laugh at him.

Gilan felt a grin creeping across his face at the thought. He could appreciate the nuances of a good long-running practical joke after all—which was something he'd recently learned Halt was definitely not above. Besides that, it would be unsportsmanlike not to be able to take a return prank after all. Gilan's smile dropped a little…. The only problem was that he sometimes had a hard time knowing whether or not Halt was indeed joking about something. His deadpan manner and expressions occasionally made it hard to tell.

Gilan shook his head at the thought, before moving on to the final set of exercises. Now that he was so close to finishing this session, there was something far more pressing to consider than his new mentor's sense of humor. He glanced surreptitiously again towards Halt and bit his lip in thought as he silently debated over the best way to ask his mentor for an evening off.

All Saints' Eve, also known as Summer's End, was only two days away. The village was full of the talk of the upcoming bonfire, celebration, and feasts—not to mention going souling: the practice of offering prayers for those who had passed in exchange for pastries. Gilan loved the festival, loved all the food, the fun, the stories, the honoring and remembering of those who had passed, going door to door in disguise to get pastries and soul cakes, and the exciting, spooky, edge that came with it all. The village was abuzz with excitement and anticipation and so was he. He dearly wanted to go.

Unfortunately, Gilan had quickly learned that Halt had never been overly compelled to follow traditions. He liked to do things his own way. In fact, Gilan hadn't been certain that Halt would let him have the traditional day off at the harvest festival half a month ago. Halt had only just barely, grudgingly, let him have the holiday—complaining all the while that he'd probably forget everything he'd learned in that short time. And he had waited until three days before the festival had begun before he'd given that scant declaration of permission.

Gilan had been hoping that getting permission to have the evening off for All Saints' Day would have gone the same way… but the three-day mark had passed and Halt hadn't so much as made a single mention of the holiday. Gilan was growing anxious, especially since he knew it would probably have to come down to him asking permission himself. He wasn't at all certain that Halt would agree and, worse still, that he might be angry with him for asking.

Gilan frowned at the thought then shook his head as he squared his shoulders, clinging to the hope that he might just find a way to convince the grizzled Ranger to let him go. After all, there was nothing for it but to just ask. And there was no better time than now since he'd finished all his assigned responsibilities.

~x~X~x~

Halt sighed softly as a shadow fell across him from where he sat on the veranda, interrupting his third read-through of a report from the Baron that detailed what had gone on in Wensly while he and his apprentice had been gone for a couple of days on the trail of some bandits. Halt grudgingly looked up to see Gilan standing hesitantly in front of him, fidgeting slightly as he obviously gathered himself to ask a question. But Halt preempted him.

"Go inside and get your kit. We're heading to the village," he decided abruptly and then held up a hand to forestall any questions. "I'll explain on the way."

Gilan merely nodded, he'd gotten more or less used to Halt's sometimes abrupt or impromptu lessons over the months they had been together.

And this was important, after all. According to the report, the silversmith's home had caught ablaze two days ago. The running theory was that the hearth fire had gotten out of control whilst the man was out. It wouldn't have been the first time. The man's home had nearly caught on fire a couple of years ago for the same reason. Ambrose was known for getting a little careless and thoughtless when he was really absorbed in his work.

He'd very likely forgotten to close the hearth grate again, and left some of his design papers nearby before leaving to the tavern for a drink. The man had been fairly fortunate that he'd come back earlier than expected to see that his house had caught alight. He'd been able, along with the help of a group of knights on patrol to rescue all his valuables and get the fire under control before his entire home was obliterated or, worse, before the flames spread to other houses in the village. Even the weather had been on his side, as a heavy rain had helped to put the fires out. The silversmith was currently staying at the inn while repairs were made on his combination house and workplace.

It was likely nothing more than an accident as the Baron's report claimed. However, Halt didn't like to simply leave things at face value. As a Ranger, it was his duty to investigate the matter just to be certain. He looked up from these thoughts, frowning as he realized that Gilan hadn't gone into the cabin to get the supplies as he had asked, and was, instead, still standing uncertainly in front of him.

"Did you forget where the door to the cabin was?" Halt asked with a raised eyebrow, "or is there some other reason why you are just standing there?"

"Well, it's just that... I had something I wanted to ask you," Gilan finally admitted.

Halt merely stared at him, both eyebrows raised in question. His apprentice obviously took that as permission to continue. He hesitated a moment before obviously deciding to just have out with it, and put on a winning smile.

"Can I have time off for the All Saints' Eve Festival?" he started before continuing quickly in an attempt to preempt rebuttals. "It's not like the Harvest Festival—it's not for the whole day. It starts around sunset, so I wouldn't miss much of my lessons. I really wanted to see the bonfire, and go souling to get pastries and soul cakes."

"You want to participate in all that superstitious nonsense?" Halt asked dryly.

"Superstitious? Which part? The old Celtic celebration or the All Saints' Day part?" Gilan asked after a brief pause, genuinely curious.

He, like Halt, knew that the Araluen festival of all Saints Day and, Summer's End, the old Celtic festival had once been two separate festivals: around the time when the first Araluen Kings replaced the old Celtic chieftains hundreds of years earlier. But since both festivals took place on the same day, they had sort of mingled together over the years. There were still some staunch followers of either one but, for the most part, everyone in Araluen celebrated the mixed version.

"Both in their own way," Halt said in answer, dryly. "Besides that, I can't really see you going door to door offering prayers for the dead."

"Why not? I'm mostly doing it for the soul cakes and pastries, remember? I'll give you half of whatever I get," he offered hopefully. "Besides, it doesn't have to be a prayer. People can give stories, poems, or songs in exchange for the cakes. I was thinking of reciting poetry."

"You, reciting poetry?" Halt asked, both eyebrows raised now. "You have enough trouble remembering words in your foreign language lessons, let alone memorizing enough poetry for the entire village."

Gilan smiled wickedly. "That's the thing—I'll only need to memorize one poem. A person would hardly know if I used the same poem on their neighbor."

Halt was about to open his mouth to continue his protest when he realized that his apprentice did have a fairly valid point—which did nothing to help his current mood.

"The answer is no, Gilan," Halt said finally.

"But, Halt—"

"No Buts."

Gilan looked absolutely crestfallen until he brightened suddenly with a new idea. "Well then, can we celebrate it more like how they do in Hibernia? You could show me some Hibernian Summer's End customs. You're always saying how important it is to learn about other cultures."

"Why Hibernian?"

"Well, I thought that… that, you'd know them?" he said lamely.

Halt gave his student a withering glare before finally relenting a little. He sighed. "If you do your best work on all your chores, assignments, and lessons until then, you'll be welcome to go souling, or guising, or whatever it's called these days."

Gilan's grin seemed about to break his face.

"Thanks, Halt!" he said happily already turning to go into the cabin to get his supplies as Halt had asked.

"Don't look too happy," Halt told him and Gilan turned his head to look a question back at him.

"You promised to give me half of whatever you get after all."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten that part," Gilan smiled ruefully.

~x~X~x~

Twenty minutes later found both master and apprentice circling the remains of Ambrose's home and workplace. What was left was a rather sorry sight.

"Nobody was hurt were they?" Gilan asked as he surveyed the scene.

Halt shook his head, "and they managed to save most of his possessions."

"That was lucky," Gilan said as he trailed after his mentor.

Halt nodded grimly. He liked Ambrose. It was true that he had the tendency to be a little scatterbrained occasionally. But he was a good man.

The two of them circled the remnants of the building from the outside, taking note of the damage, before circling back to have a look at what was left of the inside. One wall was entirely gone, the two adjacent walls were more than three quarters gone, and the remaining wall was the one that had survived the fire the best. It was the only one that was still standing mostly intact.

Halt and Gilan picked their way through the debris from the walls and the collapsed roof as they surveyed the damage. The fire had obviously originated near or at the hearth—as the Baron's knights had suspected. Halt could tell this by the damage and greater level of charring in that area. So far, everything seemed consistent with an accident. However, as soon as Halt made it to the wall that was still standing fully, he stopped. His eyes narrowed.

Suspicious, he left the damaged inside and circled around again to look at the still-standing wall from the outside. He frowned and then turned to Gilan who had been following silently behind him.

"What do you think Gilan?" Halt asked gesturing towards the damage. "What do you see?"

Gilan looked equally pleased and nervous to have his opinion asked.

"Well, the house was obviously burned down."

"Really?" Halt asked dryly, "I hadn't noticed."

Gilan flushed before he continued. "The fire started near the hearth like the report said," Gilan said. "I could tell by the charring marks."

Halt nodded before asking, "And everything you see here, all the evidence, it's consistent with that theory is it?"

Gilan started to nod before he stopped and frowned.

"Actually, no," he admitted finally. "I'm pretty sure that…" he trailed, holding up a hand in a wait a moment gesture. He dashed around to the other side of the wall for a moment before running back to where Halt stood. "I am sure that burn patterns on that wall aren't consistent." He pointed to the wall that had the least damage. "If the fire was started inside the house, then it would make more sense for the inside of that wall to be more burned than the outside—but it isn't. The outside's more burned."

Halt allowed himself a scant nod of approval.

"But what does that mean?" Gilan asked then, looking curiously up at his mentor.

"It could mean nothing," Halt shrugged, "But it could mean that the fire didn't start inside the building like everyone thought, but rather, outside it."

Gilan frowned, biting absently at his thumbnail. "But, then that would mean that someone started it on purpose, wouldn't it?" he asked finally.

"Could mean that," Halt agreed. "But we don't know enough about what went on here to know for certain, do we?" Halt asked pointedly.

Gilan grinned as he got the silent message, already bounding off. "I'll start looking around for tracks," he called cheerily behind his shoulder.

Halt shook his head at his irrepressible student's back before allowing him the very smallest of fond smiles.

The search around the silversmith's home for tracks or any other visible evidence proved mostly fruitless. The rain had washed away most any trace of the arsonist—if there had in fact been one. The only thing they found was a partial heel print that was under the shelter of a tree. Unfortunately, that fragment couldn't tell them much: only that a person had stood underneath the tree recently and that they had worn hard-soled shoes that had a slight chip in the heel. There wasn't enough of the heel print left for them to discern the relative size of the person who made it. And there wasn't enough evidence to suggest that this person had anything at all to do with the fire.

The two finally went home after that. But Halt, despite the lack of evidence couldn't quite shake the sense that there was more to this accident than it seemed. He resolved then to keep an eye out.

~x~X~x~

The afternoon of All Saint's Eve found Gilan sitting happily in his room as he prepared his costume and ran the idea for several different pranks though his mind. Summer's End was, in short, a holiday that celebrated mischief—and Gilan intended to take full advantage of it. He'd already planned several such pranks. However, he knew he'd have to delay them until later—preferably until after he'd gone souling. He didn't want to give Halt any excuse to retract the permission he'd given to take the night off. Besides that, he had to worry about getting his costume together.

Gilan threaded his needle again before jabbing it into the worn white shirt he was currently turning into his costume. This time, he made certain to send his needle through the layer of cloth carefully despite his haste. His finger still smarted a little from where he'd jabbed it last time, and he had no desire to repeat that experience. He had only about half an hour before the festival would really start to go into full swing. The bonfire would be lit, food would be cooked, and people would be out celebrating.

Halt had waited until exactly two hours before the festivities would start before he'd finally given Gilan leave—which hadn't left much time for putting a costume together. He'd settled on going as a spirit as it was the quickest to make. The other three options angels, saints, or demons would have taken far longer. He just had to stitch together a few white shirts so they'd have the appearance of being ghostly or spirit-like and then paint his face with a mixture of soot and water to enhance the overall disguise. He just hoped he'd be able to finish in time. He glanced surreptitiously at the water-clock several times before he tied off the final stitch. He then held his creation up, scrutinizing it.

Overall, it was not bad for having been thrown together in a few hours. He hastily put it on and then painted his face before buckling on his knives and heading out. He didn't bother calling a farewell to Halt because he'd heard his teacher leave about an hour previous, calling that he was going to get a few things for their supper before all the shops closed for the holiday. As it was, Gilan knew he was going to be a little late. He debated for a moment about riding to the village on Blaze, but he'd have nowhere to put her when he went souling. So thinking, he left her behind and set out for the village at a jog, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

~x~X~x~

Halt made his way back to the little cabin in the woods just as it was starting to get dark out. He stabled Abelard, settling the little horse in for the night before taking the bundle of items he'd bought in town inside the cabin and setting them down in the kitchen. He'd only just managed to purchase them before all the shops had officially closed for the holiday.

As he laid them out side by side on the counter, and fetched a few more from their stores of provisions, he couldn't help but wonder at just what exactly he was doing, and why. That moment of doubt caused him to look uncomfortably at the familiar array of ingredients. He glared that them as if they were solely responsible for what he now considered a sudden and regrettable lapse in sanity.

It had all come down the fact that he just hadn't been able to put Gilan's suggestion to celebrate Summer's End in the Hibernian fashion out of his mind. It was true that there was a marked difference between the ways in which the two countries celebrated it. Hibernia had kept the traditions and lore of the holiday closer to the ancient Celtic Summer's End than Araluen had, and so had many different customs.

For years he had participated in them himself with his family—and the memories of those times hadn't been entirely horrible, he had to admit. A faint wistful smile touched his lips as he thought of his little sister Caitlyn. Her enthusiasm for the holiday had rivaled Gilan's, he recalled. In fact, the more he'd thought on it, the more he remembered just how precious those memories were: made all the more so by the rarity of them. He could look back at them and recall how that feeling of family and tradition had once seemed to hold more weight and importance than it did now.

Maybe he had become a little jaded, a little too irreverent over the years, he thought. Maybe he'd left a lot behind him—and for good reason too; but that didn't mean he had to ignore and leave everything about his heritage behind. It was true that there were many things about his past that he'd rather not remember or think about, things he'd been running from for so long now. But there were some things he didn't mind remembering… and, perhaps, even sharing. And he had someone he could share them with for the first time in a long time.

He sighed and then shrugged to himself. Well, in for a copper in for a gold royal. He had already gone to the trouble of finding, and in some cases purchasing, all the ingredients. It would be wasteful and pointless to stop now. Reaching up onto the shelf, he took down the cookpot and a mixing bowl and started to stoke the fire.

~x~X~x~

Gilan left the doorstep of one of the combination house and workplaces on Wensly Village's main street. Grinning, he happily tucked two soul cakes into the satchel he had brought with him for the purpose. Apparently the baker was quite partial to the ballad of Tamlin Mightholder. And he'd been especially partial to the few stanzas Gilan and chosen, as well as to the way Gilan had performed them—hence the two soulcakes instead of the traditional one. If this kept up, then having to share half of everything wouldn't be as bad as it could have been.

Gilan walked happily up the street, heading for the next house. Then his grin faded suddenly as the light from one of the many torches played off an indentation on the moist ground before him: a boot print. While that, in it of itself, was nothing out of the ordinary—many people were walking the streets tonight after all—what caught his eye was the shape of it. The boot that had made that print was hard-soled, the heel of which had a familiar hatch in it. He remembered instantly having seen the same hatch in the partial heel print he'd found in the woods around Ambrose's burned house.

It was fresh too, overlying all the other prints on the road. Forgetting instantly about souling at the next house, he started following after the prints until he rounded a corner and saw the man who had made them. At least Gilan assumed it was a man by his body shape and shoe size. He was tall and seemed well-muscled and fit. His back was to Gilan so he couldn't see his face, but he doubted it would have helped even if he could. The man was dressed like a spirit, as Gilan was, in loose-fitting flowing clothes and wore a heavy hood. And, if he was following tradition, it was likely his face had been heavily pained and smeared with soot and ash. Gilan watched as the man stopped near the entrance of the tavern and inn and was joined by five other similarly dressed men. All those men had hoods and their faces were heavily obscured. They had even gone so far as to cover the lower halves of their faces with scarves and scraps of cloth.

The one that Gilan had initially followed, the hatched-heeled man, had done the same to his face, Gilan saw when the man turned this way and that—checking his surroundings before all five men entered the tavern. Gilan had frozen in a deep shadow to watch the men and now he moved forward again. Somehow he knew that there was something off, suspicious about them.

Gilan, not really pausing to consider, followed after them and stepped into the tavern. He stopped abruptly as soon as he was inside the brightly lit and loud building as a slight inkling of good sense reasserted itself. Gilan checked his actions. If those men were dangerous or up to something, he could hardly deal with it himself. He'd only brought his saxe and throwing knives with him, and he was just an apprentice after all.

His eyes scanned the drinkers and merrymakers in the room and then found what he was looking for—someone official that he could voice his suspicions to. The head of the Village Watch was sitting at one of the middle tables with a few of his friends, drinking. It was oblivious he was off duty to celebrate the holiday, but this could well be an emergency.

Gilan started to make his way towards the man... But he hadn't been the only one to pick him out of the crowd.

Several things happened very quickly.

Gilan was nearly to the table when the Watch Commander screamed and fell back, a crossbow bolt seeming to sprout from his upper chest. Shocked and wide-eyed Gilan only just managed to bite back a cry of horror and surprise; though no one else who had seen the event seemed able to refrain. Several voices raised in cries of alarm, shock terror.

Despite the sudden horror and explosion of chaos, Gilan's training quickly reasserted itself as he followed the arrow's trajectory back to the counter of the bar. Hatch-heel stood there with a crossbow in hand. He must have hidden it somewhere on his person, likely in his loose flowing costume. Nearly simultaneously, the tavern door slammed violently shut. Still shocked, Gilan turned to see another of the five men standing in front of it, a loaded crossbow in his hand too. But he had little enough time to dwell on that for a deep commanding voice broke thought the shouts of alarm and chaos with a furious roar.

"Everyone gather to the center of the room! Sit down quietly or be next to meet your end tonight!"

It was Hatch-heel who had spoken, a new quarrel loaded in his crossbow. Spread in equal distances and positions all around the room, the rest his five man party raised loaded crossbows at the tavern-goers too. Several of these men also sported heavy cudgels and crude swords. Gilan felt his blood run cold. For a frozen moment, nobody in the tavern moved or spoke. Then the moment was shattered again by Hatch-heel's furious roar.

"Unless you all want to end up like the Head of the Village Watch here, you will do as I say, now!"

Eyes everywhere flew towards the Watch Commander who was lying on the ground, clutching weakly at the bloody arrow wound, his breathing hitching in shock and pain, his face pale. One after the other, people began moving towards the center of the tavern and lowered themselves to the ground. Gilan followed suit, heart pounding wildly.

Gilan knew painfully well that he was still in the beginning stages of learning how to accurately throw his saxe and throwing knife. Even if he did somehow manage to throw both accurately, at best he might take out two of the attackers—leaving the other three to shoot him full of arrows shortly thereafter. As it was, there was nothing he could do. Gilan crouched down helplessly alongside all the other tavern goers, his eyes locked on Hatch-heel and his crossbow.

A/N: Thanks for Reading! Reviews are always loved and so is constructive criticism, if you're of a mind to leave either, that is XD. I'm always looking to improve! So, a little bit about the history. I have done research and have tried to keep things fairly accurate to history. But there are a few notable differences, as I admit to taking a little creative license here and there. The practice of souling did originate around the 11th century. However, back then, prayers for those who passed were the only things accepted in exchange for soul cakes. It wanst until the 16th century that poetry or songs were allowed to be given in exchange for food and it wasn't until the 19th century when it was called guising. Also, only angels, saints, and demons were acceptable costumes for souling—spirits were religated more toward Samhain only. However, Araluen doesn't seem to stringently follow our history fully (as seen by things like the presence of potatoes, germ theory, and fireworks being perfected a little earlier than it was in ours). Also, Araluen seems to be a little less stringently religious than medieval England was and so I figured I could push up the time frame for a few things and mix things up just a touch. Hope that seems acceptable. XD

*One last history nerd note* XD I based Hollis's first plan: the one about burning down the house to pick through the remains for the valuable metals off an occurrence that actually happened a few times, from what I've read, during the gold rush in America. Apparently, the hastily constructed wood homes of miners in miner towns were burned down by people hoping to pick out gold from the ashes.

Hope you all have an awesome day!