here was a raw wind blowing off the small harbour. Itcarried the salt of the sea with it, and the smell of imminent rain. The lone rider shrugged. Even though it was late summer, it seemed to have been raining con-stantly over the past week. Perhaps in this country itrained all the time, no matter what the season.‘Summer and winter, nothing but rain,’ he said quietlyto his horse. Not surprisingly, the horse said nothing.‘Except, of course, when it snows,’ the rider continued.‘Presumably, that’s so you can tell it’s winter.’ This time, thehorse shook its shaggy mane and vibrated its ears, the wayhorses do. The rider smiled at it. They were old friends.‘You’re a horse of few words, Tug,’ Will said. Then, onreflection, he decided that most horses probably were.There had been a time, quite recently, when he had won-dered about this habit of his – talking to his horse. Then,mentioning it to Halt over the camp fire one night, he’ddiscovered it was a common trait among Rangers.
Copyright © John Flanagan 2009. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.