The Icebound Land

by John Flanagan

  The boy’s face flushed with anger at Halt’s dismissive tone.

  “Sir Rodney also said to tell you that you could possibly use a sword to guard your back on your travels,” he said. Halt regarded the tall boy carefully as he spoke.

  “Those were his exact words?” he asked, and Horace shook his head.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then tell me exactly what he said,” Halt demanded.

  Horace took a deep breath. “His exact words were, ‘You could use a good sword to guard your back.’”

  Halt hid a smile.

  “Meaning who?” he challenged. Horace sat his horse, flushing furiously, and didn’t answer. It was the best reply he could have made. Halt was watching him closely. He didn’t take Rodney’s recommendation lightly and he knew the boy had courage to spare. He’d proven that when he’d challenged Morgarath to single combat at the Plains of Uthal.

  But there was the chance that he might have become boastful and overconfident—that too much adulation and praise had turned his head. If that were the case, however, he would have answered Halt’s sarcastic challenge immediately. The fact that he hadn’t, but merely sat in front of him, face set in determined lines, said a lot about the boy’s character. Strange how they turn out, Halt thought. He remembered Horace as somewhat of a bully when he’d been younger. Obviously, Battleschool discipline and a few years’ maturity had wrought some interesting changes.

  He considered the boy again. Truth be told, it would be handy to have a companion along. He’d refused Gilan because he knew the other Ranger was needed here in Araluen. But Horace was a different matter. His Craftmaster had given permission—unofficially. He was a more than capable swordsman. He was loyal and he was dependable. And besides, Halt had to admit that, since Will had been taken prisoner, he’d missed having someone younger around him. He’d missed the excitement and the eagerness that came with young people. And, God help him, he’d even missed the endless questions that came with them as well.

  He realized now that Horace was regarding him anxiously. The boy had been waiting for a decision and so far had received nothing more than Halt’s sardonic challenge as to the identity of the “good sword” suggested by Sir Rodney. He sighed heavily and let a savage frown crease his brow.

  “I suppose you’ll bombard me with questions day and night?” he said. Horace’s shoulders slumped at the tone of voice, then, suddenly, he understood the meaning of the words. His face shone and his shoulders lifted again.

  “You mean you’ll take me?” he said, excitement cracking his voice into a higher register than he intended. Halt looked down and adjusted a strap on his saddlebag that required no adjustment at all. It wouldn’t do to let the boy see the slight smile that was creasing his weathered face.

  “It seems I have to,” he said reluctantly. “You can hardly go back to Sir Rodney now that you’ve run away, can you?”

  “No, I can’t! I mean…that’s wonderful! Thanks, Halt! You won’t regret it, I promise! It’s just that I sort of promised myself that I’d find Will and help rescue him.” The boy was fairly babbling in his pleasure at being accepted. Halt nudged Abelard with his knee and began to ride on, Tug following easily. Horace urged his battlehorse to fall into step with Halt, and continued his flow of gratitude.

  “I knew you’d go after him, Halt. I knew that’s why you pretended to be angry with King Duncan! Nobody at Redmont could believe it when we heard what had happened, but I knew it was so you could go and rescue Will from the Skandians—”

  “Enough!” Halt finally said, holding up a hand to ward off the flow of words, and Horace stopped in midsentence, bowing his head apologetically.

  “Yes. Of course. Sorry. Not another word,” he said.

  Halt nodded thankfully. “I should think not.”

  Chastened, Horace rode in silence beside his new master as they headed toward the east coast. They had gone another hundred meters when he finally could stand it no more.

  “Where will we find a ship?” he asked. “Will we sail directly to Skandia after the raiders? Can we cross the sea at this time of year?”

  Halt turned in the saddle and cast a baleful eye on the young man.

  “I see it’s started already,” he said heavily. But inside, his heart felt lighter than it had for weeks.

  11

  THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF SLAGOR’S VESSEL, WOLF FANG, made life even more unpleasant on Skorghijl. The crowded living conditions were now worse than ever, with two crews crammed into the space designed for one. And with the crowding came fighting. Skandians weren’t used to long hours of inactivity, so they filled their time with drinking and gambling—an almost certain recipe for trouble. When the members of one crew were involved, the disagreements that arose were usually settled quickly and forgotten. But the separate loyalties of the two crews inflamed the situation so that arguments flared, tempers were lost and, at times, weapons were drawn before Erak could intervene.

  It was noticeable, Will thought, that Slagor never raised his voice to quell the fights. The more he saw ofWolf Fang ’s captain, the more he realized that the man had little real authority and commanded minimal respect from the other Skandians. Even his own crew worked for pay, not out of any sense of loyalty.

  The work for Will and Evanlyn had doubled, of course. There was twice as much cooking, serving and cleaning to be done now. And twice as many Skandians to demand that they take care of any other job that needed doing. But at least they had retained their living space. The lean-to was too cramped for any of the massive Skandians to even consider co-opting it for their own use. That was one compensation for having been captured by giants, Will thought.

  But it was more than just the fighting and the extra work that had made life miserable for Will and Evanlyn. The news of the mysterious Vallasvow taken by Ragnak had been devastating for the princess. Her life was now at risk and the slightest mistake, the slightest incautious word, from either of them could mean her death. She pleaded with Will to be careful, to continue to treat her as an equal, as he always had before she told him her real identity. The least sign of deference on his part, the smallest gesture of respect, might well raise suspicions and spell the end for her.

  Naturally, Will assured her that he would guard her secret. He schooled himself never to think of her as Cassandra, but always to use the name Evanlyn, even in his thoughts. But the more he tried to avoid the name, the more it seemed to want to spring unbidden to his tongue. He lived in constant fear that he would inadvertently betray her.

  The bad feeling between them, born out of boredom and frustration as much as anything, had melted away in the face of this new and very real danger. They were allies and friends again, and their resolve to help and support each other regained the strength and conviction that they had enjoyed in their brief time in Celtica.

  Of course, Evanlyn’s plan for ransom was now totally destroyed. She could hardly reveal herself to a man who had sworn to kill every member of her family. That realization, coupled with her own natural resentment at being forced to do menial, unpleasant work, made her life on Skorghijl miserable. The one bright spot in her life was Will—always cheerful, always optimistic, always encouraging. She noticed how he unobtrusively took the worst, messiest jobs for himself whenever possible and she was grateful for it. Thinking back on the way she had treated him a few days earlier, she felt ashamed. But when she tried to apologize—and she was straightforward enough to admit that she had been in the wrong—he dismissed it with a laugh.

  “We’re all a little cabin crazy,” he said. “The sooner we get away, the better.”

  He still planned to escape, and she realized she must accompany him. She knew he had something in mind, but he was still working on his plan and so far he hadn’t told her the details.

  For now, the evening meal was over and there was a massive sack full of wooden platters, spoons and mugs to clean in the seawater and fine gravel at the water’s edge. Sighing, she bent to pick them up. S
he was exhausted and the thought of crouching ankle-deep in the cold water while she scrubbed at the grease was almost too much to bear.

  “I’ll do those,” Will said quietly. He glanced around to make sure none of the Skandians were watching, then took the heavy sack from her.

  “No,” she protested. “It’s not fair…” But he held up a hand to stop her.

  “There’s something I want to check anyway. This will be good cover,” he said. “Besides, you’ve had a bad couple of days. Go and get some rest.” He grinned. “If it makes you feel any better, there’ll be plenty of washing up to do tomorrow. And the next day. You can do it all while I skive off.”

  She gave him a tired smile and touched his hand in gratitude. The thought of just stretching out on her hard bunk and doing nothing was almost too good to be true.

  “Thanks,” she said simply. His grin widened and she knew he was genuinely glad that relations between them were back to normal.

  “At least our hosts are enthusiastic eaters,” he said cheerfully. “They don’t leave too much on the plates.”

  He slung the sack and its clattering contents over his shoulder and headed for the beach. Smiling to herself, Evanlyn stooped and entered the lean-to.

  Jarl Erak emerged from the noisy, smoke-filled mess hut and took a deep breath of the cold sea air. Life on the island was getting him down, particularly with Slagor not pulling his weight in maintaining discipline. The man was a useless drunk, Erak thought angrily. And he was no warrior—it was common knowledge that he selected only lightly defended targets for his raids and never took part in the fighting. Erak had just been forced to intervene between one of his own men and one ofWolf Fang ’s crew of criminals. Slagor’s man had been using a set of loaded dice, and when challenged, he had drawn his saxe knife on the other Skandian.

  Erak had stepped in and knocked theWolf Fang crewman senseless with one massive fist. Then, in order to show an evenhanded approach, he was forced to knock his own man out as well.

  Evenhandedness, Skandian style, he thought wearily. A left hook and a right cross. He heard the scrunch of feet in the gravel of the beach and looked up to see a dark figure heading toward the water’s edge. He frowned thoughtfully. It was the Araluen boy. Stealthily, he began to follow the boy. He heard the clatter of plates and mugs being spilled on the beach, then the sound of scrubbing. Maybe he was just doing the washing up, he thought. Maybe not. Stepping carefully, he worked his way a little closer.

  Erak’s concept of stealth didn’t quite match Ranger standards. Will was scrubbing the platters when he heard the massively built Skandian approaching. Either that, he thought, or a walrus was beaching itself on the shingle.

  Turning to look up, he recognized the bulky form of Erak, made even larger in the darkness by the bearskin cloak he wore against the biting cold of the wind. Uncertainly, Will began to rise from his crouched position, but the Jarl waved him back. “Keep on with your work,” he said gruffly. Will continued to scrub, watching the Skandian leader out of the corner of his eye as he gazed across the anchorage and sniffed at the storm-borne air.

  “Stinks in there,” Erak muttered finally.

  “Too many people in too small a space,” Will ventured, eyes down and scrubbing at the plate. Erak interested him. He was a hard man and a pitiless fighter. But he was not actually cruel. Sometimes, in a gruff way, he could seem almost friendly. Erak, in turn, studied Will. What was he up to? He was probably trying to figure out a way to escape, Erak thought. That’s what he’d be doing in the boy’s place. The apprentice Ranger was smart and resourceful. He was also determined. Erak had seen the way he stuck to his grueling exercise program, out running on the beach in fair weather or foul.

  Once again he felt that sense of regard for the apprentice Ranger—and the girl. She’d shown plenty of grit too.

  The thought of the girl made him frown. Sooner or later, there’d be trouble in that quarter. Particularly with Slagor and his men. The crew ofWolf Fang was a sorry lot—jailbirds and minor criminals for the most part. Good crewmen wouldn’t sign with Slagor. Well, he thought philosophically, if it happened, he’d have to bang a few heads together. He wasn’t going to have his authority challenged by a rabble like Slagor’s men. The two slaves were Erak’s property. They’d be his only profit from this disastrous trip to Araluen, and if anyone tried to damage either one, they’d answer to him. As he had the thought, he tried to tell himself that he was only protecting his investment. But he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.

  “Jarl Erak?” the boy said in the darkness, uncertainty in his tone as he wondered whether he should ask questions of the Skandian leader. Erak grunted. The sound was noncommittal but Will took it as permission to continue.

  “What was the Vallasvow Jarl Slagor spoke of?” he asked, trying to sound casual. Erak frowned at the title.

  “Slagor’s no jarl,” he corrected the boy. “He’s merely a skirl, a captain of a wolfship.”

  “I’m sorry,” Will said humbly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Erak angry. Obviously, by referring to Slagor as his equal, Will had risked that. He hesitated, but Erak’s annoyance seemed to have abated, so he asked again.

  “And the Vallasvow?” he prompted.

  Erak belched quietly and leaned to one side so he could scratch his backside. He was sure that Slagor’s crew had brought fleas with them into the hut. It was the one discomfort they had not had to bear so far. Cold, damp, smoke and smell. But now they could add fleas. He wished, not for the first time, that Slagor’s wolfship had gone down in the gales on the Stormwhite Sea.

  “It’s a vow,” he said, unhelpfully, “that Ragnak took. Not that he had any cause to,” he added. “You don’t provoke the Vallas lightly. Not if you have any sense.”

  “The Vallas?” Will asked. “Who are they?”

  Erak looked at the dark form crouched beneath him. He shook his head in wonderment. How ignorant these Araluens were!

  “Never heard of the Vallas? What do they teach you in that damp little island of yours?” he asked. Will, wisely, said nothing in reply. There were a few moments’ silence, then Erak continued.

  “The Vallas, boy, are the three gods of vengeance. They take the form of a shark, a bear and a vulture.”

  He paused, to see if that had sunk in. Will felt that this time, some comment was required.

  “I see,” he said uncertainly. Erak snorted in derision.

  “I’m sure you don’t. Nobody in their right mind ever wants to see the Vallas. Nobody in their right mind ever chooses to swear to them either.”

  Will thought about what the Skandian had said. “So a Vallasvow is a vow of vengeance, then?” he asked, and Erak nodded grimly.

  “Total vengeance,” he replied. “It’s when you hate so badly that you swear to be avenged, not just upon the person who has wronged you, but on every member of his family as well.”

  “Every member?” said Will. For a moment, Erak wondered if there was something behind this line of questioning. But he couldn’t see how information like this could help in an escape attempt, so he continued.

  “Every last one,” he told him. “It’s a death vow, of course, and it’s unbreakable. Once it’s made, if the person making the vow should ever recant, the Vallas will take him and his own family instead of the original victims. They’re not the sort of gods you really want any business with, believe me.”

  Again, a small silence. Will wondered if he had continued far enough with his questions, and decided he could try for a little more leeway.

  “Then if they’re so terrible, why would Ragnak—” he began, but Erak cut him off.

  “Because he’s mad!” he snapped. “I told you, only a madman would swear to the Vallas! Ragnak has never been too stable; now the loss of his son has obviously tipped him over the edge.”

  Erak made a gesture of disgust. He seemed to tire of the subject of Ragnak and the fearful Vallas.

  “Just be thankful you’re not of Duncan’s family,
boy. Or Ragnak’s, for that matter.” He turned back to where the firelight showed through a dozen cracks and chinks in the hut walls, casting strange, elongated patterns of light onto the wet shingle.

  “Now get back to your work,” he said angrily, and strode back toward the heat and smell of the hut.

  Will watched him, idly sluicing the last of the plates in the cold seawater.

  “We really have to get out of here,” he said softly to himself.

  12

  THERE WAS SO MUCH TO SEE AND HEAR, HORACE DIDN’T KNOW which way to turn his head first. All around him, the port city of La Rivage seethed with life. The docks were crowded with ships: simple fishing smacks and two-masted traders moored side by side and creating a forest of masts and halyards that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. His ears buzzed with the shriek of gulls as they fought one another for the scraps hurled into the harbor by fishermen cleaning their catch. The ships, large and small, rose and fell and rocked with the slight swell inside the harbor, never actually still for a moment. Underlying the gulls’ shrill voices was the constant creaking and groaning of hundreds of wickerwork fenders protecting the hulls from their neighbors.

  His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke and the aroma of food cooking—but a different aroma to the plain, country fare prepared at Castle Redmont. Here, there was something extra to the smell: something exotic and exciting and foreign.

  Which was only to be expected, he thought, as he was setting foot in a truly foreign country for the first time in his young life. He’d traveled to Celtica, of course, but that didn’t count. It was really just an extension of Araluen. This was so different. Around him, voices were raised in anger or amusement, calling to one another, insulting one another, laughing with one another. And not a word of the outlandish tongue could he understand.

  He stood by the quay where they had landed, holding the bridles of the three horses while Halt paid off the master of the tubby little freighter that had transported them across the Narrow Sea—along with a reeking cargo of hides bound for the tanneries here in Gallica. After four days in close proximity to the stiff piles of animal skin, Horace found himself wondering if he could ever wear anything made of leather again.