The Icebound Land

by John Flanagan

  It came as something of an anticlimax when, in midafternoon, they arrived at yet another small bridge, with yet another knight in attendance, barring their passage across and offering them the choice of paying tribute or contesting with him.

  The knight, astride a bony chestnut horse that should have been retired two or three years ago, was a far cry from the warlord they had confronted the night before. His surcoat was muddy and tattered. It may have been yellow once, but now it had faded to a dirty off-white. His armor had been patched in several places and his lance was obviously a roughly trimmed sapling, with a decided kink about a third of the way along its length. His shield was inscribed with a boar’s head. It seemed appropriate for a man as rusty, tattered and generally grubby as he was.

  They came to a halt, surveying the scene. Halt sighed wearily.

  “I am getting so very tired of this,” he muttered to Horace, and began unslinging his longbow from where he wore it across his shoulders.

  “Just a moment, Halt,” said Horace, shrugging his round buckler from its position on his back and onto his left arm. “Why don’t we let him see the oakleaf insignia and see if that changes his mind about things?”

  Halt scowled at the tatterdemalion figure in the road ahead of them, hesitating as his hand reached for an arrow.

  “Well, all right,” he said reluctantly. “But we’ll give him one chance only. Then I’m putting an arrow through him. I’m heartily sick of these people.”

  He slouched back in his saddle as Horace rode to meet the scruffy knight. So far, there had been no sound from the figure in the middle of the road and that, thought Halt, was unusual. As a general rule, the road warriors couldn’t wait to issue challenges, usually peppering their speech with generous helpings of “Ho, varlet!” and “Have at thee then, sir knight” and other antiquated claptrap of the sort.

  And even as the thought occurred to him, warning bells went off in his mind and he called to the young apprentice who was now some twenty meters away, trotting Kicker to meet his challenger.

  “Horace! Come back! It’s a…”

  But before he could say the last word, an amorphous shape dropped from the branches of an oak tree that overhung the road, draping itself around the head and shoulders of the boy. For a moment, Horace struggled uselessly in the folds of the net that enveloped him. Then an unseen hand tugged on a rope and the net tightened around him and he was jerked out of the saddle, to crash heavily onto the road.

  Startled, Kicker reared away from his fallen rider, trotted a few paces, then, sensing he was in no danger himself, stopped and watched, ears pricked warily.

  “…trap,” finished Halt quietly, cursing his lack of awareness. Distracted by the ridiculous appearance of the shabby knight, he had allowed his senses to relax, leading them into this current predicament.

  He had an arrow on the bowstring now, but there was no visible target, save the knight on the ancient battlehorse, who still sat silently in the middle of the road. He was part of the entire elaborate setup, without a doubt. He had shown no sign of surprise when the net had fallen onto Horace.

  “Well, my friend, you can pay for your part in this deception,” Halt muttered, and brought the bow up smoothly, bringing it back in a full draw until the feathered end touched his cheek, just above the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t think I’d do that,” said a familiar gravelly voice. The ragged, rusty knight pushed back his visor, revealing the dark features of Deparnieux.

  Halt swore to himself. He hesitated, the arrow still at full draw, and heard a series of small noises from the underbrush on either side of the road. Slowly, he released the tension on the string as he became aware that at least a dozen shapes had risen from the bushes, all of them holding deadly little crossbows.

  All of them pointing toward him.

  He replaced the arrow in the quiver at his back and lowered the bow until it rested across his thighs. He glanced hopelessly to where Horace still struggled against the fine woven mesh that had wrapped itself around him. Now more men were emerging from the bushes and trees that flanked the road. They approached the helpless apprentice, and as four of them covered him with crossbows, the others worked to loosen the folds of the net and bring him, red-faced, to his feet.

  Deparnieux, grinning widely with satisfaction, urged his bony horse down the road toward them. Stopping within easy speaking distance, he performed a cursory bow from the waist.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said mockingly, “I will be privileged to have you as my guests at Château Montsombre.”

  Halt raised one eyebrow. “How could we possibly refuse?” he asked, of no one in particular.

  25

  IT HAD BEEN FIVE DAYS SINCE EVANLYN HAD BEEN SUMMONED to Erak’s quarters. While she waited for further contact from him, she went ahead with the other part of the plan he had outlined to her, complaining loudly at the prospect of being assigned to be one of his personal slaves. According to the story they had concocted, she would finish the week in the kitchen, then take up her new assignment. She professed her disgust with him in general, with his standard of cleanliness in particular, and spoke as often as she could of the cruelty he had shown her on the voyage to Hallasholm.

  To hear Erak described by Evanlyn in those few days, he was the worst of the devils of hell, and with bad breath to boot.

  After several days of this, Jana, one of the senior kitchen slaves, said to her wearily, “There could be worse things for you, my girl. Get used to it.”

  She turned away, tired of Evanlyn’s constant complaints. For in truth, the life of a personal slave had some advantages: better food and clothing and more comfortable quarters among them.

  “I’ll kill myself first,” Evanlyn called after her, glad of the chance to make her abhorrence of the Jarl more public. A passing kitchen-hand, a freeman, not a slave, cuffed her heavily around the back of the head, setting her ears ringing.

  “I’ll do it for you, you lazy slacker, if you don’t get back to work,” he told her. She shook her head, glaring her hatred after his retreating back, and hurried off to serve ale to Ragnak and his fellow diners.

  As ever, she felt a distinct surge of anxiety as she entered the dining hall under Ragnak’s gaze. Although reason told her that he was unlikely to single her out from the dozens of other hurrying slaves busily serving food and drink, she still lived in the constant fear that, somehow, she would be recognized as Duncan’s daughter. It was that anxiety, as much as the nonstop work, that left her drained and exhausted at the end of each night.

  After the evening’s work was completed, the slaves moved gratefully to their sleeping spaces. Evanlyn noted wryly that Jana, obviously bored with Evanlyn’s constant complaints about Erak, had moved her blanket to the far side of the room. She spread her own blanket and went to reroll the cloth around her log pillow. As she did so, a small piece of paper fell from the folds of the old shirt she used to pad the wood.

  Her heart racing, Evanlyn quickly covered the scrap with her foot, glancing around to see if any of her neighbors had noticed. Nobody seemed to. They all continued with their own preparations for sleep. As casually as she could, Evanlyn lay down, retrieving the small scrap of paper as she did so, and pulled her blanket up to her chin, taking the opportunity to glance at the one-word message written on the paper:

  “Tonight.”

  A kitchenhand came in a few minutes later and doused the lanterns, leaving only the flickering flames of the banked fire to light the room. Exhausted as she was, Evanlyn lay on her back, eyes wide open, pulses racing, waiting for the time to pass.

  Gradually, the voices around the room fell silent, replaced by the deep, regular breathing of sleeping slaves. Here and there were soft snores or the occasional cough, and, once or twice, a voice spoke out, slurred and indistinct, as an elderly Teuton slave muttered in her sleep.

  The fire died away to a dull red glow and Evanlyn heard the watch sounding the horn for midnight from the harbor. That would be
the last signal horn until dawn, at around seven o’clock. She settled back to wait. Erak had told her to wait till an hour after the midnight signal. “That gives them time to settle down and sleep deeply,” he’d said to her, when he outlined his plan. “Leave it any longer and the light sleepers and the older slaves will start waking up and needing to use the privies.”

  In spite of the tension she felt, her eyelids were beginning to droop, and with a panicky start, she realized she had nearly dropped off to sleep. That would be perfect, she thought bitterly, to have the Jarl waiting for her outside the Great Hall while she was snoring soundly in her blanket.

  She shifted on the hard floor, moving to a less comfortable position, digging her nails into her palms so that the pain would keep her alert. She began to count to measure the time passing, then realized, almost too late, that the soporific effect of counting had nearly put her to sleep again.

  Finally, with a shrug of annoyance, she decided that an hour must have passed. There was no sign of anyone being awake in the kitchen as she cautiously pushed back her blanket and stood up. If anyone stirred, she reasoned, she could always claim that she was heading for the privy herself. She had gone to bed fully dressed, apart from her boots. She carried them with her now, wrapping the blanket around her. As the fire had died down, the room had grown progressively colder and she shivered as the chill air struck at her.

  The door to the yard seemed to be loud enough to wake the dead as she tried to ease it open. It swung on the heavy hinges with what seemed to be a deafening shriek. Wincing, she shut it as carefully as she could, marveling that nobody had seemed to be disturbed by the noise.

  There was no moon. The night was overcast with thick clouds, but still the snow that covered the ground reflected what little light there was, making it easy to see details. The black mass that was the yard slaves’ sleeping quarters, a cold and drafty barn, was easily visible, thirty or forty meters away.

  Hopping from one foot to the other, she tugged on her boots. Then, hugging the wall of the main building, she moved to her left, making for the corner as Erak had instructed. As she reached the end of the wall, she let out an involuntary gasp. There was a burly figure waiting there, huddled close in to the shadow of the building.

  For a moment, she felt a shaft of fear stab at her. Then she realized it was Jarl Erak.

  “You’re late,” he whispered in an angry tone. She realized that he was possibly as keyed up as she was. Jarl or no jarl, he was risking his life to help a slave escape and he’d be well aware of the fact.

  “Some of them hadn’t settled down,” she lied. It seemed pointless to tell him that she’d had no way of measuring time. He grunted in reply and she guessed her excuse was accepted. He thrust a small sack into her hands.

  “Here,” he said. “There are a few silver coins in there. You’ll probably have to bribe one of the Committeemen to get the boy out of there. This should be enough. If I give you more, they’ll only get suspicious and wonder where it came from.”

  She nodded. They had discussed all this in his quarters five nights before. The escape would have to be accomplished without any suspicion falling on Erak. This was the reason why he had instructed her to spend the last few days complaining about the prospect of becoming his slave. It would create an apparent reason for her attempt to escape.

  “Take this as well,” he said, handing her a small dagger in a leather sheath. “You might need it to make sure he sticks to the bargain after you’ve bribed him.”

  She took the weapon, shoving it through the wide belt she wore. She was dressed in breeches and a shirt, with the blanket draped around her shoulders like a cloak.

  “Once I get him out, what then?” she asked softly. Erak pointed to the path that led down to the harbor, and to the township of Hallasholm itself.

  “Follow that path. Not far from the gate, you’ll see another path branching off to the left, uphill. Take that. I’ve tethered a pony along the path, with food and warm clothing. You’ll need the horse to keep Will moving.” He hesitated, then added, “You’ll also find a small supply of warmweed in the saddle pack.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. The other night, he had made no secret of his distaste for the narcotic.

  “You’ll need it for Will,” he explained briefly. “Once a person’s addicted to the stuff, you can kill him by stopping the supply all at once. You’ll have to wean him off it gradually, reducing the amount each week, until his mind recovers and he can do without it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, and he gripped her wrist encouragingly. He glanced at the low clouds above them, sniffing the air.

  “It’ll snow before dawn,” he said. “That will cover your tracks. Plus I’ll lay a false trail as well. Just keep heading up into the mountains. Follow the path until you come to a fork in the trail by three boulders, with the largest in the middle. Then branch left and you’ll reach the hut in another two days’ travel.”

  There was a small hut up in the mountains, used as a base for hunters during the summer season. It would be unoccupied now and would provide a relatively safe refuge for them through the winter.

  “Remember,” he told her, “once the spring thaw starts, get moving. The boy should have recovered by then. But you can’t afford to be caught up there by hunters. Get out once the snow’s gone and keep heading south.” He hesitated, then shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry I can’t do more,” he said. “This is the best I could come up with at short notice, and if we don’t do something now, Will won’t survive much longer.”

  She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his bearded cheek.

  “You’re doing plenty,” she said. “I’ll never forget you for this, Jarl Erak. I can’t begin to thank you for what you’re doing.”

  Awkwardly, he shrugged away her thanks. He glanced at the sky once more, then jerked his thumb at the yard slaves’ barracks.

  “You’d better get going,” he told her. Then he added, “Good luck.”

  She grinned quickly at him, then hurried across the bare patch of ground to the barracks. She felt glaringly exposed as she crossed the snow-covered yard, and half expected to hear a challenge from somewhere behind her. But she made it to the building without incident and shrank gratefully into the shadows at the base of the wall.

  She paused a few seconds to regain her breath and let her heart settle to a more normal pace. Then she edged her way along the wall to the door. It was locked, of course, but only from the outside and only with a simple bolt. She slid it back now, holding her breath as the metal rasped on metal, then swung the rickety door open and slipped inside.

  It was dark in the barracks, with no fire to light the gloom. She waited, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Gradually, she could make out the sleeping forms of the slaves, sprawled on the dirt floor, wrapped in rags and scraps of blankets. Light fell across them in bars, coming through the gaps in the rough pine walls of the building. The Committeemen, Erak had told her, had a separate room at the end of the barracks, where they even kept a small fire burning for warmth. But there was always a chance that one of them might stay on watch in the main barracks. That was why he had given her the silver.

  And the dagger.

  She touched her hand to the cold hilt of the weapon now, feeling it for reassurance. She had reconnoitered the barracks several days ago and she knew roughly where Will had his sleeping space. She began to head toward it, picking her way carefully among the prone bodies. Her eyes moved this way and that, seeking him out, and she felt a growing sense of desperation as she searched. Then she made out that unmistakable shock of hair above a ragged blanket, and with a sigh of relief, she made her way to him.

  At least there would be no problem getting Will to move. Yard slaves, their senses dulled and their minds slowed by the drug, would obey any command they were given.

  She crouched beside Will, shaking his shoulder to wake him—gently at first, then, realizing that in his drugged state he would sleep
like the dead, increasingly roughly.

  “Will!” she hissed, leaning close to his ear. “Get up. Wake up!”

  He muttered once. But his eyes remained tight shut and his breathing heavy. She shook him again with a growing sense of panic.

  “Please, Will,” she begged. “Wake up!” And she hit him across the cheek with the palm of her hand.

  That did the trick. His eyes opened and he stared foggily at her. There was no sign of recognition but at least he was awake. She dragged at his shoulder.

  “Get up,” she commanded. “And follow me.”

  Her heart leaped in triumph as he obeyed. He moved slowly, but he moved, rising groggily to his feet and standing, swaying unsteadily, beside her, waiting for further instructions.

  She pointed to the door, swinging open and letting a band of white light into the barracks. “Go. To the door,” she ordered, and he began to trudge toward it, uncaring where he put his feet, kicking and treading on the other sleeping slaves. Remarkably, they showed little reaction, at most muttering or tossing in their sleep. She turned to follow him, but a cold voice from the far end of the room stopped her in her tracks.

  “Just a moment, missy. Where do you think you’re going?”

  It was a Committeeman. Even worse, it was Egon. Jarl Erak had been right. They did take turns to stand watch over the other slaves. She turned to face him as he made his way through the crowded room. Like Will, he paid no heed to the sleeping figures on the floor, treading on them as he came.

  Evanlyn drew herself up, took a deep breath and said, in as steady a voice as she could manage: “Jarl Erak sent me to fetch this slave. He needs firewood brought into his quarters.”

  The gang boss hesitated. It was not impossible that she was telling the truth. If one of the senior Jarls ran out of firewood in the middle of the night, he’d have no compunction about sending a slave to bring a new stack in.