The Icebound Land

by John Flanagan

  But they could just as easily see him and wonder what he was doing at this time of night, so he stayed in the shadows wherever he could.

  His own ship,Wolfwind, was moored to the harbor quay and he boarded her silently, knowing that there was no duty crew present. He’d dismissed them that afternoon, relying on his reputation as a weather forecaster to reassure them that there would be no strong winds that night. He leaned over the outboard bulwark and there, floating in the lee of the ship, was the small skiff he had moored there earlier in the day. He glanced at the way the boats in the harbor rode to their moorings and saw that the tide was still running out. He had timed his arrival to coincide with the falling tide and now he climbed quickly down into the smaller craft, felt around in the stern for the drainage plug and pulled it loose. The icy water cascaded in over his hands. When the boat was half-full, he replaced the plug and heaved himself back over the rail onto the wolfship. Drawing his dagger, he cut through the painter holding the skiff alongside.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then the little craft, already sitting lower in the water, began to slide astern, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the tide drew it along. There was one oar in the boat, set in the oarlock. He’d arranged it that way in case the boat was found in the next few days. The combination of an empty boat, apparently swamped and half-full of water, with one oar missing, would all point to an accident. The skiff drifted down harbor, becoming lost to sight among the larger craft that crowded the anchorage.

  Satisfied that he had done all he could, Erak slipped back ashore and retraced his steps to the Great Hall. As he went, he noticed with satisfaction that the heavy snow had already obliterated the tracks he had made earlier. By morning, there would be no sign that anyone had passed this way. The missing boat and the cut painter would be the only clues as to where the escaped slaves had gone.

  The going was harder as the pathway through the forest grew steeper. Evanlyn’s breath came in ragged gasps, and hung on the frigid air in great clouds of steam. The slight wind that had stirred the pines earlier had died away as the snow began to fall. Her throat and mouth were dry and there was an unpleasant, brassy taste in her mouth. She’d tried to ease her thirst several times with handfuls of snow, but the relief was short-lived. The intense cold of the snow undid any benefit that she might have gotten from the small amount of water that trickled down her throat as the snow melted.

  She glanced behind her. The pony was trudging doggedly in her tracks, head down and seemingly unaffected by the cold. Will was a huddled shape on the pony’s back, wrapped deep in the folds of the sheepskin vest. He moaned softly and continuously.

  She paused for a moment, breathing raggedly, taking in huge gulps of the freezing air. It bit almost painfully at the back of her throat. The muscles in the backs of her thighs and calves were aching and trembling from the effort of driving on through the thick snow, but she knew she had to keep going as long as she could. She had no idea how far she had traveled from the Lodge at Hallasholm, but she suspected it was not far enough. If Erak’s attempt to lay a false trail was unsuccessful, she had no doubt that a party of able-bodied Skandians could cover the ground she and Will had traveled in less than an hour. Erak’s instructions were to get as far up the mountain as possible before dawn came. Then they must get off the pathway and into the cover of the thick trees, where she and Will could hide for the day.

  She looked up at the narrow gap through the trees above her. The thick overcast hid any sign of the moon or stars. She had no idea how late it was or how soon the dawn might come.

  Miserably, with every muscle in her legs protesting, she started upward again, the pony trailing stolidly behind her. For a moment, she considered climbing up onto the saddle behind Will and riding double. Then she dismissed the notion. It was only a small pony, and while he might carry one person and their packs uncomplainingly, a double load in these conditions would quickly tire him. Knowing how much depended on the shaggy little beast, she reluctantly decided that it was best for her to continue on foot. If she exhausted the pony, it could well be a death sentence for Will. She’d never keep him moving, exhausted and weakened as he was.

  She trudged on, lifting each foot clear of the snow, planting it down, slipping slightly as it crunched through the ever-thickening ground cover, compacting it until she had a firm footing once more. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Mouth drier than ever. Breath still clouding on the air and hanging in the still night behind her, briefly marking where she had passed. Unthinkingly, she began to count the paces as she took them. There was no reason to it. She wasn’t consciously trying to measure distance. It was an instinctive reaction to the constant, repetitive rhythm she had established. She reached two hundred and started again. Reached it again and started from one once more. Then, after several more times, she realized that she had no idea how many times she had reached that two hundred mark and she stopped counting. Within twenty steps, she became aware that she was counting again. She shrugged. This time, she decided, she’d count to four hundred before starting back at one again. Anything for a little variety, she thought with grim humor.

  The thick flakes of snow continued falling, brushing her face and matting her hair pure white. Her face was growing numb and she rubbed it vigorously with the back of her hand, realized the hand was numb as well and stopped to look through the pack once more.

  She’d seen gloves in there when she’d found the vest for Will. She located them again, thick wool gauntlets, with a thumb piece and a single space for the rest of her fingers. She pulled them onto her freezing hands, swinging her arms, slapping her hands against her ribs and up under her armpits to stimulate the circulation. After a few minutes of this, she felt a brief tingle of returning sensation and began walking again.

  The pony had stopped when she did. Now, patiently, it moved off again in her footprints.

  She reached four hundred and started back at one.

  28

  HALT LOOKED AROUND THE LARGE CHAMBERS THEY HAD BEEN shown to.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s not much, but it’s home.”

  In fact, he wasn’t being quite fair with his statement. They were high in the central tower of Château Montsombre, the tower Deparnieux told them he kept exclusively for his own use—and that of his guests, he added sardonically. The room they were in was a large one and quite comfortably furnished. There was a table and chairs that would do quite well for eating meals, as well as two comfortable-looking wooden armchairs arranged on either side of the large fireplace. Doors led off either side to two smaller sleeping chambers and there was even a small bathing room with a tin tub and a washstand. There were a couple of halfway decent hangings on the stone walls and a serviceable rug covering a large part of the floor. There was a small terrace and a window, which afforded a view of the winding path they had followed to reach the castle and the forest lands below. The window was unglazed, with wooden shutters on the inside to provide relief from the wind and weather.

  The door was the only jarring note in the scheme of things. There was no door handle on the inside. Their quarters might be comfortable enough. But they were prisoners for all that, Halt knew.

  Horace dumped his pack on the floor and dropped gratefully into one of the wooden armchairs by the fire. There was a draft coming through the window, even though it was still only midafternoon. It would be cold and drafty at night, he thought. But then, most castle chambers were. This one was no better or worse than the average.

  “Halt,” he said, “I’ve been wondering why Abelard and Tug didn’t warn us about the ambush. Aren’t they trained to sense things like that?”

  Halt nodded slowly. “The same thought occurred to me,” he said. “And I assume it had something to do with your string of conquests.”

  The boy looked at him, not understanding, and he elaborated. “We had half a dozen battlehorses tramping along behind us, laden down with bits of armor that clanked and rattled like a tinker’s ca
rt. My guess is that all the noise they were making masked any sound Deparnieux’s men might have made.”

  Horace frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. “But couldn’t they scent them?” he asked.

  “If the wind were in the right direction, yes. But it was blowing from us to them, if you remember.” He regarded Horace, who was looking vaguely disappointed at the horses’ inability to overcome such minor difficulties. “Sometimes,” Halt continued, “we tend to expect a little too much of Ranger horses. After all, they are only human.” The faintest trace of a smile touched his mouth as he said that, but Horace didn’t notice. He merely nodded and moved on to his next question.

  “So,” he said, “what do we do now?”

  The Ranger shrugged. He had his own pack open and was taking out a few items—a clean shirt and his razor and washing things.

  “We wait,” he said. “We’re not losing any time—yet. The mountain passes into Skandia will be snowed over for at least another month. So we may as well make ourselves comfortable here for a few days until we see what our gallant Gall has in mind for us.”

  Horace used one foot to remove the boot from the other and wiggled his toes in delight, enjoying the sudden feeling of freedom.

  “There’s a thing,” he said. “What do you suppose this Deparnieux is up to, Halt?”

  Halt hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not sure. But he’ll probably show his hand sometime over the next few days. I think he has a vague idea that I’m a Ranger,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Do they have Rangers here?” Horace asked, surprised. He’d always assumed that the Ranger Corps was unique to Araluen. Now, as Halt shook his head, he realized his assumption was correct.

  “No, they don’t,” Halt replied. “And we’ve always been at some pains not to spread word of the Corps too far and wide. Never know when you’re going to end up at war with someone,” he added. “But, of course, it’s impossible to keep something like that a total secret, so he may have got some word of it.”

  “And if he has?” Horace asked. “I thought he was originally only interested in us because he wanted to fight me—you know, like you said.”

  “That was probably the case at first,” Halt agreed, “but now he’s got wind of something and I think he’s trying to work out how he can use me.”

  “Use you?” Horace repeated, frowning at the idea. Halt made a dismissive gesture.

  “That’s usually the way people like him think,” he told the boy. “They’re always looking to see how they can turn a situation to their own advantage. And they think that everyone can be bought, if the price is right. Do you think you could put that boot back on?” he added mildly. “The window can only let in a limited amount of fresh air and your socks are a touch ripe, to put it mildly.”

  “Oh, sorry!” said Horace, tugging the riding boot back on over his sock. Now that Halt mentioned it, he was aware of a rather strong odor in the room.

  “Don’t knights in this country take vows of chivalry?” he asked, returning to the subject of their captor. “Knights vow to help others, don’t they? They’re not supposed to ‘use people.’”

  “They take the vows,” Halt told him. “Keeping them is another matter altogether. And the idea of knights helping the common people is one that works in a place like Araluen, where we have a strong king. Here, if you’ve got the power, you can pretty much do as you please.”

  “Well, it’s not right,” Horace muttered. Halt agreed with him, but there didn’t seem to be anything to gain by saying so.

  “Just be patient,” he told Horace now. “There’s nothing we can do to hurry things along. We’ll find out what Deparnieux wants soon enough. In the meantime, we may as well relax and take it easy.”

  “Another thing…,” Horace added, ignoring his companion’s suggestion. “I didn’t like those cages by the roadside. No true knight could ever punish anyone that way, no matter how bad their crime might be. Those things were just terrible. Inhuman!”

  Halt met the boy’s honest gaze. There was nothing he could offer by way of comfort. Inhuman was an apt description of the punishment.

  “Yes,” he said, finally, “I didn’t like those either. I think that before we leave here, my lord Deparnieux might have a little explaining to do on that matter.”

  They dined that night with the Gallic warlord. The table was an immense one, with room for thirty or more diners, and the three of them were dwarfed by the empty space around them. Serving boys and maids scurried about their tasks, bringing extra helpings of food and wine as required.

  The meal was neither good nor bad, which surprised Halt a little. Gallic cuisine had a reputation for being exotic and even outlandish. The plain fare that was served up to them seemed to indicate that the reputation was an unfounded one.

  The one thing he did notice was that the serving staff went about their tasks with their eyes cast down, avoiding eye contact with any of the three diners. There was a palpable air of fear in the room, accentuated when any of the servants had to move close to their master to serve him with food or to fill his goblet.

  Halt sensed also that Deparnieux was not only aware of the tension in the atmosphere, he actually enjoyed it. A satisfied half smile would touch his cruel lips whenever one of the servants came close to him, eyes averted and holding his or her breath until the task was completed.

  They spoke little during the meal. Deparnieux seemed content to observe them, rather as a boy might observe an interesting and previously unknown bug that he had captured. In the circumstances, neither Halt nor Horace were inclined to offer any small talk.

  When they had eaten, and the table had been cleared, the warlord finally spoke what was on his mind. He glanced dismissively at Horace and waved a languid hand toward the stairway that led to their chambers.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, boy,” he said. “You have my leave to go.”

  Flushing slightly at the ill-mannered tone, Horace glanced quickly at Halt and saw the Ranger’s small nod. He rose, trying to retain his dignity, trying not to show the Gallic knight his confusion.

  “Good night, Halt,” he said quietly, and Halt nodded again.

  “’Night, Horace,” he said. The apprentice warrior drew himself up, looked Deparnieux in the eye and abruptly turned and left the room. Two of the armed guards who had been standing by in the shadows instantly fell in behind him, escorting him up the stairs.

  It was a small gesture, Horace thought as he climbed to his chambers, and it was probably a childish one. But ignoring the master of Château Montsombre as he left made him feel a little better.

  Deparnieux waited until the sound of Horace’s footsteps on the stone-flagged stairs had receded. Then, pushing his chair back from the table, he turned a calculating gaze on the Ranger.

  “Well, Master Halt,” he said quietly, “it’s time we had a little chat.”

  Halt pursed his lips. “About what?” he asked. “I’m afraid I’m just no good at all with gossip.”

  The warlord smiled thinly. “I can tell you’re going to be an amusing guest,” he said. “Now tell me, exactly who are you?”

  Halt shrugged carelessly. He toyed with a goblet that was sitting, almost empty, on the table in front of him, twirling it this way and that, watching the way the faceted glass caught the light from the fire in the corner.

  “I’m an ordinary sort of person,” he said. “My name’s Halt. I’m from Araluen, traveling with Sir Horace. Nothing much more to tell, really.”

  The smile stayed fixed on Deparnieux’s face as he continued to regard the bearded man sitting opposite him. He appeared nondescript enough, that was for sure. His clothes were simple—verging on drab, in fact. His beard and hair were badly cut. They looked as if he had cut them with a hunting knife, thought Deparnieux, unaware that he was only one of many people to have had that very same thought about Halt.

  He was a small man too. His head barely came up to the warlord’s shoulder. But he was muscular
for all that, and in spite of the gray hairs in his beard and hair, he was in excellent physical condition. But there was something about the eyes—dark and steady and calculating—that belied the claim of ordinariness that the man made now. Deparnieux prided himself that he knew the look of a man who was used to command, and this man had it, definitely.

  Plus there was something about his equipment. It was unusual to see a man with this unmistakable air of command who was not armed as a knight. The bow was a commoner’s weapon, in Deparnieux’s eyes, and the double knife scabbard was something he had not encountered before. He had taken the opportunity to study the two knives. The larger one reminded him of the heavy saxe knives carried by the Skandians. The smaller knife, razor-sharp like its companion, was a perfectly balanced throwing knife. Unusual weapons indeed for a commander, Deparnieux thought.

  The strange cloak fascinated him as well. It was patterned in irregular daubs of green and gray and he could see no reason for the colors or the pattern. The deep cowl served to hide the man’s face when he pulled it up in place. Several times during their ride to Montsombre, the Gallic knight had noticed that the cloak seemed to shimmer and merge with the forest background, so that the small man almost disappeared from sight. Then the illusion would pass.

  Deparnieux, like many of his countrymen, was more than a little superstitious. He suspected that the cloak’s strange properties could be some form of sorcery.

  It was this last thought that had led to his somewhat equivocal treatment of Halt. It didn’t pay to antagonize sorcerers, the warlord knew. So he determined to play his cards carefully until he knew exactly what to expect of this mysterious little man. And, should it prove that Halt had no dark powers, there was always the possibility that he might be persuaded to turn his other talents to Deparnieux’s own ends.