The Battle for Skandia

by John Flanagan

“Of course they do,” Halt replied. “The mountains form their principal line of defense.”

  “So how did you plan for us to get past them?”

  The Ranger hesitated. It was a question that had been taxing his mind since they had taken the road from Chateau Montsombre. If he were by himself, he would have no trouble slipping past unseen. With Horace in company, and riding a big, spirited battlehorse, it might be a more difficult matter. He had a few ideas but had yet to settle on any one of them.

  “I’ll think of something,” he temporized, and Horace nodded wisely, satisfied that Halt would indeed think of something. In Horace’s world, that was what Rangers did best, and the best thing a warrior apprentice could do was let the Ranger get on with thinking while a warrior took care of walloping anyone who needed to be walloped along the way. He settled back in his saddle, contented with his lot in life.

  3

  ERAK STARFOLLOWER, WOLFSHIP CAPTAIN AND ONE OF THE senior war jarls of the Skandians, made his way through the low-ceilinged, wood-paneled lodge to the Great Hall. His face was marked with a frown as he went. He had plenty to do, with the spring raiding season coming on. His ship needed repairs and refitting. Most of all, it needed the fine-tuning that only a few days at sea could bring.

  Now this summons from Ragnak boded ill for his plans. Particularly since the summons had come through the medium of Borsa, the Oberjarl’s hilfmann, or administrator. If Borsa were involved, it usually meant that Ragnak had some little task for Erak to look after. Or some not-so-little task, the wolfship skipper thought wryly.

  Breakfast was long since finished, so there were only a few servants cleaning up the Hall when he arrived. At the far end, seated at a rough pine table off to one side of Ragnak’s High Seat—a massive pinewood chair that served in place of a throne for the Skandian ruler—sat Ragnak and Borsa, their heads bowed over a pile of parchment scrolls. Erak recognized those scrolls. They were the tax returns for the various towns and shires throughout Skandia. Ragnak was obsessed with them. As for Borsa, his life was totally dominated by them. He breathed, slept and dreamed the tax returns, and woe betide any local jarl who might try to shortchange Ragnak or claim any deduction that wouldn’t pass Borsa’s fine-tooth comb inspection.

  Erak put two and two together and sighed quietly. The most likely conclusion that he could draw from the two facts of his summoning and the pile of tax returns on the table was that he was about to be sent off on another tax-collecting mission.

  Tax collecting was not something that Erak enjoyed. He was a raider and a sea wolf, a pirate and a fighter. As such, his inclination was to be more on the side of the tax evaders than the Oberjarl and his eager-fingered hilfmann. Unfortunately, on those previous occasions when Erak had been sent out to collect overdue or unpaid taxes, he had been too successful for his own good. Now, whenever there was the slightest doubt about the amount of tax owing from a village or a shire, Borsa automatically thought of Erak as the solution to the problem.

  To make matters worse, Erak’s attitude and approach to the job only added to his desirability in Borsa’s and Ragnak’s eyes. Bored with the task and considering it embarrassing and belittling, he made sure he spent as little time on the job as possible. The tortuous arguments and recalculation of amounts owing after all deductions had been approved and agreed were not for him. Erak opted for a more direct course, which consisted of seizing the person under investigation, ramming a double-headed broadax up under his chin and threatening mayhem if all taxes, every single one of them, were not paid immediately.

  Erak’s reputation as a fighter was well known throughout Skandia. To his annoyance, he was never asked to make good on his threat. Those recalcitrants whom he visited invariably coughed up the due amount, and often a little extra that had never been in contention, without the slightest argument or hesitation.

  The two men at the table looked up as he made his way through the benches toward the end of the room. The Great Hall served more than one purpose. It was where Ragnak and his close followers took their meals. It was also the site of all banquets and official gatherings in Skandia’s rough and ready social calendar. And the small, open annex where Ragnak and Borsa were currently studying tax returns was also Ragnak’s office. It wasn’t particularly private, since any member of the inner or outer council of jarls had access to the hall at any time of day. But then, Ragnak wasn’t the sort to need privacy. He ruled openly and made all his policy statements to the world at large.

  “Ah, Erak, you’re here,” said Borsa, and Erak thought, not for the first time, that the hilfmann had a habit of stating the bleeding obvious.

  “Who is it this time?” he asked in a resigned tone. He knew there was no use trying to argue his way out of the assignment, so he might as well just get on with it. With luck, it would be one of the small towns down the coast, and at least he might have a chance to work up his crew and wolfship at the same time.

  “Ostkrag,” the Oberjarl told him, and Erak’s hopes of salvaging something useful from this assignment faded to nothing. Ostkrag lay far inland, to the east. It was a small settlement on the far side of the mountain range that formed the rugged spine of Skandia and was accessible only by going over the mountains themselves or through one of the half dozen tortuous passes that wound their way through.

  At best, it meant an uncomfortable journey there and back by pony, a method of transport that Erak loathed. As he thought of the mountain range that reared above Hallasholm, he had a quick memory of the two Araluen slaves he had helped to escape several months ago. He wondered what had become of them, whether they had made it to the small hunting cabin high in the mountains and whether they had survived the last months of winter. He realized abruptly that Borsa and Ragnak were both waiting for his reaction.

  “Ostkrag?” he repeated. Ragnak nodded impatiently.

  “Their quarterly payment is overdue. I want you to go and shake them up,” the Oberjarl said. Erak noticed that Ragnak couldn’t quite hide the avaricious gleam that came into his eyes whenever he talked about tax and payments. Erak couldn’t help giving vent to an exasperated sigh.

  “They can’t be overdue by more than a week or so,” he temporized, but Ragnak was not to be swayed and shook his head violently.

  “Ten days!” he snapped. “And it’s not the first time! I’ve warned them before, haven’t I, Borsa?” he said, turning to the hilfmann, who nodded.

  “The jarl at Ostkrag is Sten Hammerhand,” Borsa said, as if that were explanation enough. Erak stared blankly at him. “He should be called Sten Gluehand,” he elaborated with heavy sarcasm. “The tax payments have stuck to his fingers before this, and even when they’re paid in full, he always makes us wait long past the overdue date. It’s time we taught him a lesson.”

  Erak smiled with some irony at the small, sparsely muscled hilfmann. Borsa could be an extremely threatening figure, he thought—when someone else was available to carry out the threats.

  “You mean it’s time I taught him a lesson?” he suggested, but Borsa didn’t notice the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Exactly!” he said, with some satisfaction. Ragnak, however, was a little more perceptive.

  “It’s my money, after all, Erak,” he said, and there was an almost petulant note in his voice. Erak met his gaze steadily. For the first time, he realized that Ragnak was growing old. The once flaming red hair was duller and turning gray. It came as a surprise to Erak. He certainly didn’t feel that he was growing older, yet Ragnak didn’t have too many years on him. He could notice other changes in the Oberjarl now that he had become aware of the fact. His jowls were heavier and his waistline thickening. He wondered if he was changing too.

  “It’s been a severe winter,” he suggested. “Perhaps the passes are still blocked. There was a lot of late snow.”

  He moved to the large scale map of Skandia that was displayed on the wall behind Ragnak’s table. He found Ostkrag and, with one forefinger, traced the way to the closest pass.

&n
bsp; “The Serpent Pass,” he said, almost to himself. “It’s not impossible that all that late-season snow and the sudden thaw could have led to landslides in there.” He turned back to Ragnak and Borsa, indicating the position on the map to them.

  “Maybe the couriers simply can’t get through yet?” he suggested. Ragnak shook his head and again Erak sensed the irritability, the irrational annoyance that seemed to grip Ragnak these days whenever his will was thwarted or his judgment questioned.

  “It’s Sten, I know it,” he said stubbornly. “If it were anyone else, I might agree with you, Erak.” Erak nodded, knowing full well that the words were a lie. Ragnak rarely agreed with anyone if it meant changing his own position. “Get up there and get the money from him. If he argues, arrest him and bring him back. In fact, arrest him even if he doesn’t argue. Take twenty men with you. I want him to see a real show of strength. I’m sick of being taken for a fool by these petty jarls.”

  Erak looked up in some surprise. Arresting a jarl in his own lodge was not something to be lightly contemplated—particularly for such a petty offense as a late tax payment. Among the Skandians, tax evasion was considered to be almost obligatory. It was a form of sport. If you were caught out, you paid up and that was the end of it. Erak could not remember anyone being submitted to the shame of arrest on that count.

  “That might not be wise,” he said quietly, and Ragnak glared up at him, his eyes searching for Erak’s over the scattered accounts on the table before him.

  “I’ll decide what’s wise,” he grated. “I’m Oberjarl, not you.”

  The words were offensive. Erak was a senior jarl and by long-established custom he was entitled to air his opinion, even though it might be contrary to his leader’s. He bit back the angry retort that sprang to his lips. There was no point provoking Ragnak any further when he was in this mood.

  “I know you’re the Oberjarl, Ragnak,” he said quietly. “But Sten is a jarl in his own right and he may well have a perfectly valid reason for this late payment. To arrest him in those circumstances would be unnecessarily provocative.”

  “I’m telling you he won’t have what you call a ‘valid reason,’ damn it!” Ragnak’s eyes were narrowed now and his face was suffused with his anger. “He’s a thief and a holdout and he needs to be made an example to others!”

  “Ragnak…,” Erak began, trying to reason one last time. This time it was Borsa who interrupted.

  “Jarl Erak, you have your instructions! Now do as you are ordered!” he shouted, and Erak turned angrily to face him.

  “I follow the Oberjarl’s orders, hilfmann. Not yours.”

  Borsa realized his mistake. He backed away a pace or two, making sure the substantial bulk of the table was between him and Erak. His eyes slid away from the other man’s and there was an ugly silence. Finally, Ragnak seemed to realize that some form of back-down might be necessary—although not too much. He said, in an irritated tone: “Look, Erak, just go and get those taxes from Sten. And if he’s been holding out on purpose, bring him back here for trial. All right?”

  “And if he has a valid reason?” Erak insisted.

  The Oberjarl waved a hand in surrender. “If he has a valid reason, you can leave him alone. Does that suit you?”

  Erak nodded. “Under those conditions, all right,” he agreed.

  He had the loophole he’d been looking for. As far as he was concerned, the fact that Ragnak was an insufferable pain in the buttocks was a more than valid reason for not paying taxes on time. Mind you, he might have to find another way of phrasing it when he returned without arresting Sten.

  4

  WILL CAME AWAKE WITH A JERK. HE HAD BEEN SITTING ON THE edge of the porch in the sun and he realized that he must have nodded off. Ruefully, he thought about how much of his time he spent sleeping these days. Evanlyn said it was only to be expected, as he was regaining his strength. He supposed she was right. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  There was also the fact that there was so little to do around the hut where they had spent their time since escaping from the Skandian stronghold. Today he had cleared away and washed their breakfast dishes, then made the beds and straightened the few pieces of furniture in the cabin. That had taken barely half an hour, so he had groomed the pony in the lean-to behind the cabin until its coat shone. The pony looked at him, and at itself, with mild surprise. He guessed nobody had ever spent so much care on its appearance in the past.

  After that, Will had wandered aimlessly around the cabin and the small clearing, inspecting those patches where the damp brown grass was beginning to show through the snow cover. He had idly considered making some more snares, then discarded the idea. They had more than they needed already. Feeling bored and useless, he had sat down on the porch to wait for Evanlyn’s return. At some stage, he must have nodded off, affected by the warmth of the sun.

  That warmth was long gone now, he realized. The sun had traveled fully across the clearing and the pines were throwing long shadows across the cabin. It must be midafternoon, he estimated.

  A frown creased his forehead. Evanlyn had left well before noon to check the snares. Even allowing for the fact that they had moved the trapline farther and farther away from the cabin, she should have had time to reach the line, check the snares and return by now. She must have been gone for at least three hours—possibly more.

  Unless she had already returned and, seeing him sleeping, had decided not to wake him. He stood now, his stiff joints protesting, and checked inside the cabin. There was no sign that she had returned. The game bag and her thick woolen cloak were missing. Will’s frown deepened and he began to pace the small clearing, wondering what he should do. He wished he knew exactly how long she had been gone and silently berated himself for falling asleep. Deep down in the pit of his stomach, a vague uneasiness stirred as he wondered what could have become of his companion. He reviewed the possibilities.

  She could have lost her way, and be wandering through the thickly growing, snow-covered pines, trying to find her way back to the cabin. Possible, but unlikely. He had blazed the paths leading to their trapline with discreet marks and Evanlyn knew where to look for them.

  Perhaps she had been injured? She could have fallen, or twisted an ankle. The paths were rough and steep in places and that was a definite possibility. She might be lying now, injured and unable to walk, stranded in the snow, with the afternoon drawing on toward night.

  The third possibility was the worst: she had encountered someone. Anyone that she ran into on this mountain was likely to be an enemy. Perhaps she had been recaptured by the Skandians. His pulse raced for a moment as he considered the thought. He knew they would show little mercy to an escaped slave. And while Erak had helped them before, he would be unlikely to do so again—even if he had the opportunity.

  As he had been considering these possibilities, he had begun moving around the cabin, collecting his things in preparation for setting out to look for her. He had filled one of their water skins from the bucket of creek water that he brought to the cabin each day, and crammed a few pieces of cold meat into a carry sack. He laced on his thick walking boots, winding the thongs rapidly around his legs, almost up to the knee, and unhooked his sheepskin vest from the peg behind the door.

  On the whole, he thought, the second possibility was the most likely. The chances were that Evanlyn was injured somewhere, unable to walk. The chance that she might have been retaken by the Skandians was very slim indeed, he realized. It was still too early in the season for people to be moving around the mountain. The only reason for doing so would be to hunt game. And it was still too scarce to be worth the trouble of fighting through the thick drifts of snow that blocked the way in so many parts of the mountain. No, on the whole, it was most likely that Evanlyn was safe, but incapacitated.

  Which meant his next logical move would be to put a bridle and saddle on the pony and lead him along as he tracked her, so that she could ride back to the cabin once he found her. He h
ad no doubt that he would find her. He was already a skilled tracker, although nowhere near the standard of Halt or Gilan, and tracking the girl through snow-covered territory would be a relatively simple matter.

  And yet…he was reluctant to take the pony with him. The little horse would make unnecessary noise and a nagging doubt told Will he should proceed with caution. It was unlikely that Evanlyn had encountered strangers, but it wasn’t impossible.

  It might be wiser to travel unobtrusively until he found out the real state of affairs. As he came to this decision, he stripped the beds of their blankets, tying them into a roll that he slung over his shoulder. It might prove necessary to spend the night in the open and it would be better to be prepared. He picked up a flint and steel from near the fireplace and dropped it into one of his pockets.

  Finally, he was ready to go. He stood at the door, taking one last look around the cabin to see if there was anything else he might need. The small hunting bow and a quiver of arrows leaned by the doorjamb. On an impulse, he picked them up, slinging the quiver across his back with the roll of blankets. Then another thought struck him and he crossed back to the fireplace, selecting a half-burned stick from the ashes.

  On the outside of the door, he printed in crude letters: “Looking for you. Wait here.”

  After all, it was possible that Evanlyn might turn up after he had left and he wanted to make sure she didn’t go blundering off, trying to find him while he was trying to find her.

  He took a few seconds to string the bow. Halt’s voice echoed in his ears: “An unstrung bow is just something extra to carry. A strung bow is a weapon.” He looked at it disdainfully. It wasn’t much of a weapon, he thought. But that and the small knife in his belt were all that he had. He moved to the edge of the clearing, picking up the clear trail of Evanlyn’s footprints in the snow. They were blurred after a morning of spring sunshine, but they still showed up. Maintaining a steady trot, he moved off into the forest.