And tradition, of course, was sacred to the Skandians—particularly tradition that involved a lot of drinking and carousing late into the night. It was noticeable that the amount of liquor consumed and the degree of enthusiasm in the recounting of Ragnak’s prowess seemed to be in direct correlation.
On the second night, Evanlyn frowned at the sound of drunken voices raised in song, counterpointed by the splintering sounds of furniture breaking as a fight got under way.
“They don’t seem very sad about it,” she pointed out, and Halt merely shrugged.
“It’s their way,” he said. “Besides, Ragnak died in battle, as a berserker, and that’s a fate that every true Skandian would envy. It gains him instant entry to the highest level of their version of heaven.”
Evanlyn twisted her mouth in a disapproving pout. “Still,” she said, “it seems so disrespectful. And he did save our lives, after all.”
There was an awkward silence in the room. None of the other three could think of a tactful way of pointing out that had Ragnak survived, he was sworn to kill Evanlyn.
Finally, the period of mourning was over, and the senior jarls gathered in the Great Hall to elect their new Oberjarl. Will said hopefully, “Do you think Erak has a chance?” But Halt shook his head.
“He’s a popular war leader, but he’s only one of four or five. Add to that the fact that he’s no administrator. And he’s certainly no diplomat either,” he added with some feeling.
“Is that important?” Horace asked. “From what I’ve seen, diplomacy is very low on the list of required skills in this country.”
Halt acknowledged the point with a nod. “True,” he admitted. “But a certain amount of buttering up is necessary when there’s an election among peers like this. Nobody gives their vote because you’re the best candidate. They vote for you because you can do something for them.”
“I guess the fact that Erak’s spent the last few years as Ragnak’s chief tax collector isn’t going to help either,” Will chipped in. “After all, a lot of the people voting are the ones he’s threatened to brain with an ax.”
Again Halt nodded. “Not a good career move if you hope to be Oberjarl one day.”
In truth, the Ranger was indulging in a mild form of personal superstition by talking down Erak’s chances in the election. There were still issues to be settled between Skandia and Araluen and he would have preferred to be settling them with Erak as the Skandian supreme leader. Still, the more they talked, the slimmer Erak’s chances became. He hadn’t known about the tax collecting until Will mentioned it. That would seem to put the final stopper on the jarl’s chances.
“He probably wouldn’t make a good Oberjarl anyway,” Horace decided. “What he really wants to do is get back to sea in his wolfship and go raiding somewhere.”
The others agreed with this statement. It was reasonable and logical.
But reason and logic have little to do with politics. On the fifth day, a stunned-looking Erak stepped into Halt’s apartment. He looked around at the four expectant faces and said:
“I’m the new Oberjarl.”
“I knew it,” said Halt instantly, and the other three looked at him, totally scandalized.
“You did?” Erak asked, his voice hollow, his eyes still showing the shock of his sudden elevation to the highest office in Skandia.
“Of course,” said the Ranger, shrugging. “You’re big, mean and ugly and those seem to be the qualities Skandians value most.”
Erak drew himself up to his full height, trying to muster the sort of dignity that he felt an Oberjarl should assume.
“Is that how you Araluens speak to an Oberjarl?” he asked, and Halt finally grinned.
“No. That’s how we speak to a friend. Come in and have a drink.”
Over the next few days, it began to appear as if the council of jarls had chosen wisely. Erak quickly moved to end old feuds with other jarls, particularly those he had visited in his role as tax collector. And, surprisingly, he kept Borsa in the role of hilfmann.
“I thought he couldn’t stand Borsa,” Will said, puzzled. But Halt merely nodded his head in acknowledgment of Erak’s choice.
“Borsa’s a good administrator, and that’s what Erak’s going to need. A good leader is someone who knows what he’s bad at, and hires someone who’s good at it to take care of it for him.”
Will, Horace and Evanlyn had to think that through for a few seconds before they saw the logic in it. Horace, in fact, was still pondering it some time after the others had nodded and moved on to discuss other matters.
As Oberjarl, Erak would no longer be able to go on his annual raiding cruises at the helm of Wolfwind, and that fact tinged his sudden elevation with a certain amount of regret. But he announced that he would be making one last voyage before he handed the ship over to the care of Svengal, his longtime first mate.
“I’ll be taking you lot back to Araluen,” he announced. “Seems only fair, since I was the one responsible for your being here in the first place.”
Will was quietly pleased with the news. Now that the time was almost here to return home, he realized that he would be sad to farewell the big, boisterous pirate. With some surprise, he recognized the fact that he had come to regard Erak as a good friend. Anything that delayed the moment of parting found favor in his eyes.
Spring had come, the geese were returning from the south and there were deer back in the hills, so there was plenty of fresh meat in place of the dried and salted provisions that had formed the bulk of the winter fare in Hallasholm.
When he saw the first hunting parties returning from the high reaches inland of the Skandian capital, Will remembered one debt he still owed. Early one morning, he slipped quietly away on Tug and headed up the trail that he and Evanlyn had followed so many months ago, in a freezing blizzard.
At the little cabin where they had sheltered through the winter, he found the uncomplaining, shaggy little pony who had saved his life. The patient creature had broken the light tether holding him in the lean-to stable behind the cabin, and was quietly cropping the new season’s grass in the clearing when Will arrived.
Tug looked a little askance at his master when Will unfastened a small sack of oats, indicating that it was for the pony alone. Will consoled his horse with a quiet pat on the muzzle.
“He’s earned it,” he told Tug, and the Ranger horse shrugged—insofar as any horse is capable of shrugging. The nondescript pony may well have earned the sack of oats, but that didn’t stop Tug’s mouth from salivating at the sight and smell of them. When the pony had finished the oats, Will remounted Tug and, holding on to the lead rein, rode back down to Hallasholm, where he quietly returned the pony to Erak’s stable.
The night before they were due to leave, Erak threw a farewell banquet in their honor. The Skandians were eager to show their appreciation of the efforts of the four Araluens in defending their land against the invaders. And with the shadow of the Vallasvow lifted from Evanlyn, they paid particular attention to her—repeatedly toasting her bravery and resourcefulness in continuing to direct the fire of the archers as their position was being overrun.
Halt, Borsa and Erak sat in a quiet huddle at the head table, discussing outstanding matters such as the repatriation of the slaves who had served in the archers’ corps. Sadly, many of them hadn’t survived the battle, but the promise of freedom had been made to their dependants as well, and the details had to be thrashed out. When the subject was finally closed, Halt judged the moment right and said quietly:
“So what will you do when the Temujai come back?”
There was a deafening moment of silence at the head table. Erak pushed his bench back and stared at the small, grim-faced man next to him.
“Come back? Why should they come back? We beat them, didn’t we?”
But Halt shook his head slowly. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “we didn’t. We simply made it too costly for them to continue—this time.”
Erak thought about
what he had said and glanced at Borsa for his opinion. The hilfmann nodded, a little reluctantly.
“I think the Ranger is right, Oberjarl,” he admitted. “We couldn’t have held out much longer.” Then he shifted his eyes to Halt’s and asked him: “But why should they come back?”
Halt took a sip of the rich Skandian beer before he answered. “Because it’s their way,” he answered simply. “The Temujai don’t think in terms of this season or this year, or next year. They think of the next ten or twenty years and they have a long-term plan to dominate this part of the world. They need your ships. So they’ll be back.”
Erak considered the point, twisting one end of his mustache in his fingers. “Then we’ll beat them off again,” he said.
“Without archers?” Halt asked quietly. “And without the element of surprise next time?”
Again there was a silence. Then Erak said, half hopefully, “You could help us train archers. You and the boy?” But Halt shook his head immediately. And very definitely.
“I’m not prepared to provide Skandia with such a potent weapon,” he said. “Once you learned those skills, I’d never know when they might be turned against us in the future.”
Erak had to admit the logic in the Ranger’s statement. Skandia and Araluen were traditional enemies, after all. But Borsa, with his negotiator’s ear, had caught an overtone in Halt’s refusal.
“But you do have a suggestion?” he said keenly, and Halt almost smiled at him. He’d hoped the hilfmann would see where he was heading.
“I was thinking,” he said, “that a force of, say, three hundred trained archers might be stationed here on a regular basis. They could spend the months of spring and summer here, then be rotated back home during the winter.”
“Araluens?” Erak said, beginning to catch on. Halt nodded.
“We could supply you with an archery force that way. But if it ever came to hostilities between our countries, I’d feel a lot more secure knowing you wouldn’t be turning them against us. We’d need to stipulate that in the treaty,” he added casually.
Erak looked cautiously at his hilfmann now. The word treaty seemed to have appeared on the table in front of them without his seeing it arriving. Borsa caught his eye and shrugged thoughtfully.
“I’m proposing that we have a mutual defense treaty for a period of…” Halt seemed to think and Erak suddenly had the distinct impression that he had weighed every word he was going to say well in advance of this moment. “Five years, let’s say. You get a viable force of archers—”
Erak decided it was time that someone else made the running. “And you get what?” he asked abruptly.
Halt smiled at him. “We get a peace treaty that says Skandia won’t be launching any surprise attacks on our country during that period. And that in the event that hostilities become inevitable, our archers would be allowed free passage back home.”
Erak shook his head abruptly. “I’ll never convince my men not to raid,” he said indignantly. “I’d be thrown out on my ear if I proposed that.” But Halt held up a hand to calm him down.
“I’m not talking about individual raids,” he said. “We can cope with them. I’m saying no more massed attacks, like the one with Morgarath.”
There was another long pause while Erak considered the offer. The more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea seemed. As well as any of them, he knew how close they had come to being overwhelmed by the Temujai. Three hundred trained archers would provide a powerful defensive force to Skandia, particularly if they were deployed in the narrow passes and twisting defiles at the border. He realized, with a shock, that he was beginning to think like a tactician. Maybe he’d been spending too much time around the Ranger, he thought.
“You have the authority to sign a treaty like that?” he asked, and for the first time, Halt hesitated. In fact, he had no authority at all. As a member of the Rangers, he would have been empowered to sign, but he had been dismissed from the Corps when Duncan had banished him. He could brazen it out now, of course. He was reasonably sure that Crowley or Duncan himself would ratify such a treaty. But when that happened, Erak would know that he had acted falsely and he didn’t think that was a good start to any relationship.
“I have,” said a quiet voice from behind him, and the three men looked up in some surprise. Evanlyn, slipping away from the enthusiastic toasting and tributes, had been an interested audience to their conversation for the past few minutes.
“As Princess Royal of Araluen, I have authority to sign on my father’s behalf,” she told them, and Halt heaved an unseen sigh of relief.
“I think it’s best if we do it that way,” he said. “After all, the princess does outrank me, just a little.”
40
WOLFWIND FOLLOWED THE RIVER SEMATH ALL THE WAY FROM the Narrow Sea to Castle Araluen itself. It was an astounding sight for the locals, to see a wolfship gliding, unmolested and peaceful, past their fields and villages, so far inland. The many river forts and strongpoints, which would normally have denied such progress to a Skandian ship, now deferred to the fact that Princess Cassandra’s personal standard, a stooping red hawk, flew from the masthead. A message had been sent ahead of the wolfship’s progress to make sure that local commanders recognized the standard and the fact that the voyagers traveled upriver in peace.
It was also something of a novelty for Erak and his crew.
Finally, they rounded the last bend in the river and there before them were the soaring spires and turrets of Castle Araluen. Erak drew breath in wonder at the sight of it. Halt, watching him, was sure that, as well as the sheer admiration the castle inspired, Erak’s old plundering instincts were at work, estimating just how much treasure the castle could contain. He stepped close to the Oberjarl and said softly:
“You’d never make it past the moat.”
Erak started in surprise and looked at the Ranger.
“How did you know what I was thinking?” he asked. Halt raised an eyebrow.
“You’re a Skandian,” he said.
There was a landing stage jutting out into the river, bedecked with flags and bunting. And a large crowd was awaiting their arrival. At the sight of the wolfship, they began sounding horns and cheering.
“That’s a first,” Erak said mildly, bringing a grin to Halt’s face.
“And there’s another,” he said, pointing discreetly to a tall, bearded figure standing a little way back from the landing stage, surrounded by an expensively dressed retinue of knights and ladies. “That’s the King himself, come down to welcome you, Erak.”
“More likely he’s here for his daughter,” the Skandian replied. But Halt noticed that he did look a little pleased with himself.
Evanlyn had seen the tall man now and was standing in the prow of the wolfship, waving excitedly. The cheers from the shore redoubled at the sight of her and now Duncan was leading the way down the landing stage, lengthening his stride so that he was almost running, not content to stand back and preserve his royal dignity.
“Oars!” called Erak, and the rowers raised their oars, dripping, from the water as the wolfship glided smoothly alongside the landing stage.
The Skandian crew passed mooring lines to those on shore, the two parties regarding each other with deep interest. It was the first time in memory that Araluens and Skandians had been face-to-face without weapons in their hands. Will, his face alight with the joy of the moment, leapt onto the wolfship’s railing as Evanlyn hurried to the entry port in the ship’s waist. She and her father, their hearts too full for words, simply smiled at each other over the decreasing gap as the line handlers hauled the ship in to the landing stage. Then the wickerwork fenders bumped and groaned and the ship was fast alongside. Svengal, grinning broadly at her, unlatched the entry port in the ship’s rail and she leapt into her father’s arms, burying her face in his chest.
“Dad!” she cried once, her voice muffled by his shirt and by the sobs that welled up in her throat.
“Cassi
e!” he murmured—his pet name for her from when she was a toddler—and the cheering intensified. Duncan was a popular king and the people knew how much pain the loss of his daughter had caused him. Even the Skandians were grinning at the scene.
In the midst of all that joy and celebration, only Halt stood apart. His face was a mask of pain and misery and he remained unobtrusively by the steering oar at the stern of the ship as the others surged forward to the waist.
Duncan and Evanlyn—or Cassandra, as her father knew her—stood in each other’s embrace, oblivious to those around them. Will, scanning the crowd, saw a heavily built form in the ranks behind the King: a middle-aged man who was waving enthusiastically at him, shouting his name.
“Will! Welcome home, boy! Welcome home!”
For a moment, Will was puzzled, then he recognized Baron Arald—a man who for years had been a stern-faced figure of authority. Now here he was, waving and yelling like a schoolboy on holiday. Will dropped lightly to the planks of the landing stage and made his way through the crowds of well-wishers to the Baron. He began to make a formal bow when the Baron grabbed his hand and started pumping it enthusiastically.
“Never mind that! Welcome home, lad! And well done! Well done! My god, I thought we’d never see you again! Wasn’t that right, Rodney?”
He spoke this last to the mail-clad knight beside him and Will recognized Sir Rodney, head of the Battleschool at Castle Redmont. He realized that the knight was anxiously scanning the faces on the deck of the wolfship.
“Yes, yes, my lord,” he agreed distractedly. Then he seized Will’s other arm and said urgently, “Will, I thought Horace was with you. Don’t tell me something’s happened to him?”
Puzzled, Will looked to where Horace was shaking hands with the Skandian crew, farewelling friends among them before he came ashore.
“That’s him there.” He pointed Horace out for Sir Rodney, and had the satisfaction of seeing the knight’s jaw drop in surprise.
“My god! He’s turned into a giant!” he gasped. Then Horace recognized his mentor and marched briskly through the crowd, coming to attention and saluting, his fist to his right breast.
The Battle for Skandia Page 24
