The Icebound Land ra-3

by John Flanagan

  "Remember," he said, "nothing until I give you the signal."

  Horace nodded. His cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement.

  "I understand," he said, holding in his eagerness with some difficulty. He felt the Ranger's hand on his arm, realized those steady eyes were still on his. He took three deep breaths to steady his pulse, then nodded again, this time more deliberately.

  "I do understand, Halt," he said again. He met the Ranger's gaze this time, holding it with his own. "I won't spoil things," he assured his friend. "We've waited too long for this moment and I'm aware of it. Don't worry."

  Halt studied him for another long moment. Then, satisfied with the unspoken message he saw in the boy's eyes, he nodded and released his arm. He shoved the double doors back so that they crashed against the wall on either side. Together, Horace and Halt marched into the dining hall to where Deparnieux waited for them.

  The meal they were served was another disappointing example of the much-vaunted Gallic cuisine. To Halt's taste, the dishes placed before them depended far too much on a rich and slightly sickly combination of too much cream and an excess of garlic. He ate sparingly, noticing, however, that Horace, with a young man's appetite, wolfed down every morsel that was placed before him.

  Throughout the meal, the warlord kept up a constant stream of sarcasm, referring to the clumsiness and stupidity of his own serving staff and to the inept display made by the unknown knight the day before. As was their custom, Halt drank wine with the meal, while Horace contented himself with water. As they had finished eating the overrich, heavy food, servants brought jugs of coffee to the table.

  This, Halt had to admit, was one thing the Galls did with great skill. Their coffee was ambrosia, far better than any he had ever tasted in Araluen. He sipped appreciatively at the fragrant, hot drink, looking over the rim of his cup to where Deparnieux regarded him and Horace with his usual, disdainful smile.

  By now, the Gallic knight had come to a decision about Halt. There was, he believed, nothing to fear from the gray-bearded foreigner.

  Obviously, the man had some skill with a bow. And he probably had skills in woodcraft and stalking as well. But as for his original fears that Halt might have some arcane skills as a sorcerer, he felt comfortable that he had been mistaken.

  Now that he felt it was safe to do so, Deparnieux could not resist the temptation to berate Halt with sneers and insults even more than before. The fact that he had been wary of the bearded man for some time merely served to redouble his efforts to discomfort him. The warlord enjoyed toying with people. He loved to hold people helpless, loved to see them suffer or rage impotently under the scourge of his sarcastic tongue.

  And, as his contempt for Halt grew, so too did his total dismissal of Horace. Each time the three of them dined together like this, he waited expectantly for the moment when he could brusquely dismiss the muscular young man and send him, cheeks flaming with rage and embarrassment, back to the tower. Now, he judged, it was time to do so once more. He tilted his heavy chair back on its hind legs, draining the silver goblet that he held in his left hand. He waved the other hand disdainfully in the boy's direction.

  "Leave us, boy," he commanded, refusing to even look at Horace. He felt a distinct thrill of pleasure when the boy, after a slight pause, and a quick glance at his companion, stood slowly and replied with one word.

  "No."

  The word hung in the air between them. Deparnieux exulted in the boy's rebellion, but he allowed no sign to show on his face. Instead, he affected a heavy frown of apparent displeasure. He turned slowly to face the youth. He could see Horace's breath coming faster as the adrenaline surged through his veins, now that this vital moment had finally arrived.

  "No?" Deparnieux repeated, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. "I am the lord of this castle, and my word here is law. My pleasure is the command of all others. You do me the discourtesy of telling me no in my own castle?"

  "The time is past when your word is to be obeyed without question," Horace replied carefully, frowning as he strove to make sure he stayed to the exact wording Halt had laid out. "You have forfeited your right to obedience by your unchivalrous actions."

  Deparnieux still maintained a pretense of displeasure. "You challenge my right to command in my own fief?"

  Horace hesitated once more, making sure he phrased his reply exactly. As Halt had told him, accuracy now was of paramount importance. In fact, as Horace realized only too well, it was a matter of life and death.

  "It's time that right was challenged," he replied, after a pause.

  Deparnieux, allowing a wolfish smile to show on his dark features, now rose from his seat, leaning forward over the table, resting both hands on the bare wood surface.

  "So you challenge me?" he asked, the pleasure in his voice all too obvious. Horace, however, made an uncertain gesture.

  "Before any challenge is issued, I would demand that you respect it," he said, and the warlord frowned slightly.

  "Respect it?" he repeated. "What do you mean, you whining pup?"

  Horace shook his head doggedly, dismissing the insult.

  "I want an undertaking that you will abide by the terms of the challenge. And I want it made before your own men."

  "Oh, you do, do you?" Now the hint of anger in Deparnieux's voice wasn't assumed. It was real. He could see where the boy was going.

  "I think," Halt interrupted quietly, "that the boy feels you rule by fear, Lord Deparnieux," he said. The Gall turned to face him.

  "And what is that to either of you, bowman?" he asked, although he thought he already knew.

  Halt shrugged, then replied casually, "Your men are with you because of your reputation as a warrior. I believe Horace would prefer to see the challenge issued and accepted before your men."

  Deparnieux frowned. With the challenge more or less issued in front of some of his men already, he knew he had no choice but to comply. A warlord who even seemed to show fear of a sixteen-year-old youth would find little respect from the men he commanded, even if he were to win the resultant battle.

  "You feel I am afraid of this boy's challenge?" he asked sarcastically. Halt held up a cautioning hand.

  "No challenge has been issued:yet," he said. "We're merely concerned to see that you have the courage to honor any challenge that might eventuate."

  Deparnieux snorted in disgust at the Ranger's careful words. "I can see your true calling now, bowman," he replied. "I thought you might be a sorcerer. I see now you are no more than a grubby lawyer, bickering over words."

  Halt smiled thinly and inclined his head slightly. He made no other reply and the silence stretched between them. Deparnieux glanced quickly at the two sentries who stood inside the large double doors of the dining hall. Their faces betrayed their interest in the scene being played out. The details would spread throughout the castle within the hour if he were to refuse the challenge now, or try to gain any unfair advantage over the boy. His men had little love for him and he knew that, should he not treat the challenge fairly, he would begin to lose them. Not immediately, perhaps, but gradually, by ones and twos as they deserted his banner and flocked to his enemies. And Deparnieux had all too many enemies.

  He glared at the boy now. He had no doubt whatsoever that he could best Horace in a fair fight. But he resented the fact that he had been manipulated into this position. In Chateau Montsombre, it was Deparnieux who preferred to do the manipulating. He forced a smile and tried to look as if he were bored with the entire affair.

  "Very well," he said, in a careless tone, "if this is what you wish, I will abide by the terms of the challenge."

  "And you give that undertaking in front of your own men here?"

  Horace said quickly, and the warlord scowled at him, abandoning any pretense that he didn't dislike the quibbling boy and his bearded companion.

  "Yes," he spat at them. "If I must spell it out to please you, I guarantee my acceptance, in front of my men."

 
Horace heaved a large sigh of relief. "Then," he said, beginning to tug one of his gloves free from where it was tucked securely into his belt, "the challenge may be issued. The combat will take place in two weeks' time."

  "Agreed," Deparnieux replied.

  "On the grassed field before Chateau Montsombre:"

  "Agreed." The word was almost spat out.

  ":in view of your own men and the other people of the castle:"

  "Agreed."

  ":and it shall be mortal combat." Horace's voice hesitated slightly over the phrase, but he glanced quickly at Halt and the Ranger nodded slightly to give him courage. And now the smile returned to the warlord's lips, thin and bitter and savage.

  "Agreed," he said again. Yet this time, the word was almost purred. "Now get on with it, boy, before you lose your courage and wet your pants."

  Horace cocked his head at the warlord and, for the first time, felt in control of the situation.

  "What a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work you are, Deparnieux," he said softly, and the black knight leaned forward across the table, thrusting his chin out for the ritual blow with a glove that would issue the challenge and make the entire event irrevocable.

  "Frightened, boy?" He sneered, and then flinched as a glove slapped stingingly across his cheek.

  Not that the pain made him flinch. Rather, it was the unexpectedness of it all. For the boy across the table hadn't moved.

  Instead, the bearded, grizzled bowman had come to his feet with a speed and agility that left the warlord no time to react, and struck him across the face with the glove that he had held under the table for the past few minutes.

  "Then I challenge you, Deparnieux," the Ranger said. And for a few seconds the warlord felt a surge of uncertainty as he saw the light of satisfaction deep behind those steady, unwavering eyes.

  33

  A SMALL PATCH OF SUNLIGHT CREPT ACROSS THE SINGLE ROOM of the hut.

  Evanlyn, dozing in a chair, felt the warmth of the sun on her face and smiled, unconsciously. Outside, the snow was still deep on the ground, but the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue in the midafternoon.

  Half-asleep, she enjoyed the warmth as it slowly moved across her.

  Behind closed eyelids, she saw the bright red of the sun's glare.

  Then, abruptly, the light was blocked and she opened her eyes.

  Will stood before her, in the attitude that had become familiar to her over the past week. His hands were clasped together and his dark brown eyes, once so alight with amusement and fun, held nothing but a wistful plea. He stood patiently, waiting for her to react, and she smiled at him, a little sadly.

  "All right," she told him gently.

  The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, seeming for a moment to reflect in those dark eyes, and she felt a renewal of the surge of hope that had been growing within her over the past days.

  Gradually, but noticeably, Will was changing. At first, as she withheld the drug from him, he had convulsed in those awful shuddering fits, only recovering when she doled out a small portion of the warmweed.

  But, as the intervals between doses had grown longer and the doses themselves smaller, she had begun to hope that he would eventually recover. The seizures were a thing of the past. Now, instead of being ruled by his body as it craved the drug, Will was becoming more mentally attuned to a smaller supply. There was still a need there, but it was reflected in the pleading, almost childlike behavior that she was seeing now.

  After three days without a taste of the weed, he would come to her and simply stand in front of her, the message clear in his eyes. And, in response, she would measure out a helping of the ever-decreasing stock of drug that remained in the oiled cotton pouch. It was a race, she knew, to see whether his dependence would outlast the supply. If that were the case, she could see some hard times ahead for the two of them. She had no idea what his reaction would be if she refused him.

  But she sensed that further deprivation would result in another bout of uncontrollable shivering and crying.

  Perhaps, she reasoned, that was the next necessary stage in his rehabilitation. But, rightly or wrongly, she simply could not bring herself to witness that helpless, naked need again. Time enough for that when the warmweed finally ran out, she thought.

  "Stay here," she told him, rising from the wood-frame chair and heading for the door. Again, she thought she saw a dim glint of pleasure in his eyes. It was gone almost as soon as she thought she had seen it, but she told herself that it had really been there, that she wasn't simply seeing what she hoped to see.

  She kept the supply of warmweed in the stable, behind a loose board on one of the sidewalls. Initially, she was planning to conceal the oiled cloth pouch in the pile of firewood logs. But then she realized that she would use Will to fetch firewood and the possibility of his finding the supply of the drug was too awful to contemplate.

  She had no clear idea what would happen to him if he took an excessively large dose. At the least, she reasoned, his dependence would soar once again to a new level. And there might possibly be more permanent side effects as well-even fatal ones. What she did know was that if Will found the warmweed and used it all in one massive binge, she would face weeks of the convulsions and shuddering fits that had seized him when he had been deprived of the drug before.

  She wondered if his dulled mind could process the fact that she always left the cabin and returned with the weed; whether he was capable of putting together a cause-and-effect sequence and reasoning that the weed must be kept somewhere outside the cabin. She wasn't sure, but in any event, she took no risk, taking great care to check that he hadn't followed her when she took the pouch from the small concealed space in the timber wall. She looked carefully over her shoulder as she entered the stable and the pony looked up and snorted a greeting to her. But there was no sign that Will was showing any interest in her movements. Apparently, he was content to wait where he was, knowing that she would shortly return with the drug that he craved. How this happened, or where she found it, didn't seem to be questions that concerned him. They were abstractions and he dealt only in absolute facts these days.

  She measured a minute amount of the dried weed into the palm of her hand, rewrapped the remaining supply and replaced it behind the loose board. Again, halfway through the sequence, she turned suddenly to see if she might be being observed. But there was no sign of her companion-only the pony, watching her with liquid, intelligent eyes.

  "Don't say a word," she said to the horse in a lowered tone.

  Remarkably, it chose that very moment to shake its head, as ponies do from time to time. Evanlyn shrugged after a second of startled reaction. It was as if the horse had heard and understood her. She replaced the pouch in the hollow and jammed the section of board back to conceal it. Stooping to the earth floor of the stable, she gathered a handful of dirt and smeared it over the jagged line that marked the join in the wood. Then, satisfied that the hiding place was concealed as well as it could be, she returned to the cabin.

  Will smiled as she entered and, for one moment, she thought he had recognized her from the old days. The old days, she thought ruefully.

  They were barely a few months ago, but now she thought of them as ancient history. Then she realized that his gaze was riveted on her clenched right hand. The smile was for the drug, not for her.

  Still, it was a beginning, she thought.

  She held out the clenched hand and he eagerly stepped forward, cupping both his hands underneath hers, anxious that not a grain should be spilled. She allowed the gray-green herb to trickle into his hands, watching his face as his eyes followed the thin stream of the drug. Unconsciously, his tongue darted across his lips in anticipation. When she had given him all of it-and allowed him to carefully brush the few minute crumbs that remained fastened on her palm into his own-he looked up at her and smiled again. This time, he smiled at her, she was sure.

  "Good," he said briefly, and then his gaze fell to the tiny mound of dried
warmweed in his hand. He turned away from her, hunching over the hand as he brought it to his mouth. Evanlyn felt that sudden glow of hope burn brightly within her once more. It was the first time Will had actually spoken to her in the time since they had escaped from Hallasholm. It wasn't much. Just the one word. But it was a beginning.

  She smiled after him as he hunkered down in a corner of the cabin.

  Animal-like, he instinctively cowered away as he took the drug, seemingly nervous that she might take it from him.

  "Welcome back, Will," she said softly.

  But he said nothing in reply. The warmweed had him once again.

  34

  H ORACE ROSE IN HIS STIRRUPS AS K ICKER REACHED A FULL GALLOP. He held the long ash pole out to his right-hand side, at right angles to his body and the line of travel. Ahead of him, standing unmoving in the middle of the field situated in front of the castle, Halt drew back the string of his longbow until the feathered end of the arrow touched the corner of his mouth.

  Horace urged the battlehorse to an even faster pace, until they had reached maximum speed. He glanced out to his right, to make sure the helmet that he had attached to the end of the pole was still in the correct position, facing Halt. Then he looked back at the small figure on the grass before him.

  He saw the first arrow released, spitting from the bow with incredible force and speeding toward the moving target. Then, in an almost incomprehensible blur of motion, Halt's hands moved and another arrow was on the way.

  Almost at the same time, Horace felt a double concussion transmitted down the length of the ash pole he held out, as the two shafts slammed into the helmet within the space of half a second.

  He allowed Kicker to ease down to a canter as they passed Halt, taking the horse in a wide circle to come to a stop before the Ranger.

  Halt now stood with his bow grounded, waiting patiently to see the result of his practice. Horace let the pole and the attached helmet dip to the ground in front of him. Both shafts, incredibly, had found their way through the helmet's vision slits and into the soft padding that Halt had put inside to protect the razor-sharp arrowheads.