The Icebound Land ra-3

by John Flanagan

  He brought his horse to a stop now, testing his grip on the lance in his right hand, ensuring that he had it at just the right point of balance. At the far end of the field, his opponent continued to ride forward, slowly and steadily. He seemed ridiculously small, dwarfed by the muscular youth and the huge battlehorse that paced beside him.

  "I hope you know what you're doing," Horace said, trying to speak without moving his lips, in case Deparnieux was watching-which he undoubtedly was. Halt turned in the saddle and almost smiled at him.

  "So do I," he said quietly. He noticed that Horace's right hand was easing his sword in its scabbard once more. He had done that same thing at least half a dozen times as they rode forward. "Relax," he added calmly. Horace glanced at him openly now, no longer caring if Deparnieux saw him or not.

  "Relax?" he repeated incredulously. "You're going to fight an armored knight with nothing more than a bow and you tell me to relax?"

  "I'll have one or two arrows as well, you know," Halt told him mildly, and Horace shook his head in disbelief.

  "Well:I just hope you know what you're doing," he said again. Halt smiled at him now. Just the briefest flash of a smile.

  "So you keep saying," he replied. Then he nudged Abelard with his knee and the little horse came to a stop, ears pricked and ready for more signals. Halt's eyes locked on the distant figure in the black armor and he raised his right leg over the saddlebow and slid off the horse.

  "Take him out of harm's way," he told the apprentice, and Horace leaned down and took the Ranger horse's rein. Abelard twitched his ears and looked inquisitively at his master. "Go along," Halt told him quietly and the horse allowed himself to be led away. Halt glanced once at the youth sitting astride the battlehorse. He could see the worry in every line of the boy's body.

  "Horace?" he called, and the apprentice warrior stopped and looked back at him.

  "I do know what I'm doing, you know."

  Horace managed a wan smile at that.

  "If you say so, Halt," he said.

  As they were talking, Halt carefully selected three arrows from the two dozen in his quiver and slid them, point down, into the top of his right boot. Horace saw the movement and wondered at it. There was no need for Halt to place his arrows ready to hand in that way. He could draw and fire from the quiver on his back in a fraction of a second.

  He didn't have time to wonder about it any further. Deparnieux was calling from the far end of the field.

  "My lord Halt." His accented voice came to Horace clearly as he reined in, off to one side. "Are you ready?"

  Not bothering to speak, Halt raised a hand in reply. He looked so small and vulnerable, Horace thought, standing all alone in the center of the mown field, waiting for the black-clad knight on his massive battlehorse to bear down on him.

  "Then may the best man win!" shouted Deparnieux mockingly, and this time Halt did reply.

  "I plan to," he called back as Deparnieux clapped his spurs to the horse and it began to lumber forward, building up to a full gallop as it came.

  It struck Horace then that Halt had not said anything to him about what he should do if Deparnieux were victorious. He had half expected the Ranger to instruct him to try to escape. He certainly expected that Halt would forbid him to challenge Deparnieux immediately after the combat-which was precisely what Horace planned to do if Halt lost.

  He wondered now if the Ranger hadn't said anything because he knew that Horace would ignore any such instruction, or if it was simply because he was totally confident of emerging as the victor.

  Not that there seemed any way that he could. The earth shook under the hooves of the black battlehorse and Horace's expert eye could see that the Gallic warlord was a warrior of enormous experience and natural ability. Perfectly balanced in his seat on the horse, he handled the long, heavy lance as if it were a lightweight staff, leaning forward and rising slightly in his stirrups as the point of his lance drew ever closer to the small figure in the gray-green cloak.

  It was the cloak that first sent a slight feeling of misgiving through Deparnieux's mind. Halt was swaying slightly as he stood his ground, and the uneven patterns on the cloak, set against the gray-green of the mown winter grass, seemed to send his figure in and out of focus. The effect was almost mesmerizing. Angrily, Deparnieux thrust the distracting thought aside and tried to center his attention on the archer. He was close now, barely thirty meters away, and still the archer hadn't:

  He saw it coming. A blur of movement as the bow came up and the first arrow spat toward him at incredible speed, coming straight toward the vision slits in his helmet and bringing instant oblivion with it.

  Yet, fast as the arrow was traveling, Deparnieux was even faster, raising the shield in a slant to deflect the arrow. He felt it slam against the shield, steel screeching on steel as it gouged a long furrow in the gleaming black enamel then went hissing off as the shield deflected it.

  But the shield was now blocking his sight of the little man and he lowered it quickly.

  All the devils in hell take him! It was what Halt had planned on, firing a second arrow even as the shield was still up! Deparnieux's incredible reflexes saved him again, bringing the shield back up to deflect the treacherous second shot. How could anyone manage to fire so quickly, he thought, then cursed as he realized that, unsighted as he was, he had already been carried past the spot where the archer stood, calmly stepping out of the line of the lance point.

  Deparnieux let the battlehorse slow to a canter, wheeling him in a wide arc. It wouldn't do to risk injury to the horse by trying to wheel it too quickly. He'd take his time and:At that moment there was a bright flash of pain in his left shoulder. Twisting awkwardly, his vision constricted by the helmet, he realized that, as he had galloped past, Halt had sent another arrow spitting at him, this time aiming for the gap in his armor at the shoulder.

  The chain mail that filled the gap had taken most of the force of the arrow, but the razor-sharp broadhead had still managed to shear through a little way and penetrate the flesh. It was painful, but only minor, he realized, moving the arm quickly to ensure that no major muscles or tendons had been damaged. If the fight were to be a prolonged one, it could stiffen and affect his shield defense.

  As it was, the wound was a nuisance. A painful nuisance, he amended as he felt the hot blood trickling down his armpit. Halt would pay for that, he promised himself. And he would pay dearly.

  Because now, Deparnieux believed he understood Halt's plan. He would continue to blind him as he came charging in, forcing him to raise the shield to protect his eyes at the last minute, then sidestepping as Deparnieux went charging past.

  Except the knight had no intention of playing Halt's game. He would abandon the wild high-speed charge with a lance for a slow, deliberate approach. After all, he didn't need the force and momentum of a charge. He wasn't facing another armored knight, trying to knock him from the saddle. He was facing a man standing alone in the middle of the field.

  As the plan came to him, he tossed the long, unwieldy lance to the ground, reached around and broke the arrow shaft off close to his shoulder, and tossed it after the lance. Then, drawing his broadsword, he began to trot slowly to where Halt stood, waiting for him.

  He kept Halt to his left so that the shield would be in position to deflect his arrows. The long sword in his right hand swung easily in circles as he felt its familiar weight and perfect balance.

  Watching, Horace felt his heart thud faster in his chest. There could be only one end to the contest now. Once Deparnieux had abandoned the headlong charge for a more deliberate approach, Halt was in serious trouble. Horace knew that nine out of ten knights would have continued to charge, outraged by Halt's tactics and determined to crush him with their superior force. Deparnieux, he could see now, was the one in ten who would quickly see the folly in that course, and find a tactic to nullify Halt's biggest advantage.

  The mounted knight was only forty meters away from the small figure now, moving
slowly toward him. As before, the bow came up and the arrow was on its way. Deftly, almost contemptuously, Deparnieux flicked his shield up to deflect the arrow. This time, he heard the ringing screech of its impact and lowered the shield again. He could see the next arrow, already aimed at his head. He saw the archer's hand begin the release and again brought the shield up as the arrow leaped toward him.

  But there was one important item he didn't see.

  This arrow was one of the three that Halt had placed in the cuff of his boot. And this arrow was different, with a much heavier head, made from heat-hardened steel. Unlike the normal war arrows in Halt's quiver, it was not a leaf-shaped broadhead. Rather, it was shaped like the point of a cold chisel, surrounded by four small spurs that would stop it from deflecting off Deparnieux's plate armor and allow it to punch through into the flesh behind.

  It was an arrowhead designed to pierce armor and Halt had learned its secrets years before, from the fierce mounted archers of the eastern steppes.

  The arrow flew from the bow. As Deparnieux raised his shield, he never saw the extra weight of the head already causing it to drop below its point of aim. The arrow arced in underneath the slanted shield and punched into the breastplate exposed there, with barely a check to its speed and force.

  Deparnieux heard it. A dull impact of metal on metal-more a metallic thud than a ringing tone. He wondered what it was. Then he felt a small core of intense pain, a bright flare of agony, that began in his left side and expanded rapidly until it engulfed his entire body.

  He never felt the impact as his body hit the grassy field.

  Halt lowered the bow. He eased the string and replaced the second armor-piercing arrow, already nocked and ready, back in his quiver.

  The lord of Chateau Montsombre lay unmoving. A stunned silence hung over the small crowd of onlookers who had come out of the castle to watch the combat. None of them knew how to react. None of them had expected this result. The servants, cooks and stable hands felt a cautious sense of pleasure. Deparnieux had never been a popular master. His use of the lash and the iron cages on any servant who displeased him had seen to that. But their expectations of the man who had just killed him were not necessarily any higher. Logically, they assumed that the bearded stranger had killed their master so that he could take control of Montsombre. That was the way of things here in Gallica and former experience had shown them that a change in master brought no improvement to their lot. Deparnieux himself had defeated a former tyrant some years back. So, while they felt satisfaction to see the sadistic and pitiless black knight dead, they viewed his successor with no great sense of optimism.

  For the men-at-arms who had served under Deparnieux, it was a slightly different matter. They, at least, felt a closer bond to the dead man, although to class that feeling as loyalty would be overstating matters. But he had led them to many victories and a considerable amount of booty over the years, so now three of them started toward Halt, their hands dropping to their sword hilts.

  Seeing the movement, Horace spurred Kicker forward to come between them and the gray-cloaked archer. There was a ringing hiss of steel on leather as his sword came free of the scabbard, catching the early-afternoon sun on its blade as it did so. The soldiers hesitated.

  They knew of Horace's reputation and none of them fancied himself swordsman enough to contest matters with the younger man. Their normal battleground was the confusion of a pitched battle, not the cold, calculating atmosphere of a dueling ground such as this.

  "Get the horse," Halt called to Horace. The apprentice glanced around in surprise. Halt hadn't moved. He stood, feet slightly apart, side on to the approaching soldiers. Once again, an arrow was nocked to his bowstring, although the bow remained lowered.

  "What?" Horace asked, puzzled, and the Ranger jerked his head at the warlord's battlehorse, shifting its weight from foot to foot, tossing its head uncertainly.

  "The horse. It's mine now. Get it for me," Halt repeated, and Horace trotted Kicker slowly to a point where he could lean down and gather the black horse's reins. He had to resheathe his sword to do so and he glanced warily at the three soldiers-and the dozen others who stood behind them, as yet uncommitted one way or the other.

  "Captain of the guard!" Halt called. "Where are you?"

  A stockily built man in half armor took a pace forward from the larger group of warriors.

  Halt looked at him a moment, then called again: "Your name?"

  The captain hesitated. In the normal course of events, he knew, the victor of such a combat would simply demand a continuation of the status quo, and life at Montsombre would go on, relatively unchanged.

  But the captain also knew that, often as not, a new commander could choose to demote or even eliminate the ranking officers from the previous regime. He was wary of the bow in the stranger's hands. But he saw no point in not making himself known. The others would be quick to isolate him if it meant possible advancement for them. He came to a decision.

  "Philemon, my lord," he said. Halt's eyes bored into him and there was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  "Step over here, Philemon," Halt said finally, and replacing the arrow in his quiver, he slung the longbow over his left shoulder. That gesture was encouraging for the captain, although he had no doubt that, if Halt wished, he could unsling the bow and have several arrows on the way in less time than he, Philemon, could blink. Cautiously, every nerve end tingling with anticipation, he moved closer to the small man. When he was within easy talking distance, Halt spoke.

  "I have no wish to stay here any longer than I need," he said quietly. "In a month, the passes into Teutlandt and Skandia will be open and my companion and I will be on our way."

  He paused and Philemon frowned, trying to understand what he was being told.

  "You want us to come with you?" he asked, at last. "You expect us to follow you?"

  Halt shook his head. "I have no wish to ever see any of you again," he said flatly. "I want nothing of this castle, nothing of its people. I will take Deparnieux's battlehorse, because I am entitled to it as the victor in this combat. As for the rest, you're welcome to it: castle, furnishings, booty, food, the lot. If you can keep it from your friends, it's yours."

  Philemon shook his head in disbelief. This was phenomenal luck!

  The stranger was moving on, and handing over the castle, lock, stock and barrel, to him-a mere captain of the guard. He whistled softly to himself. He would replace Deparnieux as the controller of this region.

  He would be a lord, with a castle, and men-at-arms and servants to do his bidding!

  "Two things." Halt interrupted his thoughts. "You'll release those people in the cages immediately. As for the rest of the castle servants and slaves, I'll give them their choice of whether they stay or go. I'll not bind them to you in any way."

  The captain's heavy brows darkened at the statement. He opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated as he saw the look in Halt's eyes. It was cold, determined and utterly without pity.

  "To you or your successor," he amended. "The choice is yours.

  Argue about it and I'll put the choice to whoever replaces you after I kill you."

  And as he heard the words, Philemon realized that Halt would have no hesitation in carrying out the threat. Either he or the muscular young swordsman on the battlehorse would have no trouble taking care of him.

  He weighed the alternatives: jewels, gold, a well-stocked castle, a force of armed men who would follow him because he would have the wherewithal to pay them and a possible lack of servants.

  Or death, here and now.

  "I accept," he said.

  After all, Philemon realized, most of the servants and slaves would have nowhere to go. The chances were good that the majority would choose to stay on at Chateau Montsombre, trusting to a weary fatalism that things couldn't really be much worse and they might just possibly be a little better.

  Halt nodded slowly. "I rather thought you would."

  37

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sp; E VANLYN WAS CONCENTRATING HARD. T HE TIP OF HER TONGUE protruded through her teeth and there was a small frown on her face as she began to trim the piece of soft leather to the correct shape.

  She couldn't afford to make mistakes, she knew. She had found the piece of leather in the stable lean-to and there was only just enough for the purpose she had in mind. It was soft, supple and thin. There were other odds and ends of harness and tack in the shed but they were dried out and stiff. This was the piece she needed.

  Evanlyn was making a sling.

  She had finally given up trying to learn any skill with the bow.

  By the time she could hit the side of a barn, she thought, she and Will would have been long dead from hunger. She sighed. Being brought up as a princess had definite disadvantages. She could do fine needlework and embroidery, judge good wine and host a dinner party for a dozen nobles and their wives. She could organize servants and sit for hours, straight-backed and apparently attentive, through the most boring official ceremonies.

  All valuable skills in their right place, but none of them was much use to her in her present situation. She wished she had spent a few hours learning even the rudiments of archery. The bow, she admitted ruefully, was beyond her.

  But a sling! That was a different matter. As a little girl, she and her two male cousins had made slings and wandered through the woods outside Castle Araluen, hurling stones at random targets. She recalled that she had been pretty good too.

  On her tenth birthday, to her intense fury, her father had decided that it was time for his daughter to stop being a tomboy and to begin to learn the ways of a lady. The wandering and slinging ceased. The embroidering and hostessing began.

  Still, she thought, she could probably remember enough of the technique to serve her now, with a little practice.

  She smiled a little, remembering those privileged days at Castle Araluen. They were a far cry from all this. These days, she had new skills, she thought wryly. She could drag a pony through thigh-deep snow, sleep rough, bathe a lot less frequently than polite society might think appropriate and, with any luck, even kill, clean and cook her own food.