The Icebound Land ra-3

by John Flanagan

  That is, of course, if she could get the damn sling right. She shaped the soft leather patch around a large round stone, wrapping the stone in it and pulling the soft leather tight to create a pouch. She wrapped and released over and over again, forcing the shape of the rock into the leather. Her hands were starting to ache with the effort and she seemed to recall that, as a child, servants had done this part for her.

  "I'm not really much use, am I?" she said to herself.

  In fact, she was selling herself short. Her reserves of courage, determination and loyalty were vast, as was her ingenuity.

  Unlike someone raised to these conditions, she might not always find the best way to solve their problems. But somehow, she would find a way. She would never give in. And it was that strength of purpose and ability to adapt that would make her a great ruler, if she were ever to make her way back to Araluen.

  She heard a noise behind her and turned. Her heart sank as she saw Will standing close to her. His eyes were empty, his expression blank.

  For one awful moment, she thought he was looking for another dose of warmweed and she felt a real surge of fear. It had been two weeks since his last dose of the drug. When she had given him that, the packet was left virtually empty. She had no idea what would happen the next time the need clawed at him.

  Each day, she lived with the constant dread that he would ask for more, mixed with a desperate growing hope that perhaps he was cured of the addiction. Since the day he had unstrung the bow, she had looked for some further sign of awareness or memory from him. But in vain.

  He pointed to the water jug on the bench and she heaved a sigh of relief. She poured him a mug of water and he shambled away, his mind still locked in that faraway place only addicts know. Not cured, she thought, but at least the moment she was dreading had been postponed a little longer.

  Her eyes blurred with tears. She dashed them away and turned back to her work. Earlier, she had cut two long thongs from the saddle pack, and now she attached one to either side of the pouch. She placed the stone in the pouch and swung the sling experimentally. It had been a long time, but it felt vaguely familiar. The weight of the rock felt comfortable and it nestled securely in the pouch. She glanced across at Will. He was huddled against the wall of the cabin, his eyes closed, lost to the world. He'd stay like that for hours, she knew.

  "No point wasting any more time," she said to herself, then called to Will, "I'm going hunting, Will. I'll be a while."

  She collected a supply of pebbles and set out. Her previous attempts with the bow had taught her that the local wildlife tended to give the cabin a wide berth now that it was inhabited. Bitter experience in the past, she thought. It was certainly nothing to do with her attempts at hunting.

  As she went, she took the opportunity to practice her technique, loading a rock into the sling, whirling it around her head till it made a dull droning sound, then releasing to cast at nearby tree trunks.

  At first, the results were less than encouraging. The velocity was fine but the accuracy was sadly lacking. But as she continued to practice, her old skill began to return. More and more often, the stones she flung slammed into their targets.

  She did even better when she loaded two stones into the sling, doubling her chances of a hit. Eventually, satisfied that she was ready, she set out, heading for a clearing by a stream, where she had seen rabbits feeding and sunning themselves on the warm rocks.

  She was in luck. A large buck rabbit was sitting on the rocks, eyes closed, ears and nose twitching as he basked in the sunlight and the heat of the sun-warmed rock beneath it.

  She felt a thrill of satisfaction as she loaded two of the larger stones into the sling and began to whirl it above her head. The dull, droning sound built as the sling gathered speed and the rabbit's eyes came open as he heard it. But he sensed no danger in the sound and remained where he was. Evanlyn saw his eyes open and resisted the temptation to cast instantly. She let the sling whip around two or three more times, then released, following through with a full arm cast, straight at her target.

  Perhaps it was beginner's luck, but both stones hit the rabbit with the full force of the whirling sling behind them. The larger of the two broke its right hind leg, so that when it tried to flee, it flopped awkwardly over in the snow. Evanlyn, with a surge of fierce triumph, was across the clearing, grabbing the struggling animal and wringing its neck to put it out of its misery.

  The fresh meat would be a welcome addition to their meager diet.

  Flushed with success, she decided she might as well try another hunting spot and see if her luck held. Two rabbits would definitely be better than one.

  She moved cautiously, and the soft snow underfoot aided her stealthy progress. As she drew closer to the next clearing, she began to walk with greater care, setting her feet carefully and making sure that, as she held tree branches aside to pass by, she allowed them to return to their initial position noiselessly.

  In all likelihood, it was this extreme caution that saved her life.

  She was about to step clear of the trees when some sixth sense made her hesitate.

  Something wasn't right. She had heard something, or felt something, that was out of place here. She hung back, staying in the shadows inside the tree line and waiting to see if she could identify the cause of her unease. Then she heard it again, and this time she recognized it. The soft fall of a horse's hooves on the thick snow that still blanketed the ground.

  Mouth dry, heart suddenly pounding, Evanlyn froze in place. She remembered Will's instructions on Skorghijl.

  She was still well concealed from anyone or anything in the clearing. The pines grew thickly and the midmorning sunshine cast deep shadows between the trees. Her hair had risen on the back of her neck as she stood, motionless. Her eyes darted this way and that, straining to see through the alternating patches of bright, sunlit snow and deep shadow. Now she heard the soft, snuffling snort of a horse breathing and she knew she hadn't been mistaken. Across the clearing, a cloud of steam hung on the air, and as she watched, she saw the horse and its rider emerge from the deep shadows behind it.

  For one brief moment, she felt a surge of joy as she thought the horse was Will's Ranger horse, Tug. Small, sturdy and shaggy in the coat, it was barely more than a pony in size. As she saw him, she nearly stepped forward into the sunlight, but then, just in time, she stopped, as she saw the rider.

  He was dressed in furs, with a flat-topped fur hat on his head and a bow slung over his shoulder. She could make out his face quite clearly: brown, weather-beaten skin and high, prominent cheekbones, which made the eyes appear as little more than slits above them. He was small and stocky, she realized, like his horse, and something about him spelled danger. His head turned as he looked at the trees on his right and Evanlyn took the opportunity to shrink farther back into the cover of the forest. Satisfied that there was nobody watching, the rider urged his horse forward a few paces, into the center of the clearing.

  He paused there, and his eyes seemed to pierce through the shadows to where the girl stood, concealed behind the rough-barked bole of a large pine. For a few breathless seconds, she thought he had seen her.

  But then he touched the horse's flank with the heel of one of his fur-trimmed boots and wheeled him to the right, trotting quickly out of the clearing and into the trees. In a moment, he was lost to her sight, the only sign of his presence the clouds of steam left hanging on the freezing air by the horse's warm breath.

  For several minutes, Evanlyn stayed huddled against the pine tree, fearing that the rider might suddenly turn and backtrack. Then, long after the soft thud of his horse's hoofbeats on the snow had died away, she turned and began to run back through the forest toward the cabin.

  Will had been sleeping.

  He woke slowly, consciousness gradually filtering through to him as he became aware that he was sitting on a hard wood floor. His eyes opened and he frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. He was in a small cabin, where the bright sunli
ght of late winter struck through an unglazed window and formed an elongated square on the floor, wider at its base than at the top.

  Groggily, still half-asleep, he stood, realizing that for some reason he had been sleeping while sitting on the floor, his back against one of the walls. He wondered why he had chosen such a spot, when he could see that the cabin contained one rough bunk and two chairs. As he came slowly to his feet, something fell clattering from his lap to the floor. He looked down and saw a small hunting bow lying there. Curious, he picked it up, studying it. It was a low-powered affair, without any recurve, and without the long, heavy limbs of a proper longbow. Useful for small game, he thought vaguely, and precious little else. He wondered where his own recurve bow had gone to. He couldn't remember having ever owned this toy.

  Then he remembered. His bow had been lost, taken from him by the Skandians at the bridge. And as that memory came back, so did others: the flight through the swamps and marshes of the fenlands as a prisoner of the Skandians; the voyage across the Stormwhite Sea on Erak's wolfship; the harbor at Skorghijl, where they had sheltered through the worst of the storm season; and then the trip onward to Hallasholm.

  And then:And then, nothing.

  He racked his brain, trying to find some memory of events after they had reached the Skandian capital. But there was no memory there.

  Nothing but a blank wall that defied all his efforts to pierce it.

  A jolt of fear hit him. Evanlyn! What had become of her? He remembered, as if through a fog, that there was some great danger hanging over her. Her identity must never be revealed to their captors. Had they actually reached Hallasholm? He was sure that, if they had, he would remember. But where was the green-eyed blond girl who had come to mean so much to him? Had he inadvertently betrayed her? Had the Skandians killed her?

  A Vallasvow! He remembered it now. Ragnak, Oberjarl of the Skandians, had sworn a vow of vengeance on every member of the Araluen royal family. And Evanlyn was, in reality, Cassandra, princess of the realm. In an agony of uncertainty and lost memory, Will pounded the heels of his fists into his forehead, trying to remember, trying to reassure himself that Evanlyn had not suffered because he had somehow failed her.

  And then, even as he thought about her, the door of the cabin slammed back on its crude leather hinges and she was there, framed against the bright sunlight reflecting from the snow outside and as breathtakingly beautiful as he knew he would always remember her to be, no matter how long he lived or how old they might both become.

  He moved toward her now, a smile of utter relief breaking out across his features, holding out his hands to her as she stood, wordless, staring at him as if he were some kind of a ghost.

  "Evanlyn!" he said. "Thank God you're safe!"

  And, saying it, he wondered why her eyes had filled, and why her shoulders were shaking as tear after tear spilled uncontrollably down her cheeks.

  After all, he couldn't really see that there was anything to cry about.

  EPILOGUE

  H ALT AND H ORACE RODE CAREFULLY DOWN THE WINDING PATH that led from Chateau Montsombre. Neither of them spoke, but both felt the same intense satisfaction. They were on their way again. The worst of winter was over and, by the time they reached the border, the passes into Skandia would be open.

  Horace glanced back once at the grim building where they had been trapped for so many weeks. Then he shaded his eyes to look more carefully.

  "Halt," he said, "look at that."

  Halt eased Abelard to a stop and swiveled around. There was a thin banner of gray smoke rising from the castle keep, and as they watched, it thickened and turned black. Dimly, they could hear the shouts of Philemon's men as they ran to fight the fire.

  "Looks to me," said Halt judiciously, "as if some careless person left a torch burning in a pile of oily rags in the basement storeroom."

  Horace grinned at him. "You can tell all that just by looking, can you?"

  Halt nodded, keeping a deadpan expression.

  "We Rangers are gifted with uncanny powers of perception," he replied. "And I think Gallica will be better off without that particular castle, don't you?"

  Only the warlord had actually lived in the keep. The soldiers and domestic staff lived in other parts of the building and they would have plenty of time to stop the fire from spreading that far. But the keep, the central tower that had been Deparnieux's headquarters, was doomed. And that was as it should be. Montsombre had been the site of too much cruelty and horror over the years, and Halt had no intention of leaving it unscathed, so that Philemon could continue the ways of his old master.

  "Of course, the stone walls won't burn," said Horace, with a tinge of disappointment.

  "No," Halt agreed. "But the timber floors and their support beams will. And all the ceilings and stairways will burn and collapse. And the heat will damage the walls as well. Shouldn't be surprised if some of them just collapse."

  "Good," said Horace, and there was a world of satisfaction in the single word.

  Together, they turned their backs on the memory of Deparnieux.

  They urged their horses forward and the little cavalcade moved off, Tug following close behind the two riders.

  "Let's go and find Will," said Halt.

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