Icebound Land (12 page)

S
O THEY WERE TO BE SEPARATED AFTER ALL,
W
ILL THOUGHT.
Evanlyn was led away, stumbling as she turned to look back over her shoulder at him, a stricken expression on her face. He forced a grin of encouragement and waved to her, making the gesture casual and lighthearted, as if they would be seeing each other shortly.

His attempt at raising her spirits was cut short by a solid backhander to his head. He staggered a few feet, his ears ringing.

“Get moving, slave!” snarled Tirak, the Skandian supervisor of the yard. “We’ll see how much you have to smile about.”

The answer to that was precious little, Will soon discovered.

Of all the Skandians’ captives, yard slaves had the hardest, most unpleasant assignment. House slaves—those who worked in the kitchens and dining rooms—at least had the comfort of working, and sleeping, in a warm area. They might fall into their blankets exhausted at the end of a day, but the blankets were warm.

Yard slaves, on the other hand, were required to look after all the arduous, unpleasant outdoor tasks that needed doing—cutting firewood, clearing snow from the paths, emptying the privies and disposing of the result, feeding and watering the animals, cleaning stables. They were all jobs that had to be done in the bitter cold. And when their exertions finally raised a sweat, the slaves were left in damp clothing that froze on them once their tasks were completed, leaching the heat from their bodies.

They slept in a drafty, dilapidated old barn that did little to keep out the cold. Each slave was given one thin blanket—a totally inadequate covering when the night temperatures fell below the freezing point. They supplemented the covering with any old rags or sacks they could lay hands on. They stole them, begged them. And often, they fought over them. In his first three days, Will saw two slaves battered to the point of death in fights over ragged pieces of sacking.

Being a yard slave was more than uncomfortable, he realized. It was downright dangerous.

The system they worked under added to the danger. Tirak was nominally in charge of the yard, but he delegated that authority to a small, corrupt gang known as the Committee. These were half a dozen long-term slaves who hunted as a pack and held the power of life or death over their companions. In return for their authority and some extra comforts such as food and blankets, they maintained the brutal discipline of the yard and organized the work roster, assigning tasks to the other slaves. Those who pandered to them and obeyed them were given the easiest tasks. Those who resisted them found themselves carrying out the wettest, coldest, most dangerous jobs. Tirak ignored their excesses. He simply didn’t care about the slaves in his charge. They were expendable as far as he was concerned and his life was much simpler if he used the Committee to maintain order. If they killed or crippled the occasional rebel, it was a small price to pay.

It was inevitable that Will, being the person he was, would clash with the Committee. It happened on his third day in the yard. He was returning from a firewood detail, dragging a heavily laden sled through the thin snow. His clothes were damp with sweat and from the melting snow and he knew that as soon as the exertion stopped, he would be shivering with cold. The marginal rations that they were fed would do little to restore his body heat and, with each day, he could feel his strength and resilience fading a little further. Bent almost double, he dragged the sled into the yard, heaving it to a stop beside the kitchen, where house slaves would unload it, carrying the split logs in to the warmth of the massive cooking ranges. His head spun a little as he straightened up, then, from behind one of the kitchen outhouses, he heard a voice cursing, while another whimpered in pain.

Curious, he left the sled and went to see the cause of the commotion. A thin, ragged boy was huddled on the ground while an older, larger youth flayed at him with a length of knotted rope.

“I’m sorry, Egon!” the victim wept. “I didn’t know it was yours!”

They were both slaves, Will realized. But the big youth looked well fed and he was warmly dressed, in spite of the fact that his clothes were ragged and stained. Will estimated his age at about twenty. He’d noticed there were no older slaves in the yard. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that this was because yard slaves didn’t live very long.

“You’re a thief, Ulrich!” said the larger youth. “I’ll teach you to touch my belongings!”

He was aiming the knotted rope for his victim’s head now, lashing furiously. The boy’s face was heavily bruised, Will saw, and as he watched, a cut opened just under the smaller boy’s eye and blood covered his face. Ulrich cried and tried to cover his face with his bare arms. His tormentor flailed all the more wildly. Will could stand by no longer. He stepped forward and caught the end of the knotted rope as Egon began another stroke, jerking it backward.

Egon was thrown off balance. He staggered and let go of the rope, turning to look in surprise to see who had dared interrupt him. He half expected to see Tirak or another Skandian standing there. Nobody else would dare interfere with a Committeeman. To his astonishment, he found himself facing a short, slight youth who looked to be about sixteen years old.

“He’s had enough,” Will said, tossing the rope into the slushy snow of the kitchen yard.

Furious, Egon started forward. He was bigger and heavier than Will and he was ready to punish this foolhardy stranger. Then something in the stranger’s eyes, and in his ready stance, stopped him. He could see no fear there. And he looked fit and ready to fight. He was new to the yard, Egon realized, and still in relatively good condition. This was no easy target, like the unfortunate Ulrich.

“I’m sorry, Egon,” the ragged boy now snuffled. He crawled toward the Committeeman and placed his head against his worn boots. “I won’t do it again.” Egon by now had lost interest in his initial victim. He shoved him away with his foot. Ulrich looked up, saw that Egon’s attention was diverted and made his escape.

Egon barely noticed him go. He was glaring at Will, assessing him. This one would be no easy victim. But there were other ways to deal with troublemakers.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his eyes slitted and his voice low with fury.

“I’m called Will,” the apprentice Ranger said, and Egon nodded slowly, several times.

“I’ll remember that,” he promised.

The following day, Will was assigned to the paddles.

The paddles were the most feared work assignment among the yard slaves.

Hallasholm’s freshwater supply came from a large well in the center of the square facing Ragnak’s lodge. As the colder weather set in, the water in the well, if left untended, would freeze over. So the Skandians had installed large wooden paddles to constantly agitate the water and break up the ice before it froze solid. It was a constant, grinding job, heaving on the crank handles that turned the clumsy wooden blades in the water. Like snow clearing, it was wet and cold work, thoroughly debilitating. Nobody lasted long on the paddles.

Will had been working for half the morning, but already he was exhausted. Every muscle in his arms, back and legs ached with the strain.

He heaved on the handle, worn smooth over the years by a succession of long-dead hands. It was barely minutes since he’d last agitated the surface of the well water but already a thin skin of ice had formed. It cracked now as the wooden blade stabbed into it and moved rapidly from side to side. On the far side of the well, his coworker jerked and twisted at his own paddle, keeping the water moving, stopping it from freezing. When he had first arrived, Will had nodded to the other slave. The greeting was ignored. Since then, they had worked in silence, apart from their constant groans of exertion.

A heavy leather strap, wielded by the overseer, snapped across his shoulders. He heard the noise, felt the impact. But there was no stinging sensation from the blow. That was numbed by the cold.

“Dig them in deeper!” the overseer snarled. “The water will freeze underneath if you simply skim the surface like that.”

Groaning softly, Will obeyed, rising on tiptoe to drive the wooden paddle down into the frigid water, throwing up a wash of spray as he did so. He felt the icy touch of the water on his body. He was already wet through. It was almost impossible to remain dry. He knew that when he stopped for one of the brief rest periods they were allowed, the wet, freezing clothes would leach the body heat from him and the trembling would start again. It was the unstoppable shivering that frightened him most. As he cooled down, his body would begin to shake. He tried to force it to stop, and found he couldn’t. He had lost control over his own body, he realized dully. His teeth chattered and his hands shook and he was helpless to do anything about it. The only way to regain warmth was to start work again.

Eventually, it was over. Even the Skandians recognized that no one could work more than a four-hour shift on the paddles. Trembling and exhausted, utterly spent, Will staggered back to the barracks shed. He stumbled and fell as he approached his assigned sleeping space and lacked the energy to rise again. He crawled on hands and knees, longing for the meager warmth of the thin blanket.

Then a hoarse cry of despair was torn from him. The blanket was gone!

He huddled on the cold floor, weeping. His knees were drawn up and he wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to contain his failing body heat. He thought of his warm Ranger cloak, lost when he was captured by Erak and his men. The shivering began and he felt his whole body give way to it. The cold burrowed deep into his flesh, reaching right into his bones, right into the very soul of him.

There was nothing but the cold. His world was circumscribed by cold. He was the cold. It was inescapable, unbearable. There was no slight flicker of warmth in his world.

Nothing but the cold.

He felt something rough against his cheek and opened his eyes to see someone leaning over him, spreading a piece of coarse sacking over his trembling body. Then a quiet voice was in his ear. “Take it easy, friend. Be strong now.” The speaker was a tall slave, bearded and unkempt. But it was the eyes that Will noticed. They were full of sympathy and understanding. Pathetically, Will drew the scratchy cloth closer around his chin.

“Heard what you tried to do for Ulrich,” said his savior. “We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to make it in here. I’m Handel, by the way.”

Will tried to answer but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably and his voice shook as he tried to form words. It was useless.

“Here, try this,” said Handel, glancing around to make sure they were not observed. “Open your mouth.”

Will forced his chattering teeth apart and Handel slipped something into his mouth. It felt like a bundle of dried herbs, Will thought dully.

“Put it under your tongue,” Handel whispered. “Let it dissolve. You’ll be fine.”

And then, after a few moments, as his saliva moistened the substance under his tongue, Will felt the most glorious, liberating sense of warmth radiating through his body. Beautiful warmth that forced the cold out, that spread to the very tips of his fingers and toes in a series of pulsing waves. He had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. The trembling eased as successive waves of warmth swept gently over him. His tight muscles relaxed into a delightful sense of rest and well-being. He looked up to see Handel smiling and nodding at him. Those wonderful, warm eyes smiled reassuringly and he knew everything was going to be all right.

“What is it?” he said, speaking awkwardly around the sodden little wad in his mouth.

“It’s warmweed,” Handel told him gently. “It keeps us alive.”

And from the shadows of a far corner, Egon watched the two figures and smiled. Handel had done his work well.

T
HE BLACK-CLAD KNIGHT CURSED VIOLENTLY AS THE ARROW
ripped his gauntlet from his grasp and thudded, carrying the glove with it, into a heavy oak beam. The solid impact of the arrow with the beam drew his eyes for a second, then he whirled suspiciously, to see where the missile had come from. For the first time, he registered the presence of a dark, indistinct shape in the shadows at the rear of the room. Then, as Halt moved from behind the table and out into the light, he also registered the longbow, with a second arrow nocked ready to the string. The archer hadn’t bothered to draw the bow, but Deparnieux had just seen an example of his skill. He knew he was facing a master archer, capable of drawing and firing in a heartbeat. He stood very still now, controlling his rage with difficulty. He knew his life might well depend on his ability to do so.

“Unfortunately for the dictates of chivalry,” Halt said, “Sir Horace, knight of the Order of the Oakleaf, is indisposed, with an injury to his left hand. He will therefore be unable to reply to the kind invitation you were about to issue.”

He had moved farther into the light now and Deparnieux could make out his face more clearly. Bearded and grim, this was the face of an experienced campaigner. The eyes were cold and bore no hint of indecision. This, the knight knew instantly, was a man to be wary of.

There was a subdued chuckle from one of the townspeople in the room and, inwardly, the Gallic knight seethed with fury. His eyes flicked to the source of the sound and he saw a carpenter, lowering his face to hide his smile. Deparnieux noted the man mentally. His day of reckoning would come. Outwardly, however, he forced a smile.

“A pity,” he told the archer. “I had hoped for a friendly trial of arms with the young chevalier—all in the spirit of good fellowship, of course.”

“Of course,” Halt replied levelly, and Deparnieux knew that he wasn’t for a moment deceived. “But, as I say, we shall have to disappoint you, as we are traveling on a rather urgent quest.”

Deparnieux’s eyebrows lifted in polite enquiry. “Is that so? And where might you and your young master be bound?”

He added the “young master” to see what effect it would have on the bearded man before him. It was obvious who was the master here, and it wasn’t the young knight. He’d hoped that he might sting the other man’s pride, and possibly goad him to a mistake.

The hope, however, was short-lived. He noticed a faint glint of amusement in the man’s eyes as he recognized the gambit for what it was.

“Oh, here and there,” Halt replied vaguely. “It’s not a task of sufficient importance to interest a warlord such as yourself.” The tone of his voice left the knight in no doubt that he would not be answering casual questions about their end destination, or even their intended direction of travel.

“Sir Horace,” he added, aware that the boy was still within arm’s reach of the black knight, “why don’t you sit yourself down over there and rest your injured arm?”

Horace glanced at him, then understanding dawned and he moved away from the knight, taking a seat by the edge of the fire. There was absolute silence in the room now. The townspeople gazed at the two men confronting each other, wondering where this impasse was going to end. Only two people in the room, Halt and Deparnieux, knew that the knight was trying to gauge his chances of drawing his sword and cutting down the archer before he could fire. As Deparnieux hesitated, he met the unwavering gaze of the Ranger.

“I really wouldn’t,” said Halt mildly. The black knight read the message in his eyes and knew that, fast as he might be, the other man’s reply would be faster. He inclined his head slightly in recognition of the fact. This was not the time.

He forced a smile onto his face and made a mocking bow in Horace’s direction.

“Perhaps another day, Sir Horace,” he said lightly. “I would look forward to a friendly trial of arms with you when you are recovered.”

This time, he noticed, the boy glanced quickly at his older companion before replying. “Perhaps another day,” he agreed.

Embracing the room with a thin smile, Deparnieux turned on his heel and walked to the door. He paused there a moment, his eyes seeking Halt’s once more. The smile faded and the message he sent was clear.
Next time, my friend. Next time.

The door closed behind him and a collective sigh of relief went around the room. Instantly, a babble of conversation broke out among those present. The musicians, sensing that their moment was over for the night, packed away their instruments and gratefully accepted drinks from the serving girl.

Horace moved to the beam where Halt’s arrow had pinned the knight’s gauntlet. He wrestled the shaft free, dropped the glove onto a table and returned the arrow to Halt.

“What was that all about?” he asked, a little breathlessly. Halt moved back to their table in the shadows, and leaned his longbow against the wall once more.

“That,” he told the boy, “is what happens when you begin to acquire a reputation. Our friend Deparnieux is obviously the person who controls this area and he saw you as a potential challenge to that control. So, he came here to kill you.”

Horace shook his head in bewilderment. “But…why? I don’t have any quarrel with the man. Did I offend him somehow? I certainly didn’t mean to,” he said. Halt nodded gravely.

“That’s not the point,” he told the young apprentice. “He doesn’t give a toss about you. You were simply an opportunity for him.”

“An opportunity?” Horace asked. “For what?”

“To reaffirm his hold over the people in the area,” Halt explained. “People like him rule by fear, for the most part. So, when a young knight comes into the area with a reputation as a champion, somebody like Deparnieux sees it as an opportunity. He provokes a fight with you, kills you, and his own reputation is enlarged. People fear him more and are less likely to challenge his control over them. Understand?”

The boy nodded slowly. “It’s not the way it should be,” he said, a disappointed tone in his voice. “It’s not the way chivalry was intended to be.”

“In this part of the world,” Halt told him, “it’s the way it is.”