Icebound Land (17 page)

Halt’s eyes narrowed as he watched the unpleasant scene. He knew that this was all being done for his benefit. He sensed that Deparnieux wanted to see how he might react. Frustrating as it might be, there was nothing he could do to help the woman right now. Deparnieux shot a quick glance at him, confirming his suspicions, seeing that the smaller man was as calm as ever. Then he resumed his seat, turning back to the unfortunate cook. “The vegetables were cold,” he said finally.

The woman’s expression was equal parts fear and puzzlement.

“Surely not, my lord? The vegetables were—”

“Cold, I tell you!” Deparnieux interrupted. He turned to Halt. “They were cold, were they not?” he challenged. Halt shrugged.

“The vegetables were fine,” he said evenly. No matter what happened, he must keep any sense of anger or outrage out of his voice. Deparnieux smiled thinly. He looked back at the cook.

“Now see what you have done?” he said. “Not only have you shamed me in front of a guest, you have made that guest lie on your behalf.”

“My lord, really, I didn’t—”

Deparnieux cut her off with an imperious wave of the hand.

“You have disappointed me and you must be punished,” he said. The woman’s face grew gray with fear. In this castle, punishment was no light matter.

“Please, my lord. Please, I will try harder. I promise,” she babbled, hoping to forestall his pronouncement of her punishment. She looked appealingly to Halt.

“Please, master, tell him that I didn’t mean it,” she begged.

“Leave her be,” the Ranger said finally.

Deparnieux’s head cocked expectantly to one side.

“Or?” he challenged. Here was an opportunity to assess his prisoner’s powers—or lack thereof. If he truly were a sorcerer, then perhaps he might show his hand now.

Halt could see what the other man was thinking. There was an air of expectancy about him as he watched Halt carefully. The Ranger realized, reluctantly, that he was in no position to enforce threats. He decided to try another tack.

“Or?” he repeated, shrugging. “Or what? The matter is unimportant. She is nothing but a clumsy servant who deserves neither your attention nor mine.”

The Gallican fingered his lip thoughtfully. Halt’s apparent lack of care might be real. Or it might be simply a way of masking the fact that he had no powers. The principal reason for doubt in Deparnieux’s mind was the fact that he couldn’t really believe that any person of power or authority would really have more than a passing concern for a servant. Halt might be backing down. Or he might actually not care enough to make an issue of the matter.

“Nevertheless,” he replied, watching Halt, “she must be punished.”

He looked at the head steward now. The man had shrunk back against one wall, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while all this went on.

“You will punish this woman,” he said. “She is lazy and incompetent and she has embarrassed her master.”

The steward bowed obsequiously. “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. The woman will be punished,” he said. Deparnieux raised his eyebrows in mock wonder.

“Really?” he said. “And what will the punishment be?”

The servant hesitated. He had no idea what the knight had in mind. He decided that, on the whole, it would be better to err on the side of harshness.

“Flogging, my lord?” he replied, and as Deparnieux seemed to nod in agreement, he continued, more definitely, “She will be flogged.”

But now the warlord was shaking his head and beads of perspiration broke out on the balding steward’s forehead.

“No,” Deparnieux said in a silky tone. “
You
will be flogged. She will be caged.”

Powerless to intervene, Halt watched the cruel tableau unfold before his eyes. The head servant’s face crumpled with fear as he heard he was to be flogged. But the woman, on hearing her own punishment, sank to the floor, her face a mask of despair. Halt recalled the winding road they had traveled to Montsombre, lined with the pitiful wretches suspended in iron cages. He felt sickened by the black-clad tyrant in front of him. He stood abruptly, shoving his chair back so that it toppled over and crashed to the flagstones.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. “I’ve had enough.”

E
VANLYN HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG THEY HAD BEEN STUMBLING
up the snow-covered path. The pony trudged, head down and uncomplaining, with Will swaying uncertainly on its back, moaning quietly. Evanlyn herself continued to stagger mindlessly, her feet squeaking and crunching on the new-fallen dry snow underfoot.

Finally, she knew she could go no farther. She stumbled to a halt and looked for a place to shelter for what remained of the night.

The prevailing north wind over the previous days had piled the snow thickly against the windward side of the pines, leaving a corresponding deep trough in their lee. The lower branches of the bigger trees spread out above these hollows, creating a sheltered space below the surface of the snow. Not only would they find shelter from the weather as the snow continued to fall, the deep hole would conceal them from the casual glance of passersby on the path.

It was by no means an ideal hiding place, but it was the best available. Evanlyn led the pony off the track, looking for one of the larger trees, set three or four rows back from the path.

Almost at once, she sank waist-deep in the snow. But she struggled forward, leading the pony behind her in the path she made. It took almost the last reserves of her strength, but she finally stumbled into a deep hollow behind a tree. The pony hesitated, then followed her. Will at least had the presence of mind to lean down over the pony’s neck to avoid being swept out of the saddle by the huge, snow-laden overhanging branches of the pine.

The space under the tree was surprisingly large and there was plenty of room for the three of them. With their combined body heat in the more or less enclosed space, it was also nowhere near as cold as she had thought it might be. It was still bitterly cold, mind you, but not life-threatening. She helped Will down from the pony’s back and motioned for him to sit. He sprawled, shivering, his back against the rough bark of the tree, while she searched the pack and found two thick wool blankets. She draped them around his shoulders, then sat beside him and pulled the rough wool around herself as well. She took one of his hands in hers and rubbed his fingers. They felt like ice. She smiled at him in encouragement.

“We’ll be fine now,” she told him, “just fine.”

He looked at her and, for a moment, she thought he had understood her. But she realized he was simply reacting to the sound of her voice.

As soon as he seemed to have warmed up a little, and his shivering had died down to an occasional spasm, she unwrapped herself and stood to loosen the pony’s pack saddle. The animal grunted and snorted in relief as the straps loosened around its belly, then slowly settled to its knees to lie down in the shelter.

Perhaps, in this snow-covered land, horses were trained to do this. She had no idea. But the reclining pony offered a warm resting spot for her and Will. She dragged the unresisting boy away from the bole of the tree and resettled him, leaning back against the warm belly of the horse. Then, wrapping herself in the blankets again, she nestled close to him. The horse’s body heat was bliss. She could feel it in the small of her back and, for the first time in hours, she felt warm. Her head drooped against Will’s shoulder and she slept.

Outside, the heavy flakes of snow continued to tumble down from the low clouds.

Within thirty minutes, all sign of their passage through the deep snow was obliterated.

The news that two of the slaves had gone took some time to be relayed to Erak the following morning.

That was hardly surprising, as such an event wasn’t considered important enough to bother one of the senior Jarls. In fact, it was only after one of the kitchen slaves recalled that Evanlyn had spent the previous few days bemoaning her assignment to his household that Borsa, who had been informed of the girl’s disappearance, thought to mention it to him.

As it was, he only mentioned the fact in passing, as he saw the bearded ship’s captain leaving the dining hall after a late breakfast.

“That damn girl of yours has gone,” he muttered, brushing past Erak. As hilfmann, of course, Borsa had been informed of the slave’s disappearance as soon as the kitchen steward had discovered it. It was the hilfmann’s job to deal with such administrative hiccups, after all.

Erak looked at him blankly. “Girl of mine?”

Borsa waved a hand impatiently. “The Araluen you brought in. The one you were going to have for a servant. Apparently, she’s run off.”

Erak frowned. He felt it was logical for him to look a little annoyed about such a turn of events.

“Where to?” he asked, and Borsa replied with an irritated shrug.

“Who knows? There’s nowhere to run to and the snow was falling like a blanket last night. There are no signs of tracks anywhere.”

And, at that piece of news, Erak breathed an inner sigh of relief. That part of his plan had succeeded, at any rate. His next words, however, belied the sense of satisfaction that he hid deep inside.

“Well, find her!” he snapped irritably. “I didn’t haul her all the way across the Stormwhite so you could lose her!”

And he turned on his heel and strode away. He was, after all, a senior jarl and a war leader. Borsa might well be the hilfmann and Ragnak’s senior administrator, but in a battle-oriented society such as this, Erak outranked him by a significant margin.

Borsa glared after his retreating back and cursed. But he did it quietly. Not only was he aware of their comparative ranks, he also knew that it was an unwise man who would insult the Jarl to his face—or to his back as the case might be. Erak had been known to lay about him with his battleax on the slightest of provocations.

The thought of Erak’s voyage from Araluen with the girl brought the other slave to his mind—the boy who had been a Ranger apprentice. He had heard that the girl had been asking about him in the past few days. Now, swinging his heavy fur cloak around him, he headed for the door and the quarters of the yard slaves.

Wrinkling his nose against the stink of unwashed bodies, Borsa stood in the doorway of the yard slaves’ barracks and surveyed the cringing Committeeman in front of him.

“You didn’t see him go?” he asked incredulously. The slave shook his head, keeping his eyes cast down. His manner showed his guilt. Borsa was sure he had heard or seen the other slave escaping and had done nothing about it. He shook his head angrily and turned to the guard beside him.

“Have him flogged,” he said briefly, and turned back to the main Lodge building.

It was barely an hour later that the report came in of the missing skiff. The end of the painter, cut with a knife, told its own story. Two missing slaves, one missing boat. The conclusion was obvious. Bleakly, Borsa thought about the chances of surviving in the Stormwhite at this time of year in an open boat—particularly close to the coast. For, contrary to the way it might seem, the fugitives would have a better chance of survival in the open sea. Close to the coast, and driven by the prevailing winds and heavy waves, it would be a miracle if they weren’t smashed along the rocky coast before they had gone ten kilometers.

“Good riddance,” he muttered, and sent word that the patrols sent to search the mountain paths to the north should be recalled.

Later that day, Erak overheard two slaves talking in muted tones about the two Araluens who had stolen a boat and tried to escape. Around noon, the search parties returned from the mountains. The men were obviously grateful to be in from the deep snow and the biting wind that had sprung up shortly after dawn.

His heart lifted. At least now the fugitives would be safe until spring.

As long as they managed to find the mountain cabin, he thought soberly, and didn’t freeze to death in the attempt.

L
IFE IN
C
HÂTEAU
M
ONTSOMBRE HAD TAKEN ON A PATTERN.
Their host, the warlord Deparnieux, saw his two unwilling guests only when he chose to, which was usually over the evening meal, once or twice a week. It also generally coincided with those occasions when he had thought of some new way of baiting Halt, to try to draw him out.

At other times, the two Araluens were confined mainly to their tower room, although each day they were allowed a short time for exercise in the castle courtyard, under the suspicious gaze of the dozen or so men-at-arms who stood sentry over them in the tower. They had asked several times if they might venture outside the castle walls, and perhaps explore the plateau a little.

They expected no more than the answer they received, which was a stony silence from the sergeant of the men set to guard them, but it was still extremely frustrating.

Now Horace paced up and down the terrace, high in the central tower of Château Montsombre.

Inside, Halt was sitting cross-legged on his bed as he put the finishing touches to a new bow he was making for Will. He had been working on the project since they had landed in Gallica. He had carefully selected strips of wood and glued and bound them tightly together, so that their different grains and natural shapes were opposed to one another and bent the composite piece into a smooth curve. Then he had attached two similar, but shorter, composites to either end, so that their curve opposed the main shape of the bow. This formed the recurve shape that he wanted.

When they had first arrived at Montsombre, Deparnieux had seen the pieces in Halt’s pack, but he had seen no reason to confiscate them. Without arrows, a half-made bow constituted no threat to him.

The wind curled around the turrets of the castle, keening its way among the figures of gargoyles carved in the stone. Below the terrace, a family of rooks soared and planed on the wind, coming and going from their nest, set in a cranny in the hard granite wall. Horace always felt slightly queasy to find himself looking down on birds flying. He moved back from the balustrade, pulling his cloak more tightly around him to keep out the wind. The air carried the threat of rain with it and, in the north, there were banks of heavy cloud driving toward them on the wind. It was midafternoon on another wintry day in Montsombre. The forest that spread out below them was dull and featureless—from this height it looked like a rough carpet.

“What are we going to do, Halt?” Horace asked, and his companion hesitated before answering. Not because he was uncertain of the answer itself; rather, because he was unsure how his young friend’s temperament would greet it.

“We wait,” he said simply, and immediately saw the frustration in Horace’s eyes. He knew the boy was expecting something to precipitate matters with Deparnieux.

“But Deparnieux is torturing and killing people! And we’re just sitting back watching him do it!” the boy said angrily. He expected more from the resourceful ex-Ranger than the simple injunction to wait.

The forced inactivity was galling to Horace. He wasn’t coping well with the boredom and frustration of day-to-day life in Montsombre. He was trained for action and he wanted to act. He felt the compulsion to
do
something—anything. He wanted to punish Deparnieux for his cruelty. He wanted a chance to ram the black knight’s sarcastic comments back down his throat.

Most of all, he wanted to be free of Montsombre and back on the road in search of Will.

Halt waited until he judged Horace had calmed down a little. “He’s also lord of this castle,” he replied mildly, “and he has some fifty men at his beck and call. I think that’s a few more than we could comfortably deal with.”

Horace picked a crumbled piece of granite from a corner of the balustrade and tossed it far out into the void below, watching it fall, seeming to curve in toward the castle walls until it was lost from view.

“I know,” he said moodily, “but I wish we could do something.”

Halt glanced up from his task. Although he hid the fact, his sense of frustration was even sharper than Horace’s. If he were on his own, Halt could escape from this castle with the greatest ease. But to do so, he would have to abandon Horace—and he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Instead, he found himself torn by conflicting loyalties—to Will, and to the young man who had unselfishly chosen to accompany him in search of a friend. He knew that Deparnieux would show no mercy to Horace if Halt were to escape. At the same time, every fiber of his being ached to be on the road and in pursuit of his lost apprentice. He dropped his eyes to the almost completed bow again, careful to keep any sense of his own frustration out of his voice.

“The next move is up to our host, I’m afraid,” he told Horace. “He’s not sure what to make of me. He’s not sure whether I might be useful to him. And while he’s uncertain, he’s on his guard. That makes him dangerous.”

“Then surely we might as well fight him?” Horace asked, but Halt shook his head emphatically.

“I’d rather he relaxed a little,” he said. “I’d rather he felt we were not as dangerous, or as useful, as he first assumed. I can sense he’s trying to make his mind up about me. That business with the cook was a test.”

The first drops of rain spattered onto the flagstones. Horace looked up, realizing with some surprise that the clouds, seemingly so far away only a few minutes ago, were already scudding overhead.

“A test?” he repeated.

Halt twisted his face into a grimace. “He wanted to see what I would do about it. Maybe he wanted to see what I
could
do about it.”

“So you did nothing?” Horace challenged, and instantly regretted the hasty words. Halt, however, took no offense. He met the boy’s gaze steadily, saying nothing. Eventually, Horace dropped his eyes and mumbled, “Sorry, Halt.”

Halt nodded, registering the apology. “There wasn’t much I could do, Horace,” he explained gently. “Not while Deparnieux was keyed up and on his guard. That’s not the time to take action against an enemy. I’m afraid,” he added in a warning tone, “the next few weeks are going to bring us more of these tests.”

That gained Horace’s attention immediately. “What do you think he has in mind?”

“I don’t know the details,” Halt said. “But you can bet that our friend Deparnieux will perform more unpleasant acts, just to see what I do about them.” Again, the ex-Ranger grimaced. “The point is, the more I do nothing, the more he will relax, and the less careful he will be around me.”

“And that’s what you want?” Horace queried, beginning to understand. Halt nodded grimly in reply.

“That’s what I want,” he said. He glanced at the dark clouds that were whipping overhead. “Now come inside before you get soaked,” he suggested.

The rain came and went over the next hour, pelting in on the wind, driven almost horizontally through those open window spaces of the Château where the occupants had neglected to close the wooden shutters.

An hour before dark, the rain cleared as the ever-present wind drove the clouds farther south, and the low sun broke through in the west, in a spectacular display against the dispersing storm clouds.

The two prisoners were watching the sunset from their windswept terrace when they heard a commotion below them.

A lone horseman was at the main gate, hammering on the giant brass bell that hung on a post there. He was dressed as a knight, carrying sword and lance and shield. He was young, they could see—probably only a year or two older than Horace.

The newcomer stopped hammering and filled his lungs to shout. He spoke, or rather shouted, in Gallic, and Horace had no idea what he was saying, although he certainly recognized the name “Deparnieux.”

“What’s he saying?” he asked Halt, and the Ranger held up a hand to hush him as he listened to the last few words from the knight.

“He’s challenging Deparnieux,” he said, his head cocked to one side to make out the strange knight’s words more clearly. Horace made an impatient gesture.

“I gathered that!” he said with some asperity. “But why?”

Halt waved him to silence as the newcomer continued to shout. The tone was angry enough, but the words were a little difficult to make out as they ebbed and flowed on the swirling wind.

“From what I can understand,” Halt said slowly, “our friend Deparnieux murdered this fellow’s family—while he was away on a quest. They’re very big on quests here in Gallica.”

“So what happened?” Horace wanted to know. But the Ranger could only shrug in reply.

“Apparently Deparnieux wanted the family’s lands, so he got rid of the lad’s parents.” He listened further and said, “They were on the elderly side and relatively helpless.”

Horace grunted. “That sounds like what we know about Deparnieux.”

Abruptly, the stranger ceased shouting, turned his horse and trotted away from the gate to wait for a reaction. For a few minutes, there was no sign that anyone other than Halt and Horace had paid the slightest attention. Then a sally port in the massive wall crashed open and a black-armored figure on a jet-black battlehorse emerged.

Deparnieux cantered slowly to a position a hundred meters from the other knight. They faced each other while the young knight repeated his challenge. On the castle ramparts, Horace and Halt could see Deparnieux’s men eagerly taking up vantage positions to watch the coming battle.

“Vultures,” Halt muttered at the sight of them.

The black-clad knight made no reply to the stranger. He simply reached up with the edge of his shield and flicked the visor on his helmet closed. That was enough for his challenger. He slammed down his own visor and set spurs to his battlehorse. Deparnieux did the same and they charged toward each other, lances leveled.

Even at a distance, Halt and Horace could see that the young man was not very skilled. His seat was awkward and his positioning of shield and lance was clumsy. Deparnieux, by contrast, looked totally coordinated and frighteningly capable as they thundered together.

“This doesn’t look good,” Horace said in a worried tone.

They struck with a resounding crash that echoed off the walls of the castle. The young knight’s lance, badly positioned and at the wrong angle, shattered into pieces. By contrast, Deparnieux’s lance struck squarely into the other knight’s shield, sending him reeling in the saddle as they passed. Yet strangely, Deparnieux appeared to lose his grasp on his own lance. It fell away into the grass behind him as he wheeled his horse for the return pass. For a moment, Horace felt a surge of hope.

“He’s injured!” he said eagerly. “That’s a stroke of luck!”

But Halt was frowning, shaking his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “There’s something fishy going on here.”

The two armored warriors now drew their broadswords and charged again. They crashed together. Deparnieux took the other knight’s stroke on his shield. His own sword struck ringingly against his opponent’s helmet, and again the young man reeled in the saddle.

The battlehorses screamed in fury as they circled and reared now, with each rider trying to gain a winning position. The warriors struck at each other again and again as they came within reach, Deparnieux’s men cheering every time their lord landed a blow.

“What’s he doing?” Horace asked, his earlier excitement gone. “He could have finished him off after that first stroke!” His voice took on a tone of disgust as he realized the truth. “He’s playing with him!”

Below them, the ringing, slithering screech of sword on sword continued, interspersed by the duller clang as they struck each other’s shield. To experienced spectators like Halt and Horace, who had seen many tournaments at Castle Redmont, Deparnieux was obviously holding back. His men, however, didn’t seem to notice. They were peasants who had no real knowledge of the skills involved in a duel such as this. They continued to roar their approval with each stroke Deparnieux landed.

“He’s playing to the audience,” Halt said, indicating the men-at-arms on the ramparts below them. “He’s making the other man look better than he really is.”

Horace shook his head. Deparnieux was showing yet another side of his cruel nature by prolonging the battle like this. Far better to give the young knight a merciful end than to toy with him.

“He’s a swine,” he said in a low voice. Deparnieux’s behavior went against all the tenets of chivalry that meant so much to him. Halt nodded agreement.

“We knew that already. He’s using this lad to boost his own reputation.”

Horace threw him a puzzled look and he explained further.

“He rules by fear. His hold over his men depends on how much they respect and fear him. And he has to keep renewing that fear. He can’t let it slip. By making his opponent look better than he really is, he enhances his own reputation as a great warrior. These men”—he gestured contemptuously at the ramparts below—“don’t know any better.”

Deparnieux seemed to decide that he had prolonged matters long enough. The two Araluens detected a subtle change in the tempo and power of his blows. The young knight swayed under the onslaught and tried to give ground. But the black-armored figure urged his battlehorse after him, following him relentlessly, raining blows on sword, shield or helmet at will. Finally, there was a duller sound as Deparnieux’s sword struck a vulnerable point—the chain mail protecting his opponent’s neck.

The black knight knew it was a killing stroke. Contemptuously, he wheeled his horse toward the castle gate, without a backward glance at his opponent, who was crumpling sideways from the saddle. The ramparts resounded with cheers as the limp figure crashed onto the turf and lay, unmoving. The gate slammed shut behind the victor.

Halt stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“I think,” he said, “we might have found the key to our problem with Lord Deparnieux.”