Icebound Land (18 page)

I
T WAS MIDMORNING WHEN
E
VANLYN WOKE, ALTHOUGH SHE
had no way of knowing it. There was no sign of the sun. It was hidden behind the low-lying snow clouds. The light was so flat and diffused that it seemed to come from every direction and no direction. It was daylight and that was all she knew.

She eased her cramped muscles and looked around. Beside her, Will sat upright and wide-awake. He may have been that way for hours or he may have woken only minutes before her. There was no way of knowing. He simply sat, eyes wide, rocking slowly back and forward and staring straight ahead.

It tore at her heart to see him that way.

As she stirred, the horse sensed her movement and began to heave itself back upright. She moved away from the animal to give it room, taking Will’s hand and pulling him away too. The horse came to its feet and stamped once or twice, then shook itself and snorted violently, blowing a huge cloud of steam into the frigid air.

The snow had stopped during the night but not before it had obliterated all sign of their passage to the hollow under the tree. It would be a hard slog back to the path, Evanlyn realized, but at least she was rested now. She thought briefly about eating—there was a small supply of food in the pack—then she discarded the idea, in favor of moving on and putting more distance between them and Hallasholm. She had no way of knowing that the search parties had already been recalled by Borsa.

She decided that she could live for a few more hours with the empty feeling in her belly, but not with the raging thirst that had dried her mouth. Moving to a point where the snow lay thick and new, she took a handful and put it in her mouth, letting it melt there. It produced a surprisingly small amount of water, so she repeated the action several more times. She considered showing Will how to do the same but suddenly felt impatient to be on their way. If he was thirsty, she reasoned, he could work it out for himself.

She strapped the pack saddle onto the pony’s back again, tightening the girths as much as she could. The pony, canny in the way of its kind, tried to suck air and expand his belly, so he could exhale and allow the straps to loosen. But Evanlyn had been awake to that trick since she had been eleven years old. She kneed the horse firmly in the belly, forcing him to gasp the air out, then, as his body contracted, she jerked the straps tight. The pony turned a reproachful eye on her but otherwise accepted his fate philosophically.

As she led the way out from under the tree, forcing a path once more through the waist-deep snow, Will made a move to mount the pony. She stopped him, holding up a hand and saying no gently to him. They needed the pony and Will should be rested after an undisturbed night in the relative warmth of the snow hollow. Later, she might need to let him ride the horse again. She knew his reserves of strength couldn’t be very deep. But for now, he could walk and they could preserve the little horse’s strength as much as possible.

It took five minutes’ hard work to reach the relatively easy going of the path once more, and already breathing hard and wet with perspiration, she doggedly resumed her uphill path.

The horse plodded patiently behind her and Will walked half a pace to her right. His low-level, nonstop keening was beginning to set her teeth on edge, but she did her best to ignore it, knowing that he couldn’t help it. For the hundredth time since they had left Hallasholm, she found herself wishing for the day when he might have finally expelled all traces of the drug from his system.

That day was to be further postponed, unfortunately. After a couple of hours of solid, dogged plodding through the fresh fallen snow, Will was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable fit of shivering.

His teeth chattered and his body shook and trembled and heaved as he fell to the ground, rolling helplessly in the snow, his knees drawn up to his chest. One hand flailed uselessly at the snow, while the other was jammed firmly in his mouth. She watched in horror as the moaning turned to a shuddering cry, dragged deep from his soul and torn with agony. She dropped to her knees beside him, putting her arms around him and trying to soothe him with her voice. But he jerked away from her, rolling and thrashing again, and she realized that there was nothing for it but to give him a little of the warmweed Erak had put in the pack. She’d seen it already when she had searched for warm clothes and blankets. There was a small amount of the dried leaf packed in an oiled linen pouch. Jarl Erak had warned her that Will would not be able to quit the drug straightaway. Warmweed built up a physical dependence in its addicts, so that total deprivation meant actual pain.

She would have to gradually wean the boy off the drug, he had told her, by giving him ever-decreasing amounts at ever-increasing intervals until he could cope with the deprivation.

Evanlyn had hoped that Erak might be wrong. She knew that each dose of the drug extended the time of the dependence further and she had hoped that she might just be able to cut off Will’s supply straightaway and help him cope with the pain and torment. But there was no help for him as he was now and, reluctantly, she let him have a small amount of the dried leaf, shielding the pouch with her body as she took it from the pack, then again when she returned it.

Will seized the small handful of the gray, herblike substance with horrifying eagerness. For the first time, she saw a glint of expression in his normally dull gaze. But his attention was totally focused on the drug and she came to realize how completely it ruled his life and his mind these days. Silently, tears forming in her eyes, she watched the hollow shell who had once been such a vital, enthusiastic companion. She condemned Borsa and the other Skandians who had caused this to the hottest corner of whatever hell they believed in.

The apprentice Ranger crammed the small amount of leaf into his mouth, forcing it into one cheek and allowing the saliva to soak it and release the juice that would carry the narcotic through his system. Gradually, the shuddering spasms calmed down, until he knelt in the snow beside the path, hunched over, rocking gently backward and forward, eyes slitted, once again moaning softly to himself in whatever lonely, pain-filled world he inhabited.

The pony watched these events incuriously, from time to time pawing a hole in the snow and nibbling at the sparse strands of grass exposed there. Eventually, Evanlyn took Will’s hand and pulled him, unresisting, to his feet.

“Come on, Will,” she said in a dispirited voice. “We’ve still got a long way to go.” As she said it, she realized she was talking about a lot more than just the distance to the hunting cabin in the mountains.

Crooning softly and tunelessly to himself, Will followed her as she led the way upward yet again.

The daylight was nearly gone by the time she found the cabin.

She had gone past it twice, following the instructions that Erak had made her commit to memory: a left fork in the trail a hundred paces after a lightning-blasted pine; a narrow gully that led downward for a hundred meters, then curved back up again, and a shallow ford across a small stream.

Mentally, she ticked off the landmarks, peering this way and that through the gloom of evening as it settled over the trees. But she could see no sign of the hut—only the featureless white of the snow.

Finally she realized that, of course, the hut would not be visible as a hut. It would be virtually buried in snow itself. Once she saw that simple fact, she became aware of a large mound not ten meters away from her. Dropping the pony’s lead rein, she blundered forward, the snow catching at her legs, and made out the edge of a wall, then the slope of a roof, then the hard angle of a corner, more regular and even than any shape that nature might have concealed under the snow.

Moving around the large mound, she found the leeward side was more exposed and she could see the door and a small window, covered with a wooden shutter. She reflected that it was lucky the door had been built on the lee side of the cabin, then realized that this would have been intentional. Only a fool would place a door on the side where the prevailing north winds would pile the snow deeply.

Heaving a sigh of relief, she retraced her steps and took the pony’s bridle. Will’s meager strength had given out hours before and he was once more slumped on the pack saddle, swaying and moaning in that continuous undertone. She led the pony to stand by the tiny porch that adjoined the doorway, tying the lead rein to a tether post that was set in the ground there. There was probably no need for that, she reflected. The pony had shown no inclination to leave her so far. However, it did no harm to take precautions. The last thing she wanted was to have to hunt for the pony and its rider through the gathering dusk. Satisfied that the bridle was tied firmly, she shoved the ill-fitting door open and entered the hut to take stock of their new refuge and its contents.

It was small, just one main room with a rough table and two benches on either side. Against the far wall, there was a wooden cot, with what appeared to be a straw-filled mattress on it. The room smelled of damp and mustiness and she wrinkled her nose momentarily, then realized that once she had a fire burning in the stone fireplace that composed most of the western wall, she could do something to dispel the smells.

There was a handy supply of firewood stacked by the fireplace, with a flint and iron as well.

She spent a few minutes kindling a fire and the cheerful crack of the flames, and the flickering yellow light they cast over the interior of the hut, raised her spirits.

In a corner that was obviously a pantry, she found flour and dried meat and beans. There was some evidence that small scavengers had been at the supplies, but she felt that they would probably be sufficient for the next month or two. She and Will wouldn’t be feasting, she knew, but they would survive.

Particularly if he recovered any of his old skill as he shook off the effects of the drug. Because now, she saw, there was a small hunting bow and a leather quiver of arrows hanging behind the door of the hut. Even in the deep winter there would be some small game available—snowshoe rabbits and snow hares, mainly. They might well be able to supplement the food that had been stored here.

If not—she shrugged at the thought. At least they were free and at least she had a chance to break Will’s warmweed addiction. She would face other problems as they arose.

The interior of the hut was becoming warmer now and she went back outside, motioning for Will to dismount. As he did so, she frowned at the sight of the pony. He could hardly stay outside, she realized. Yet the thought of sharing the single-roomed hut with him for the winter held little appeal. The previous night, even though she had been grateful for his warmth, she had been totally conscious of the powerful animal odor that came from him.

Telling Will to wait by the door, she moved around the hut to the side she had so far not inspected, and found her answer there.

There was a low lean-to built onto the hut at this point. It was open at one side but would provide sufficient shelter for the pony through the winter. There were a few items of abandoned tack and leather harness hanging on iron nails there, along with some simple tools. Obviously, it was intended as a stable.

It had another use as well, she was grateful to see. Along the outer wall of the hut, against which the lean-to abutted, there was a large stack of cut firewood. She was relieved to see it there. Already she had wondered what she might do when she had exhausted the small supply in the hut itself.

She brought the pony to the lean-to and removed the pack saddle and bridle from him. There was a feed tub there and a small supply of grain, so she let him have some.

He stood gratefully, munching on the grain, grinding his teeth together in that peaceful way that horses have.

At this stage, she could find no water for him. But she’d seen him licking at the snow during the day and reasoned that he could satisfy himself that way until she could arrange some alternative. The small supply of grain in the stable would obviously not last him until spring and she worried about that fact for a moment. Then, in line with her new philosophy of not worrying about matters she couldn’t rectify, she shrugged the thought away.

“Worry about it later,” she told herself, and returned to the cabin proper.

She found that Will had had the good sense to move inside and was seated on one of the benches, close to the fire. She took that as a good sign and prepared a simple meal from the remains of the provisions Erak had placed in the pack for them.

There was a battered kettle on a hanging arm by the fireplace and she rammed it full of snow, swinging the arm in until the kettle was suspended over the flames and the snow began to melt, then the water to boil. She had seen a small box of what looked like tea in the pantry area of the hut. At least they could have a warm drink to drive the last traces of cold and dampness away, she thought.

She smiled at Will as he chewed stolidly at the food she had placed before him. She felt strangely optimistic. Once more, she cast her glance over the interior of the hut. The light had gone outside now and they were lit solely by the uncertain but cheerful yellow glow of the fire. In the light it threw, the hut looked somehow welcoming and reassuring, and as she’d hoped, the heat of the fire and the smell of the pine smoke had overpowered the dampness and mustiness that had filled the room when she’d first entered.

“Well,” she said, “it isn’t much, but it’s home.”

She had no idea she was echoing the words spoken by Halt, hundreds of kilometers to the south.

H
ALT AND
H
ORACE WEREN’T SURPRISED WHEN, THE EVENING
following the one-sided combat, the sergeant of the guards told them that the lord Deparnieux expected their company in the dining hall that night. It was a command, not an invitation, and Halt felt no need to pretend that it was anything else. He made no acknowledgment of the sergeant’s message, but merely turned away to gaze out the tower window. The sergeant seemed unconcerned by this. He turned and resumed his post at the top of the spiraling staircase that led to the dining hall. He had passed on the message. The foreigners had heard it.

That evening, they bathed, dressed and walked together down the spiral staircase to the lower floors of the castle, their boot heels ringing on the flagstones as they went. They had spent the latter part of the afternoon discussing their plan of action for the night and Horace was eager to put it into effect. As they reached the three-meter-high double doors to the dining hall, Halt put a hand on his arm and stopped him. He could see the impatience on the young man’s face. They had been cooped up here for weeks now, listening to Deparnieux’s sneering, veiled insults and watching his savagely cruel treatment of his staff. The incidents with the cook and the young knight were only two of many. Halt knew that Horace, with the impatience of all young men, was keen to see Deparnieux given his comeuppance. He also knew that the plan they had agreed on would depend on patience and proper timing.

Halt had realized that Deparnieux’s need to appear invincible to his men was a weakness they could exploit. Deparnieux himself had created a situation where he was forced to accept any challenge that might be issued, so long as it was made before witnesses. There could be no carping or quibbling on the warlord’s part. If he appeared to show fear, or reluctance to accept a challenge, it would be the beginning of a long, downward spiral. Now, as they stopped, Halt met Horace’s eager, anticipatory gaze with his own—steady, patient and calculating.

“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 Château 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 Château 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.