Icebound Land (7 page)

T
HE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF
S
LAGOR’S VESSEL,
W
OLF
F
ANG,
made life even more unpleasant on Skorghijl. The crowded living conditions were now worse than ever, with two crews crammed into the space designed for one. And with the crowding came fighting. Skandians weren’t used to long hours of inactivity, so they filled their time with drinking and gambling—an almost certain recipe for trouble. When the members of one crew were involved, the disagreements that arose were usually settled quickly and forgotten. But the separate loyalties of the two crews inflamed the situation so that arguments flared, tempers were lost and, at times, weapons were drawn before Erak could intervene.

It was noticeable, Will thought, that Slagor never raised his voice to quell the fights. The more he saw of
Wolf Fang
’s captain, the more he realized that the man had little real authority and commanded minimal respect from the other Skandians. Even his own crew worked for pay, not out of any sense of loyalty.

The work for Will and Evanlyn had doubled, of course. There was twice as much cooking, serving and cleaning to be done now. And twice as many Skandians to demand that they take care of any other job that needed doing. But at least they had retained their living space. The lean-to was too cramped for any of the massive Skandians to even consider co-opting it for their own use. That was one compensation for having been captured by giants, Will thought.

But it was more than just the fighting and the extra work that had made life miserable for Will and Evanlyn. The news of the mysterious Vallasvow taken by Ragnak had been devastating for the princess. Her life was now at risk and the slightest mistake, the slightest incautious word, from either of them could mean her death. She pleaded with Will to be careful, to continue to treat her as an equal, as he always had before she told him her real identity. The least sign of deference on his part, the smallest gesture of respect, might well raise suspicions and spell the end for her.

Naturally, Will assured her that he would guard her secret. He schooled himself never to think of her as Cassandra, but always to use the name Evanlyn, even in his thoughts. But the more he tried to avoid the name, the more it seemed to want to spring unbidden to his tongue. He lived in constant fear that he would inadvertently betray her.

The bad feeling between them, born out of boredom and frustration as much as anything, had melted away in the face of this new and very real danger. They were allies and friends again, and their resolve to help and support each other regained the strength and conviction that they had enjoyed in their brief time in Celtica.

Of course, Evanlyn’s plan for ransom was now totally destroyed. She could hardly reveal herself to a man who had sworn to kill every member of her family. That realization, coupled with her own natural resentment at being forced to do menial, unpleasant work, made her life on Skorghijl miserable. The one bright spot in her life was Will—always cheerful, always optimistic, always encouraging. She noticed how he unobtrusively took the worst, messiest jobs for himself whenever possible and she was grateful for it. Thinking back on the way she had treated him a few days earlier, she felt ashamed. But when she tried to apologize—and she was straightforward enough to admit that she had been in the wrong—he dismissed it with a laugh.

“We’re all a little cabin crazy,” he said. “The sooner we get away, the better.”

He still planned to escape, and she realized she must accompany him. She knew he had something in mind, but he was still working on his plan and so far he hadn’t told her the details.

For now, the evening meal was over and there was a massive sack full of wooden platters, spoons and mugs to clean in the seawater and fine gravel at the water’s edge. Sighing, she bent to pick them up. She was exhausted and the thought of crouching ankle-deep in the cold water while she scrubbed at the grease was almost too much to bear.

“I’ll do those,” Will said quietly. He glanced around to make sure none of the Skandians were watching, then took the heavy sack from her.

“No,” she protested. “It’s not fair…” But he held up a hand to stop her.

“There’s something I want to check anyway. This will be good cover,” he said. “Besides, you’ve had a bad couple of days. Go and get some rest.” He grinned. “If it makes you feel any better, there’ll be plenty of washing up to do tomorrow. And the next day. You can do it all while I skive off.”

She gave him a tired smile and touched his hand in gratitude. The thought of just stretching out on her hard bunk and doing nothing was almost too good to be true.

“Thanks,” she said simply. His grin widened and she knew he was genuinely glad that relations between them were back to normal.

“At least our hosts are enthusiastic eaters,” he said cheerfully. “They don’t leave too much on the plates.”

He slung the sack and its clattering contents over his shoulder and headed for the beach. Smiling to herself, Evanlyn stooped and entered the lean-to.

Jarl Erak emerged from the noisy, smoke-filled mess hut and took a deep breath of the cold sea air. Life on the island was getting him down, particularly with Slagor not pulling his weight in maintaining discipline. The man was a useless drunk, Erak thought angrily. And he was no warrior—it was common knowledge that he selected only lightly defended targets for his raids and never took part in the fighting. Erak had just been forced to intervene between one of his own men and one of
Wolf Fang
’s crew of criminals. Slagor’s man had been using a set of loaded dice, and when challenged, he had drawn his saxe knife on the other Skandian.

Erak had stepped in and knocked the
Wolf Fang
crewman senseless with one massive fist. Then, in order to show an evenhanded approach, he was forced to knock his own man out as well.

Evenhandedness, Skandian style, he thought wearily. A left hook and a right cross. He heard the scrunch of feet in the gravel of the beach and looked up to see a dark figure heading toward the water’s edge. He frowned thoughtfully. It was the Araluen boy. Stealthily, he began to follow the boy. He heard the clatter of plates and mugs being spilled on the beach, then the sound of scrubbing. Maybe he was just doing the washing up, he thought. Maybe not. Stepping carefully, he worked his way a little closer.

Erak’s concept of stealth didn’t quite match Ranger standards. Will was scrubbing the platters when he heard the massively built Skandian approaching. Either that, he thought, or a walrus was beaching itself on the shingle.

Turning to look up, he recognized the bulky form of Erak, made even larger in the darkness by the bearskin cloak he wore against the biting cold of the wind. Uncertainly, Will began to rise from his crouched position, but the Jarl waved him back. “Keep on with your work,” he said gruffly. Will continued to scrub, watching the Skandian leader out of the corner of his eye as he gazed across the anchorage and sniffed at the storm-borne air.

“Stinks in there,” Erak muttered finally.

“Too many people in too small a space,” Will ventured, eyes down and scrubbing at the plate. Erak interested him. He was a hard man and a pitiless fighter. But he was not actually cruel. Sometimes, in a gruff way, he could seem almost friendly. Erak, in turn, studied Will. What was he up to? He was probably trying to figure out a way to escape, Erak thought. That’s what he’d be doing in the boy’s place. The apprentice Ranger was smart and resourceful. He was also determined. Erak had seen the way he stuck to his grueling exercise program, out running on the beach in fair weather or foul.

Once again he felt that sense of regard for the apprentice Ranger—and the girl. She’d shown plenty of grit too.

The thought of the girl made him frown. Sooner or later, there’d be trouble in that quarter. Particularly with Slagor and his men. The crew of
Wolf Fang
was a sorry lot—jailbirds and minor criminals for the most part. Good crewmen wouldn’t sign with Slagor. Well, he thought philosophically, if it happened, he’d have to bang a few heads together. He wasn’t going to have his authority challenged by a rabble like Slagor’s men. The two slaves were Erak’s property. They’d be his only profit from this disastrous trip to Araluen, and if anyone tried to damage either one, they’d answer to him. As he had the thought, he tried to tell himself that he was only protecting his investment. But he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.

“Jarl Erak?” the boy said in the darkness, uncertainty in his tone as he wondered whether he should ask questions of the Skandian leader. Erak grunted. The sound was noncommittal but Will took it as permission to continue.

“What was the Vallasvow Jarl Slagor spoke of?” he asked, trying to sound casual. Erak frowned at the title.

“Slagor’s no jarl,” he corrected the boy. “He’s merely a skirl, a captain of a wolfship.”

“I’m sorry,” Will said humbly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Erak angry. Obviously, by referring to Slagor as his equal, Will had risked that. He hesitated, but Erak’s annoyance seemed to have abated, so he asked again.

“And the Vallasvow?” he prompted.

Erak belched quietly and leaned to one side so he could scratch his backside. He was sure that Slagor’s crew had brought fleas with them into the hut. It was the one discomfort they had not had to bear so far. Cold, damp, smoke and smell. But now they could add fleas. He wished, not for the first time, that Slagor’s wolfship had gone down in the gales on the Stormwhite Sea.

“It’s a vow,” he said, unhelpfully, “that Ragnak took. Not that he had any cause to,” he added. “You don’t provoke the Vallas lightly. Not if you have any sense.”

“The Vallas?” Will asked. “Who are they?”

Erak looked at the dark form crouched beneath him. He shook his head in wonderment. How ignorant these Araluens were!

“Never heard of the Vallas? What do they teach you in that damp little island of yours?” he asked. Will, wisely, said nothing in reply. There were a few moments’ silence, then Erak continued.

“The Vallas, boy, are the three gods of vengeance. They take the form of a shark, a bear and a vulture.”

He paused, to see if that had sunk in. Will felt that this time, some comment was required.

“I see,” he said uncertainly. Erak snorted in derision.

“I’m sure you don’t. Nobody in their right mind ever wants to see the Vallas. Nobody in their right mind ever chooses to swear to them either.”

Will thought about what the Skandian had said. “So a Vallasvow is a vow of vengeance, then?” he asked, and Erak nodded grimly.

“Total vengeance,” he replied. “It’s when you hate so badly that you swear to be avenged, not just upon the person who has wronged you, but on every member of his family as well.”

“Every member?” said Will. For a moment, Erak wondered if there was something behind this line of questioning. But he couldn’t see how information like this could help in an escape attempt, so he continued.

“Every last one,” he told him. “It’s a death vow, of course, and it’s unbreakable. Once it’s made, if the person making the vow should ever recant, the Vallas will take him and his own family instead of the original victims. They’re not the sort of gods you really want any business with, believe me.”

Again, a small silence. Will wondered if he had continued far enough with his questions, and decided he could try for a little more leeway.

“Then if they’re so terrible, why would Ragnak—” he began, but Erak cut him off.

“Because he’s mad!” he snapped. “I told you, only a madman would swear to the Vallas! Ragnak has never been too stable; now the loss of his son has obviously tipped him over the edge.”

Erak made a gesture of disgust. He seemed to tire of the subject of Ragnak and the fearful Vallas.

“Just be thankful you’re not of Duncan’s family, boy. Or Ragnak’s, for that matter.” He turned back to where the firelight showed through a dozen cracks and chinks in the hut walls, casting strange, elongated patterns of light onto the wet shingle.

“Now get back to your work,” he said angrily, and strode back toward the heat and smell of the hut.

Will watched him, idly sluicing the last of the plates in the cold seawater.

“We really have to get out of here,” he said softly to himself.

T
HERE WAS SO MUCH TO SEE AND HEAR,
H
ORACE DIDN’T KNOW
which way to turn his head first. All around him, the port city of La Rivage seethed with life. The docks were crowded with ships: simple fishing smacks and two-masted traders moored side by side and creating a forest of masts and halyards that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. His ears buzzed with the shriek of gulls as they fought one another for the scraps hurled into the harbor by fishermen cleaning their catch. The ships, large and small, rose and fell and rocked with the slight swell inside the harbor, never actually still for a moment. Underlying the gulls’ shrill voices was the constant creaking and groaning of hundreds of wickerwork fenders protecting the hulls from their neighbors.

His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke and the aroma of food cooking—but a different aroma to the plain, country fare prepared at Castle Redmont. Here, there was something extra to the smell: something exotic and exciting and foreign.

Which was only to be expected, he thought, as he was setting foot in a truly foreign country for the first time in his young life. He’d traveled to Celtica, of course, but that didn’t count. It was really just an extension of Araluen. This was so different. Around him, voices were raised in anger or amusement, calling to one another, insulting one another, laughing with one another. And not a word of the outlandish tongue could he understand.

He stood by the quay where they had landed, holding the bridles of the three horses while Halt paid off the master of the tubby little freighter that had transported them across the Narrow Sea—along with a reeking cargo of hides bound for the tanneries here in Gallica. After four days in close proximity to the stiff piles of animal skin, Horace found himself wondering if he could ever wear anything made of leather again.

A hand tugged at his belt and he turned, startled.

A bent and withered old crone was smiling at him, showing her toothless gums and holding her hand out.

Her clothes were rags and her head was bound in a bandanna that might have once been colorful but was now so dirty that it was impossible to be sure. She said something in the local language and all he could do was shrug. He had no money anyway and obviously the woman was a beggar.

Her obsequious smile faded to a dark scowl and she spat a phrase at him. Even without any knowledge of the language, he knew it wasn’t a compliment. Then she turned and hobbled away, making a strange, crisscross gesture in the air between them. Horace shook his head helplessly.

A peal of laughter distracted him and he turned to see a trio of young girls, perhaps a few years older than himself, who had witnessed the exchange between him and the old lady. He gaped. He couldn’t help himself. The girls, all of them extremely attractive, it seemed to him, were dressed in outfits that could only be described as excessively skimpy. One wore a skirt so short that it ended well above her knees.

Now the girls gestured at him again, aping his openmouthed stare. Hastily, he snapped his mouth shut and they laughed all the louder. One of them called something to him, beckoning him. He couldn’t understand a word she said, and feeling ignorant and foreign, he realized his cheeks were flushing deep red.

All of which set the girls to laughing even louder. They raised their hands to their own cheeks, mimicking his blushing, and chattering to one another in their own strange tongue.

“You seem to be making friends already,” Halt said behind him, and he turned, guiltily. The Ranger—Horace could never think of Halt as anything else—was regarding him and the three girls with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“You speak this language, Halt?” he asked. Strangely, he realized, he wasn’t surprised by the fact. He had always assumed that Rangers had a wide variety of arcane skills at their disposal and, so far, events had proved him to be right. His companion nodded.

“Enough to get by,” he replied evenly, and Horace gestured, as inconspicuously as he could manage, to the three girls.

“What are they saying?” he asked. The Ranger assumed the blank expression that Horace was beginning to know so well.

“Perhaps it’s better that you don’t know,” he replied eventually. Horace nodded, not really understanding, but not wishing to look sillier than he felt.

“Perhaps so,” he agreed. Halt was swinging easily up into Abelard’s saddle and Horace followed suit, mounting Kicker, his battlehorse. The movement drew an admiring chorus of exclamations from the girls. He felt the flush mounting to his cheeks once again. Halt looked at him with something that might have been pity, mixed with a little amusement. Shaking his head, he led the way down the crowded, narrow waterfront street, away from the quay.

Mounted, Horace felt the usual surge of confidence that came from being on horseback. And with it came a feeling of equality with these squabbling, hurrying foreigners. Now, it seemed to him, nobody was rushing to make fun of him, or beg from him or spit insults at him. There was a natural deference from people on foot for mounted and armed men. It had always been that way in Araluen, but here in Gallica there seemed to be an extra edge to it. People here moved with greater alacrity to clear a path for the two horsemen and the sturdy little packhorse that followed them.

It occurred to him that perhaps the rule of law in Gallica was not quite so evenhanded as in his home country. In Araluen, people on foot deferred to mounted men as a matter of common sense. Here they seemed apprehensive, even fearful. He was about to ask Halt about the difference, and had actually drawn breath to ask the question, when he stopped himself. Halt was constantly chiding him for his questions and he was determined to curb his curiosity. He decided he would ask Halt about his suspicions when they stopped for the noon meal.

Pleased with his resolution, he nodded to himself. Then another thought occurred, and before he could stop himself, he had begun the prelude to yet another question.

“Halt?” he said diffidently. He heard a deep sigh from the short, slightly built man riding beside him. Mentally, he kicked himself.

“I thought you must be coming down with some illness for a moment there,” Halt said, straight-faced. “It must be two or three minutes since you’ve asked me a question.” Committed now, Horace continued.

“One of those girls,” he began, and immediately felt the Ranger’s eyes on him. “She was wearing a very short skirt.”

There was the slightest pause.

“Yes?” Halt prompted, not sure where this conversation was leading. Horace shrugged uncomfortably. The memory of the girl, and her shapely legs, was causing his cheeks to burn with embarrassment again.

“Well,” he said uncertainly, “I just wondered if that was normal over here, that’s all.” Halt considered the serious young face beside him. He cleared his throat several times.

“I believe that sometimes Gallican girls take jobs as couriers,” he said.

Horace frowned slightly. “Couriers?”

“Couriers. They carry messages from one person to another. Or from one business to another, in the towns and cities.” Halt checked to see if Horace seemed to be believing him so far. There seemed no reason to think otherwise, so he added: “Urgent messages.”

“Urgent messages,” Horace repeated, still not seeing the connection. But he seemed inclined to believe what Halt was saying, so the older man continued.

“And I suppose for a really urgent message, one would have to run.”

Now he saw a glimmer of understanding in the boy’s eyes. Horace nodded several times as he made the connection.

“So, the short skirts…they’d be to help them run more easily?” he suggested. Halt nodded in his turn.

“It would certainly be a more sensible form of dress than long skirts, if you wanted to do a lot of running.” He shot a quick look at Horace to see if his gentle teasing was not being turned back on himself—to see if, in fact, the boy realized Halt was talking nonsense and was simply leading him on. Horace’s face, however, was open and believing.

“I suppose so,” Horace replied finally, then added, in a softer voice, “They certainly look a lot better that way too.”

Again, Halt shot him a look. But Horace seemed to be content with the answer. For a moment, Halt regretted his deception, feeling a slight pang of guilt. Horace was, after all, totally trusting and it was so easy to tease him like this. Then the Ranger looked at those clear blue eyes and the contented, honest face of the warrior apprentice and any sense of regret was stifled. Horace had plenty of time to learn about the seamier side of life, he thought. He could retain his innocence for a little while longer.

They left La Rivage by its northern gate and headed into the farm country surrounding it. Horace’s curiosity remained as strong as ever, and he peered from side to side as the road took them past fields and crops and farmhouses. The countryside was different from Araluen. There were more varieties of trees and, as a result, there were more shades of green. Some of the crops were unfamiliar too: large, broad leaves on stalks that stood as high as a man’s head were left to dry and seemingly to wither on the stalk before they were gathered. In several places, Horace saw those same leaves hanging in large, open-ended sheds, drying out even more. He wondered what sort of crop it might be. But, as before, he decided to ration his questions.

There was another difference, more subtle. For some time, Horace wasn’t even aware that it was there at all. Then he realized what it was. There was a general air of unkemptness about the fields and the crops. They were tended, obviously, and some of the fields were plowed. But they seemed to lack the loving, fastidious care that one saw in fields and crops at home. One could sense a lack of attention from the farmers, and in some crops weeds were clearly visible.

Halt sighed. “It’s the land that suffers when men fight,” he said softly. Horace glanced at him. It was unusual for the grizzled Ranger to break the silence himself.

“Who’s fighting?” he asked, his interest piqued.

Halt scratched at his beard. “The Gallicans. There’s no strong central law here. There are dozens of minor nobles and barons—warlords if you like. They’re constantly raiding each other and fighting among themselves. That’s why the fields are so sloppily tended. Half the farmers have been conscripted to one army or another.”

Horace looked around the fields that bounded the road on either side. There was no sign of battle here. Only neglect. A thought struck him.

“Is that why people seemed a little…nervous of us?” he asked, and Halt nodded approvingly at him.

“You picked up on that, did you? Good boy. There may be hope for you yet. Yes,” he continued, answering Horace’s question, “armed and mounted men in this country are seen as a potential threat—not as peacekeepers.”

In Araluen, the farmworkers looked to the soldiers to protect them and their fields from the threat of potential invaders. Here, Horace realized, the soldiers themselves were the threat.

“The country is in absolute turmoil,” Halt continued. “King Henri is weak and has no real power. So the barons fight and squabble and kill each other. Mind you, that’s no great loss. But it gets damned unfair when they kill the poor innocent farm folk as well—simply because they get in the way. It could be something of a problem for us, but we’ll just have to…oh, damn.”

The last two words were said quietly, but were no less heart-felt for that fact. Horace, following Halt’s gaze, looked ahead along the road.

They were coming down a small hill, with the road bounded on either side by close-growing trees. At the foot of the hill, a small stream ran through the fields and between the trees, crossed by a stone bridge. It was a peaceful scene, normal enough, and quite pretty in its own way.

But it wasn’t the trees, or the bridge, or the stream that had drawn the quiet expletive from Halt’s lips. It was the armored, mounted warrior who sat his horse in the middle of the road, barring their way.