Ranger's Apprentice 3 & 4 Bindup (10 page)

The battle, if you could call it that, lasted no more than a few seconds.

The two mounted warriors spurred towards each other, the hooves of their battlehorses thundering on the unsealed surface of the road, clods of dirt spinning in the air behind them and dust rising in a plume to mark their passage.

The Gallic knight had his lance extended. Halt could now see the fault that Horace had picked in the other man's technique. Held too tightly at this early stage, the lance point swayed and wavered with the horse's movement. A lighter, more flexible hold on the weapon might have kept its point centred on its target. As it was, the lance dipped and rose and wobbled with every stride of the horse.

Horace, on the other hand, rode easily, his sword resting on his shoulder, content to conserve his strength until the time for action came.

They approached each other shield to shield, as was normal. Halt half expected to see Horace repeat the manoeuvre he'd used against Morgarath, and spin his horse to the other side at the last moment. However, the apprentice kept on, maintaining the line of attack. When he was barely ten metres away, the sword arced down from its rest position, the point describing a circle in the air, then, as the lance tip came towards Horace's shield, the sword, still circling, caught the lance neatly and flicked it up and over the boy's head.

It looked deceptively easy, but Halt realised as he watched that the boy was truly a natural weapons master. The Gallic knight, braced for the expected impact of his lance on Horace's shield, suddenly found himself heaving his body forward against no resistance at all. He swayed, feeling himself toppling from the saddle. In a desperate attempt at self-preservation, he grabbed at his saddle pommel.

It was bad luck that he chose to do so with his right hand, which was also trying to maintain control of the unwieldy lance. Twisted upwards by Horace's circling sword point, it was now describing a giant arc of its own. He couldn't manage his balance and the lance at the same time and a muffled curse came from inside the helmet as he was forced to let the lance drop.

Enraged, he groped blindly for the hilt of his own sword, trying to drag it clear of its scabbard for the second pass.

Unfortunately for him, there was to be only one pass.

Halt shook his head in silent admiration as Horace, the lance taken out of play, instantly hauled Kicker to a rearing, spinning stop, using his knees and his shield hand
on the reins to wheel the horse on its hind legs before the Gallic knight had gone past him.

The sword, still describing those easy circles that kept his wrist fluid and light, now arced round once more and slammed into the back of the other man's helmet with a loud, ringing clang.

Halt winced, imagining what it must sound like from inside the steel pot. It was too much to expect that a single blow might shear through the tough metal. It would take a series of heavy strokes to accomplish that. But it put a severe dent in the helmet, and the concussion of the blow went straight through the steel to the skull of the knight wearing it.

Unseen by the two Araluans, his eyes glazed out of focus, went slightly crossed, then snapped back again.

Then, very slowly, he toppled sideways out of the saddle, crashed onto the dust of the road and lay there, unmoving. His horse continued galloping for a few more metres. Then, realising that nobody was urging it on any longer, it slowed to a walk, lowered its head and began cropping the long grass by the roadside.

Horace trotted his horse back slowly, stopping level with the point where the Gallic knight lay sprawled on the road.

‘I told you he wasn't very good,' he said, quite seriously, to Halt.

The Ranger, who prided himself on his normal taciturn manner, couldn't prevent a wide grin breaking out across his face.

‘Well, perhaps he's not,' he told the earnest young man before him. ‘But you certainly looked reasonably efficient there.'

Horace shrugged. ‘It's what I'm trained for,' he replied simply.

Halt realised that the boy just didn't have a boastful bone in his body. Battleschool had certainly had a good effect on him. He gestured to the knight, now beginning to regain consciousness. The man's arms and legs made weak, unco-ordinated little movements, giving him the appearance of a half-dead crab.

‘It's what he's supposed to be trained for too,' he replied, then added, ‘Well done, young Horace.'

The boy flushed with pleasure at Halt's praise. He knew the Ranger wasn't one to hand out idle compliments.

‘So what do we do with him now?' he asked, indicating his fallen foe with the tip of his sword. Halt slipped quickly down from the saddle and moved towards the man.

‘Let me take care of that,' he said. ‘It'll be my pleasure.'

He grabbed hold of the fallen man by one arm and dragged him into a sitting position. The dazed knight mumbled inside the helmet and, now that he had time to notice such details, Horace could see that the ends of the moustache protruded from either side of the closed visor.

‘Thank yew, sirrah,' the knight mumbled incoherently as Halt dragged him to a more or less upright sitting position. His feet scrabbled on the road as he tried to stand, but Halt shoved him back down, none too gently.

‘None of that, thank you,' the Ranger said. He reached under the man's chin and Horace realised that he had the smaller of his two knives in his hand. For a moment, the horrified boy was convinced that Halt meant to cut the man's throat. Then, with a deft stroke, Halt severed the leather chin strap holding the helmet on the
other man's head. Once the strap was cut, Halt dragged the helmet off and tossed it into the bushes at the roadside. The knight let out a small mew of pain as his moustache ends tugged free of the still-closed visor.

Horace sheathed his sword, finally sure that there was no further threat from the knight. For his part, the vanquished warrior peered owlishly at Halt and at the figure towering over them both on horseback. His eyes still wouldn't focus.

‘We shell continue the cermbet ern foot,' he declared shakily. Halt slapped him heartily on the back, setting his eyes spinning once more.

‘The hell you will. You're beaten, my friend. Toppled fair and square. Sir Horace, knight of the Order du Feuille du Chêne, has agreed to spare your life.'

‘Oh … thenk you,' said the unsteady one, making a vague, saluting gesture in Horace's direction.

‘However,' Halt went on, allowing a grim tone of amusement to creep into this voice, ‘under the rules of chivalry, your arms, armour, horse and other belongings are forfeit to Sir Horace.'

‘They are?' Horace asked, a little incredulously.

Halt nodded.

‘They are.'

The knight tried once more to stand but, as before, Halt held him down.

‘But sirrah …' he protested weakly. ‘My erms and ermour? Surely not?'

‘Surely so,' Halt replied. The other man's face, already shaken and pale, now looked even paler as he realised the full import of what the grey-cloaked stranger was saying.

‘Halt,' Horace interrupted, ‘won't he be a little helpless without his weapons – and his horse?'

‘Yes, he certainly will,' was the satisfied reply. ‘Which will make it a great deal harder for him to prey on innocent travellers who want to cross this bridge.'

Realisation dawned on Horace. ‘Oh,' he said thoughtfully. ‘I see.'

‘Exactly,' Halt said, looking meaningfully at him. ‘You've done a good day's work here, Horace. Mind you,' he added, ‘it took you barely two minutes to do it. But you'll keep this predator out of business and make the road a little bit safer for the locals. And of course, we will now have a quite expensive suit of chain mail, a sword, a shield and a pretty good-looking horse to sell in the next village we come to.'

‘You're sure that's in the rules?' Horace asked and Halt smiled broadly at him.

‘Oh yes. It's all fair and above board. He knew it. He simply should have looked more carefully when he challenged us. Now, my beauty,' he said to the crestfallen knight sitting at his feet, ‘let's have that mail shirt off you.'

Grudgingly, the dazed knight began to comply. Halt beamed at his young companion.

‘I'm starting to enjoy Gallica a lot more than I expected,' he said.

Two days later,
Wolfwind
left Skorghijl harbour and turned north-east for Skandia. Slagor and his men remained behind, facing the task of making temporary repairs to their ship, before limping back to their home port. The ship was too badly damaged to continue west for the raiding season. Slagor's decision to leave port early was proving to be a costly one.

The wind, which for weeks had blown out of the north, now shifted to the west, allowing the Skandians to set the big mainsail.
Wolfwind
surged easily over the grey sea, her wake stretching behind her. The motion was exhilarating and liberating as the kilometres reeled off under her keel and the spirits of the crew lifted as they came closer to their homeland.

Only Will and Evanlyn failed to share in the general lightening of mood. Skorghijl had been a miserable place, barren and unfriendly. But at least the months there had postponed the time when they might be separated. They
knew they were to be sold as slaves in Hallasholm and there was every chance they would go to different masters.

Will had tried once to cheer Evanlyn about their possible separation.

‘They say Hallasholm isn't a big place,' he said, ‘so even if we are split up, we may still be able to see each other. After all, they can't expect us to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.'

Evanlyn hadn't replied. Her experience of Skandians so far told her that was exactly what they would expect.

Erak noticed their silence and the melancholy mood that had settled upon them and felt a twinge of sympathy. He wondered if there weren't some way he could make sure they stayed together.

Of course, he could always keep them as slaves himself, he reasoned. But he had no real need for personal slaves. As a war leader of the Skandians, he lived in the officers' barracks, where his needs were tended by orderlies. If he kept the two Araluans as his own, he'd have to pay to feed and clothe them. And he'd have to be responsible for them as well. He discarded the idea with an irritated shake of his head.

‘To hell with them,' he muttered fiercely, driving them from his mind and concentrating on keeping the ship perfectly on course, frowning fiercely as he watched the Pole stone needle floating in its gimballed bowl by the steering blade.

On the twelfth day of the crossing, they made a landfall with the Skandian coast – exactly where Erak had
predicted they would fetch up. From the admiring glances the men cast at the Jarl, Will could tell that this was a considerable feat.

Throughout the following days, they edged closer to the shore, until Will and Evanlyn could make out more detail. High cliffs and snow-covered mountains seemed to be the dominant features of Skandia.

‘He's caught Loka's current perfectly,' Svengal told them as he prepared to climb to the lookout position on the mast's cross tree. The cheerful second in command had developed a certain fondness for Will and Evanlyn. He knew their lives would be hard and pitiless as slaves, and he tried to compensate with a few friendly words whenever possible. Unfortunately, his next comment, meant in a kindly fashion, was little comfort to either Will or Evanlyn.

‘Ah well,' he said, seizing hold of a halyard to haul himself to the top of the mast, ‘we should reach home in two or three hours.'

As it turned out, he was mistaken. The wolfship, finally under oars again, ghosted through the thick fog that shrouded the Hallasholm harbour mouth barely an hour and a quarter later. Will and Evanlyn stood silently in the waist of the ship as the town of Hallasholm loomed out of the fog.

It was not a large place. Nestled at the foot of towering pine-clad mountains, Hallasholm consisted of perhaps fifty buildings – all of them single storey and all, apparently, built from pine logs and roofed with a mixture of thatch and turf.

The buildings huddled round the edge of the harbour, where a dozen or more wolfships were moored at jetties or
drawn up on the land, canted on their sides as men worked on the hulls, fighting a never-ending battle against the attacks of the marine parasites that constantly ate away at the wooden planks. Smoke curled up from most of the chimneys and the cold air was redolent with the heady smell of burning pine logs.

The principal building, Ragnak's Great Hall, was built from the same logs as the rest of the houses in the town. But it was larger, longer and wider, and with a pitched roof that let it tower above its neighbours. It stood in the centre of the town, dominating the scene, surrounded by a dry ditch and a stockade – more pine logs, Will noticed. Pine was obviously the most common building material available in Skandia. A long, wide road led up to the gateway in the stockade from the main quay.

Gazing at the town across the glass-smooth water of the harbour, Will thought that, in another time and under other conditions, he would probably find the neatly ordered houses, with the massive, snow-covered mountains towering behind them, to be quite beautiful.

Right now, however, he could see nothing to recommend their new home to him. As the two young people watched, light snow began to drift down around them.

‘I should think it's going to be cold here,' Will said quietly.

He felt Evanlyn's chilled hand creep into his. He squeezed it gently, hoping to give her a sense of encouragement. A sense that was totally foreign to the way he himself was feeling at the moment.