“That’s not what I meant,” he said, then added, “and well you know it.”
Halt grinned easily at the young man’s troubled expression. “Sometimes your sense of morality amazes me,” he said gently. “You do understand that we have to get past the border guards if we’re to have any chance of finding Will and the princess?”
“Evanlyn,” Horace corrected him automatically. Halt waved the comment aside.
“Whoever.” He knew that Horace tended to refer to Princess Cassandra, the daughter of the Araluen King, by the name she had assumed when Will and Horace had first encountered her. He continued: “You do realize that, don’t you?”
Horace heaved a deep sigh. “Yes, I suppose so, it’s just that it seems so…dishonest, somehow.”
Halt’s eyebrows rose in a perfect arch. “Dishonest?”
Horace went on, awkwardly. “Well, I was always taught that people’s seals and crests were sort of…I don’t know, sacrosanct. I mean…” He gestured toward the figure of the bull impressed in red wax. “That’s a king’s signature.”
Halt pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He’s not much of a king,” he replied.
“That’s not the point. It’s a principle, don’t you see? It’s like…” He paused, trying to think of a reasonable parallel, and finally came up with: “It’s like tampering with the mail.”
In Araluen, the mail was a service controlled by the Crown and there were dire penalties proscribed for anyone who tried to interfere with it. Not that such penalties had ever stopped Halt in the past when he’d needed to do a little tampering in that direction. He decided that it wouldn’t be wise to mention that to Horace right now. Obviously, the morality code taught in Castle Redmont’s Battleschool was a good deal more rigid than the behavior embraced by the Ranger Corps. Of course, the knights of the realm were entrusted with the protection of the Royal Mail, so it was logical that they should have such an attitude ingrained in them from an early part of their training.
“So how would you suggest that we deal with the problem?” he asked at last. “How would you get us past the border?”
Horace preferred simple solutions. “We could fight our way in,” he suggested with a shrug. Halt raised his eyes to heaven at the thought.
“So it’s immoral to bluff our way past with an official document—” he began.
“A false document,” Horace corrected. “With a forged seal at the bottom.”
Halt conceded the point.
“All right—a forged document if you like. That’s reprehensible. But it would be perfectly all right for us to go through the border post hacking and shooting down everyone in sight? Is that the way you see it?”
Now that Halt put it that way, Horace had to admit there was an anomaly in his thinking. “I didn’t say we should kill everyone in sight,” he objected. “We could just fight our way through, that’s all. It’s more honest and above board, and I thought that’s what knights were supposed to be.”
“Knights may be, but Rangers aren’t,” Halt muttered. But he said it below his breath so that Horace couldn’t hear him. He reminded himself that Horace was very young and idealistic. Knights did live by a strict code of honor and ethics and those factors were emphasized in the first few years of an apprentice knight’s training. It was only later in life that they learned to temper their ideals with a little expediency.
“Look,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “Think about it this way: if we just barged on through and headed for Hallasholm, the border guards would send word after us. The element of surprise would be totally lost and we could find ourselves in big trouble. If we decide to fight our way in, the only way to do it is by leaving nobody alive to spread the word. Understand?”
Horace nodded, unhappily. He could see the logic in what Halt was saying. The Ranger continued in the same reasoning tone. “This way, nobody gets hurt. You pose as an emissary from the Gallican court, with a dispatch from King Henri. You wear Deparnieux’s black armor—it’s obviously Gallican in style—and you keep your nose stuck in the air and leave the talking to me, your servant. That’s the sort of behavior they’d expect from a self-important Gallican noble. There’s no reason for any word to be sent informing Ragnak that two outlanders have crossed the border—after all, we’re supposed to be going to see him anyway.”
“And what’s in the dispatch that I’m supposed to be taking?” Horace asked.
Halt couldn’t resist a grin. “Sorry, that’s confidential. You don’t expect me to breach the secrecy of the mail system, do you?” Horace gave him a pained look and he relented. “All right. It’s a simple business matter, actually. King Henri is negotiating for the hire of three wolfships from the Skandians, that’s all.”
Horace looked surprised. “Isn’t that a little unusual?” he asked, and Halt shook his head.
“Not a bit. Skandians are mercenaries. They’re always hiring out to one side or another. We’re just pretending that Henri wants to subcontract a few ships and crews for a raiding expedition against the Arridi.”
“The Arridi?” Horace said, frowning uncertainly.
Halt shook his head in mock despair. “You know, it might be more useful if Rodney spent less time teaching you people ethics and a little more time on geography. The Arridi are the desert people to the south.” He paused and saw that this made no impression on the young man. Horace continued to look at him with a blank expression. “On the other side of the Constant Sea?” he added, and now Horace showed signs of recognition.
“Oh, them,” he said dismissively.
“Yes, them,” Halt replied, mimicking the tone. “But I wouldn’t expect you to think about them too much. There are only millions of them.”
“But they never bother us, do they?” Horace said comfortably. Halt gave a short laugh.
“Not so far,” he agreed. “And just pray they don’t decide to.”
Horace could sense that Halt was on the verge of delivering a lecture on international strategy and diplomacy.
That sort of thing usually left Horace’s head spinning after the first few minutes, while he tried to keep up with who was aligned with whom and who was conspiring against their neighbors and what they hoped to gain from it. He preferred Sir Rodney’s type of lecture: right, wrong, black, white, out swords, hack and bash. He thought it might be expedient to head off Halt’s incipient harangue. The best way to do that, he had learned from past experience, was to agree with him.
“Well, I suppose you’re right about the forgery,” he admitted. “After all, it’s only the Gallican’s seal we’re forging, isn’t it? It’s not as if you’re forging a document from King Duncan. Even you wouldn’t go as far as that, would you?”
“Of course not,” Halt replied smoothly. He began to pack away his pens and ink and his other forger’s tools. He was glad he’d laid hands on the forged Gallican seal in his pack so easily. It was as well that he hadn’t had to tip them all out and risk Horace’s seeing the near-perfect copy of King Duncan’s seal that he carried, among others. “Now may I suggest that you climb into your elegant tin suit and we’ll go and sweet-talk the Skandian border guards.”
Horace snorted indignantly and turned away. But another thought had occurred to Halt—something that had been on his mind for some time.
“Horace…” he began, and Horace turned back. The Ranger’s voice had lost its former light tone and he sensed that Halt was about to say something important.
“Yes, Halt?”
“When we find Will, don’t tell him about the…unpleasantry between me and the King, all right?”
Months ago, denied permission to leave Araluen in search of Will, Halt had devised a desperate plan. He had publicly insulted the King and, as a result, was banished for a period of one year. The subterfuge had caused Halt a great deal of mental anguish in the past months. As a banished person, he was automatically expelled from the Ranger Corps. The loss of his silver oakleaf was possibly the worst punishment of all, yet he bore it w
illingly for the sake of his missing apprentice.
“Whatever you say, Halt,” Horace agreed. But Halt seemed to think, for once, that further explanation was necessary.
“It’s just that I’d prefer to find my own way to tell him—and the right time. All right?”
Horace shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he repeated. “Now let’s go and talk to these Skandians.”
But there was to be no talking. The two riders, trailed by their small string of horses, rode through the pass that zigzagged between the high mountains until the border post finally came into sight. Halt expected to be hailed from the small wooden stockade and tower at any moment, as the guards demanded that they dismount and approach on foot. That would have been normal procedure. But there was no sign of life in the small fortified outpost as they drew nearer.
“Gate’s open,” Halt muttered as they came closer and could make out more detail.
“How many men usually garrison a place like this?” Horace asked.
The Ranger shrugged. “Half a dozen. A dozen maybe.”
“There don’t seem to be any of them around,” Horace observed, and Halt glanced sideways at him.
“I’d noticed that part myself,” he replied, then added, “What’s that?”
There was an indistinct shape apparent now in the shadows just inside the open gate. Acting on the same instinct, they both urged their horses into a canter and closed the distance between them and the fort. Halt already felt certain what the shape was.
It was a dead Skandian, lying in a pool of blood that had soaked into the snow.
Inside there were ten others, all of them killed the same way, with multiple wounds to their torsos and limbs. The two travelers dismounted carefully and moved among the bodies, studying the awful scene.
“Who could have done this?” said Horace in a horrified voice. “They’ve been stabbed over and over again.”
“Not stabbed,” Halt told him. “Shot. These are arrow wounds. And then the killers collected their arrows from the bodies. Except for this one.” He held up the broken half of an arrow that had been lying concealed under one of the bodies. The Skandian had probably broken it off in an attempt to remove it from the wound. The other half was still buried deeply in his thigh. Halt studied the fletching style and the identification marks painted at the nock end of the arrow. Archers usually identified their own shafts in such ways.
“Can you tell who did this?” Horace asked quietly, and Halt looked up to meet his gaze. Horace saw an expression of deep concern in the Ranger’s eyes. That fact alone, more than the carnage around them, sent a wave of uneasiness through him. He knew it took a lot to worry Halt.
“I think so,” said the Ranger. “And I don’t like it. It looks like the Temujai are on the move again.”
7
THE TRACKS LED TO THE EAST. AT LEAST, THAT WAS THE general direction Will had discerned from them. As the unknown horseman had made his way down the mountain, the track wound and twisted on itself, of necessity, as he followed the narrow, circuitous trails through the thick pine. But always, whenever there was a fork in the trail, the horseman chose the one that would eventually take him eastward once more.
Exhausted before the first hour was out, Will kept doggedly on, stumbling in the snow from time to time and, on occasions too numerous to count, falling full length to lie groaning.
It would be so easy, he thought, to just stay here. To let the aches in his unfit muscles slowly ease, to let the pounding of the pulse in his temples calm down and to just…rest.
But each time the temptation seized him, he thought of Evanlyn: how she had hauled him up the mountain. How she had helped him escape from the stockade where the yard slaves waited for their eventual death. How she had nursed him and cured him of the mind-numbing addiction to warmweed. And as he thought of her and what she’d done for him, somehow, each time, he found a tiny, hidden reservoir of strength and purpose. And somehow he dragged himself to his feet again and staggered on in pursuit of the tracks in the snow.
Will kept dragging one foot after another, his eyes cast down to the tracks. He saw nothing else, noticed nothing else. Just the impressions of the hooves in the snow.
The sun dropped behind the mountain and the instant chill that accompanied its disappearance ate through his clothes, damp with the sweat of his exertions, and gnawed deep into his flesh. Dully, he reflected that he was lucky he had thought to bring the blankets with him. When he finally stopped for the night, the damp clothes would become a potential death trap. Without the warmth and dryness of the blankets to cocoon him, he could freeze to death in his damp clothes.
The shadows deepened and he knew nightfall wasn’t far away. Still he kept on, keeping going as long as he could distinguish the scuffed hoofmarks in the trail. He was too exhausted to notice the variations in the tracks—the deep troughs dug by the horse’s locked-up front legs as it had slid down the steeper sections of the path. Those areas were only remarkable to him for the fact that he fell down them himself, more often than not. He could read none of the subtleties and secret messages that he had been trained to see. It was enough that there was a clear trail to follow.
It was all he was capable of.
It was long after dark and he was beginning to lose sight of the tracks now. But he continued as long as there was no possible deviation, no fork in the trail where he might have to choose one direction over another. When he came to a place where he must choose, he told himself, he would stop and camp for the night. He would wrap himself in the blankets. Perhaps he might even risk a small, well-shielded fire where he could dry his clothes. A fire would bring warmth. And comfort.
And smoke.
Smoke? He could smell it, even as he thought of a fire. Pine smoke—the all-pervading smell of life in Skandia, the scented fragrance of the burning pine gum as it oozed from the wood and crackled in the flames. He stopped, swaying on his feet. He had thought of fire and, instantly, he could smell smoke. His tired mind tried to correlate the two facts, then realized there was no correlation, only coincidence. He could smell smoke because, somewhere near at hand, there was a fire burning.
He tried to think. A fire meant a camp. And that almost certainly meant that he had caught up with Evanlyn and whoever it was who had abducted her. They were somewhere close by, stopped for the night. Now all he had to do was find them and…
“And what?” he asked himself in a voice thickened by fatigue. He took a long swallow from the water skin that he’d hung from his belt. He shook his head to clear it. For hours now, his entire being had been focused on one task—to catch up with the unseen horseman. Now that he had almost accomplished that, he realized he had no plan as to what to do next. One thing was certain: he wouldn’t be able to rescue Evanlyn by brute force. Swaying with fatigue, almost unconscious, he barely had the strength to challenge a sparrow.
“What would Halt do?” he wondered. It had become his mantra over the past months whenever he found himself uncertain over a course of action. He would try to imagine his old mentor beside him, eyeing him quizzically, prompting him to solve the problem at hand by himself. To think it through, then to take action. The well-remembered voice seemed to sound in his ear.
Look first, Halt had been fond of saying. Then act.
Will nodded, content that he had solved the problem for the time being.
“Look first,” he repeated thickly. “Then act.”
He gave himself a few minutes’ rest, hunkered down and leaning against the rough bole of a pine, then he stood erect once more, his muscles groaning with stiffness. He continued on the track, moving now with extra caution.
The smell of smoke grew stronger. Now it was mixed with something else and he recognized the smell of meat roasting. A few minutes later, moving carefully, he could discern an orange glow up ahead. The firelight reflected from the whiteness of the snow all around him, bouncing and magnifying in intensity. He realized that it was still some way ahead and continued along the tra
il. When he judged he was within fifty meters of the source of light, he moved silently off into the trees, fighting his way through the thick snow that came knee deep or higher.
The trees began to thin out, revealing a small clearing and the camp set around the fire. He lowered himself to his belly and inched forward, staying concealed in the deep shadows under the pines. He could make out dome-shaped tents now, three of them, arranged in a semicircle around the fire. He could see no sign of movement. The smell of roasting meat must have hung in the still, clear air long after the meal had been eaten, he realized. He started to edge forward when a movement behind the tents stopped him. He froze, absolutely still, as a man stepped forward into the fringe of the firelight. Stocky, dressed in furs, his face was hidden in the shadow cast by the fur hat he wore. But he was armed. Will could see the curved sword hanging at his waist and the slender lance that he held in his right hand, its butt planted in the snow.
As Will looked, he made out more detail. Horses, six of them, tethered among the trees to one side. He supposed that meant six men. He frowned, wondering how he could possibly get Evanlyn away from here, then realized that, so far, he hadn’t seen her. He cast his gaze around the camp, wondering if perhaps she was inside one of the tents. Then he saw her.
Huddled under a tree, a blanket pulled up to her shoulders. Peering more closely, he made out the bonds that kept her fastened in place. His eyes ached and he rubbed the back of one hand across them, then pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying to force his eyes to stay focused. It was a losing battle. He was exhausted.
He began to wriggle back into the forest, looking for a place where he could hide and rest. They weren’t going anywhere this evening, he realized, and he needed to rest and recover his strength before he could accomplish anything. Tired as he was, he couldn’t even begin to formulate a coherent plan.
He would rest, finding a spot far enough away to give him concealment, but not so far that he wouldn’t hear the camp stirring in the morning. Ruefully, he realized that his earlier plans for a fire were now thwarted. Still, he had the blankets; that was something.
The Battle for Skandia Page 4