Halt reached back over his shoulder and took an arrow from the quiver there, laying it on the bowstring without even looking to see what he was doing.
"What is it, Halt?" Horace asked.
"It's the sort of tomfoolery these Gallicans go on with when I'm in a hurry to be on my way," he muttered, shaking his head in annoyance. "This idiot is going to demand tribute from us to allow us to cross his precious bridge."
Even as he spoke, the armored man pushed up his visor with the back of his right hand. It was a clumsy movement, made even more so by the fact that he was holding a heavy, three-meter lance in that hand.
He nearly lost his grip on the lance, managing to bang it against the side of his helmet in the process, an action that caused a dull clanging sound to carry to the two travelers.
"Arretez la, mes seigneurs, avant de passer ce pont-ci!" he called, in a rather high-pitched voice. Horace didn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakably supercilious.
"What did he say?" Horace wanted to know, but Halt merely shook his head at the knight.
"Let him speak our tongue if he wants to talk to us," he said angrily, then, in a louder voice, he called: "Araluens!"
Even at the distance they stood from the other man, Horace made out the shrug of disdain at the mention of their nationality. Then the knight spoke again, his thick accent making the words barely more recognizable than when he had been speaking Gallican.
"You, ma sewers, mah not croess ma brudge wuthut you pah meh a trebute," he called. Horace frowned now.
"What?" he asked Halt, and the Ranger turned to him.
"Barbaric, isn't it? He said, 'You, my sirs'-that's us, of course-'may not cross my bridge without you pay me a tribute.'"
"A tribute?" Horace asked.
"It's a form of highway robbery," Halt explained. "If there were any real law in this idiotic country, people like our friend there would never get away with this. As it is, they can do as they like.
Knights set themselves up at bridges or crossroads and demand that people pay tribute to pass. If they can't pay tribute, they can choose to fight them. Since most travelers aren't equipped to fight a fully armored knight, they pay the tribute."
Horace sat back on his horse, studying the mounted man. He was trotting his horse back and forth across the road now, in a display that was doubtless intended to discourage them from resistance. His kite-shaped shield was emblazoned with a crude rendition of a stag's head. He wore full mail armor, covered by a blue surcoat that also bore the stag's-head symbol. He had metal gauntlets, greaves on his shins and a pot-shaped helmet with a sliding visor, currently open.
The face under the visor was thin, with a prominent, pointed nose. A wide mustache extended past the sides of the visor opening. Horace could only assume that the knight crammed its ends inside when he lowered the visor.
"So what will we do?" he asked.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to shoot the silly idiot," Halt replied in a resigned sort of voice. "I'll be damned if I'll pay tribute to every jumped-up bandit who thinks the world owes him a free living. It could be a damn nuisance, though."
"Why's that?" Horace asked. "If he goes around asking for a fight, who's going to care if he gets killed? He deserves it."
Halt laid the bow, arrow nocked and ready, down across his saddle.
"It's to do with what these idiots call chivalry," he explained.
"If he were to be killed or wounded by another knight in knightly combat, that would be quite excusable. Regrettable perhaps, but excusable. On the other hand, if I put an arrow through his empty head, that would be considered cheating. He's sure to have friends or relatives in the area. These morons usually travel in packs. And if I kill him, they'll want to come after us. It's a damned nuisance, as I said."
Sighing, he began to raise the bow.
Horace glanced once more at the imperious figure ahead of them.
The man seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he was a few seconds away from a very messy end. Obviously, he'd had little to do with Rangers and was given confidence by the fact that he wore full armor.
He seemed to have no idea that Halt could put an arrow through the closed visor of his helmet if he chose. The open visor was almost too easy a mark for someone of Halt's skill.
"Would you like me to take care of it?" Horace finally offered, a little hesitantly. Halt, his bow halfway up to the ready position, reacted with surprise.
"You?" he said.
Horace nodded. "I'm not a full knight yet, I know, but I think I could handle him all right. And as long as his friends think he was knocked over by another knight, nobody will come after us, will they?"
"Sirrahs!" the man shouted now, impatiently, "yer murst enswer mah demond!" Horace cocked an eyebrow at Halt.
"We must answer his demand. Are you sure you're not taking on too much?" the Ranger said. "After all, he is a fully qualified knight."
"Well:yes," said Horace awkwardly. He didn't want Halt to think he was boasting. "But he's not actually very good, is he?"
"Isn't he?" Halt asked sarcastically, and to his surprise the boy shook his head.
"No. Not really. Look at how he sits his horse. He's got dreadful balance. And he's already holding his lance too tightly, see? And then there's his shield. He's got it slung way too low to cover a sudden Juliette, hasn't he?"
Halt's eyebrows raised. "And what might a Juliette be?"
Horace didn't seem to notice the note of sarcasm in the Ranger's voice. He explained stolidly: "It's a sudden change of target with the lance. You begin by aiming for the shield at chest height, then at the last moment you raise the tip to the helmet." He paused, then added, with a slight tone of apology, "I don't know why it's called a Juliette. It just is."
There was a long silence between them. The boy wasn't boasting, Halt could see. He really seemed to know what he was talking about.
The Ranger scratched his cheek thoughtfully. It might be useful to see how good Horace really was, he thought. If things got awkward for him, Halt could always revert to Plan A and simply shoot the loudmouthed guardian of the bridge. There was one more small problem, however.
"Not that you'll be able to carry out any 'Juliettes,' of course.
You don't appear to have a lance."
Horace nodded agreement. "Yes. I'll have to use the first pass to get rid of his. Shouldn't be too big a problem."
"Sirrahs!" called the knight. "Yer merst enswer!"
"Oh, shut up," Halt muttered in his general direction. "So it shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
Horace pursed his lips and shook his head decisively. "Well, look at him, Halt. He's nearly dropped it three times while we've been sitting here. A child could take it from him."
At that, Halt had to grin. Here was Horace, barely more than a boy, declaring that a child could take the lance away from the knight who blocked their way. Then Halt remembered what he'd been doing when he was Horace's age and recalled how Horace had battled with Morgarath, a far more dangerous opponent than the ludicrous figure by the bridge. He appraised the boy once more and saw nothing but determination and quiet confidence there.
"You actually do know what you're talking about, don't you?" he said. And even though it was phrased as a question, it was more a statement of fact. Again, Horace nodded.
"I don't know how, Halt. I just have a feeling for things like this. Sir Rodney told me I was a natural."
Gilan had told Halt much the same thing after the combat at the Plains of Uthal.
Abruptly, Halt came to a decision.
"All right," he said. "Let's try it your way."
He turned to the impatient knight and called to him in a loud voice.
"Sirrah, my companion chooses to engage you in knightly combat!" he said. The horseman stiffened, sitting upright in his saddle. Halt noticed that he nearly lost his balance at this unexpected piece of news.
"Knightly cermbat?" he replied. "Yewer cermpenion ers no knight!"
Halt nodded hugely, making sure the man could see the gesture.
"Oh yes he is!" he called back. "He is Sir Horace of the Order of the Feuille du Chene." He paused and muttered to himself, "Or should that have been Crepe du Chene? Never mind."
"What did you tell him?" Horace asked, slinging his buckler around from where it hung at his back and settling it on his left arm.
"I said you were Sir Horace of the Order of the Oakleaf," Halt told him, then added uncertainly, "At least, I think that's what I told him. I may have said you were of the Order of the Oak Pancake."
Horace looked at him, a slight hint of disappointment in his eyes.
He took the rules of chivalry very seriously and he knew he was not yet entitled to use the title "Sir Horace."
"Was that totally necessary?" he asked, and the Ranger nodded.
"Oh yes. He won't fight just anybody, you know. Has to be a knight. I don't think he noticed you had any armor," he added as Horace settled his conical helmet firmly on his head. He had already pulled up the cowl of chain mail that had been folded back on his shoulders, under the cloak. Now he unfastened the cloak and looked to find somewhere to leave it. Halt held out a hand for it.
"Allow me," he said, taking the garment and draping it across his own saddle. Horace noticed that, as he did so, Halt took care to keep his longbow clear of the cloak. The apprentice nodded at the weapon.
"You won't need that," he said.
"I've heard that before," Halt replied, then he looked up as the guardian of the bridge called again.
"Yewer freund hes no lence," he said, gesturing with his own three-meter length of ash, surmounted by an iron point.
"Sir Horace proposes that you do combat with the sword," Halt replied, and the knight shook his head violently.
"No! No! Ah wull use my lence!"
Halt raised one eyebrow in Horace's direction. "It seems chivalry is all very well," he said quietly, "but if it involves giving up a three-meter advantage, forget it."
Horace merely shrugged. "It's not a problem," he said calmly.
Then, as a thought struck him, he asked: "Halt, do I have to actually kill him? I mean, I can handle him without going that far."
Halt considered the question.
"Well, it's not obligatory," he told the apprentice. "But don't take any chances with him. After all, it'd serve him right if someone did kill him. He might not be so keen to extort tribute from passersby after that."
It was Horace's turn to raise a pained eyebrow at the Ranger this time. Halt shrugged.
"Well, you know what I mean," he said. "Just make sure you're okay before you let him off too lightly."
"Seigneur!" the knight cried, setting his lance under his arm and clapping his spurs into his horse's flanks. "En garde! Ah am cerming to slay yew!"
There was a quick hiss of steel on leather as Horace drew his long sword from its scabbard and wheeled Kicker to face his charging opponent.
"I won't be a minute," he told Halt, then Kicker bounded away, reaching full stride in the space of a few meters.
15
F OLLOWING THE FAILED ESCAPE ATTEMPT, W ILL AND E VANLYN were forbidden to move more than fifty meters from the huts. There was no more running, no more exercising. Erak managed to find a new range of tasks for the two captives to undertake, from reweaving the rope mattresses in the dormitory to resealing the lower planks along Wolfwind 's hull with tar and pieces of frayed rope. It was hot, unpleasant work, but Evanlyn and Will accepted it philosophically.
Confined in this fashion, they couldn't help noticing the growing tension between the two groups of Skandians. Slagor and his men, bored and seeking distraction, had called loudly for the two Araluens to be flogged. Slagor, licking his wet lips, had even offered to carry out the task himself.
Erak, very bluntly, told Slagor to mind his own business. He was becoming increasingly weary of the sneering, bragging manner in which Slagor conducted himself, and of the sly way his men cheated and taunted the crew of Wolfwind at every opportunity. Slagor was a coward and a bully, and when Erak compared him to the two captives, he was surprised to find that he had more in common with Will and Evanlyn than with his countryman. He held no grudge against them for their attempted escape. He would have tried the same thing in their place.
Now to have Slagor baying after their hides for his own warped amusement somehow brought Erak closer to them.
As for Slagor's men, it was Erak's firm opinion that they were a collective waste of Skorghijl's fresh air.
The situation exploded one night during the evening meal. Will was placing platters and several carving knives on one table. Evanlyn was ladling soup from a large pot at the other, where Erak and Slagor sat with their senior crewmen. As she leaned between Slagor and his first mate, the skirl suddenly lurched back in his chair, throwing his arms wide as he laughed at a comment from one of his men. His hand jolted against the full ladle, spilling hot soup onto his bare forearm.
Slagor bellowed in pain and grabbed Evanlyn by the wrist, dragging her forward, twisting her arm cruelly so that she was bent awkwardly over the table. The soup pot and ladle clattered to the floor.
"Damn you, girl! You've scalded me! Look at this, you lazy Araluen swine!" He shook his dripping arm close to her face, holding her with his other hand. Evanlyn could hear his breath rasping in his nostrils and she was uncomfortably aware of the unwashed smell of him.
"I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, wincing against the pain as he twisted her arm farther. "But you knocked against the ladle."
"My fault, was it? I'll teach you to speak back to a skirl!"
His face was dark with rage as he reached for the short three-thonged whip that he carried at his belt. He called it his Encourager and claimed that he used it on lazy rowers-a claim disbelieved by those who knew him. It was common knowledge that he wouldn't have the nerve to strike a burly oarsman. A young girl, however, was a different matter. Especially now that he was drunk and angry.
The room went silent. Outside, the ever-present wind moaned against the timbers of the hut. Inside, the scene seemed to be frozen for a moment, in the smoky, uncertain light of the fire and the oil lamps around the room.
Erak, sitting opposite Slagor, cursed to himself. On the far side of the room, Will quietly set down the pile of platters. His gaze, like everyone else's, was riveted on Slagor, on the unhealthy flush of alcohol on his face and in his eyes, and the way his tongue kept darting out between his crooked, stained teeth to moisten his thick lips. Unnoticed, the apprentice Ranger retained one of the knives-a heavy, double-edged knife that was used to carve portions of salt pork for the table. Around twenty centimeters in length, it was not unlike a small saxe knife, a knife he was more than familiar with, after his hours of training with Halt.
Now, finally, Erak spoke. His voice was pitched low and his tone was reasonable. That alone made his own crew sit up and take notice.
When Erak blustered and yelled, he was usually joking. When he was quiet and intense, they knew, he was at his most dangerous.
"Let her go, Slagor," he said.
Slagor scowled at him, furious at his order, and the confident tone of command behind it.
"She scalded me!" he shouted. "She did it on purpose and she's going to be punished!"
Erak reached for his drinking cup and took a deep draft of ale.
When he spoke again, he affected a sense of weariness and boredom with the skirl.
"I'll tell you once more. Let her go. She's my slave."
"Slaves need discipline," said Slagor, darting a quick glance around the room. "We've all seen that you're not willing to do it, so it's time someone did it for you!"
Sensing his distraction, Evanlyn tried to twist out of his grip.
But he felt her move and held her easily. Several of Wolf Fang 's crew, those who were most drunk, chorused agreement with his words.
Erak hesitated. He could simply lean over and knock Slagor senseless. He could do it without even leaving his seat.
But that wouldn't be enough. Everyone in the room knew he could best Slagor in a fight and doing so would prove nothing. He was sick and tired of the man and he wanted him humiliated and shamed. Slagor deserved no less and Erak knew how to accomplish it.
He sighed now, as if tired of the whole business, and leaned forward across the table, speaking slowly, as he might to a less-than-intelligent being. Which, he reflected, was a pretty good summation of Slagor's mental capacities.
"Slagor, I've had a hard campaign and these two are my only profit. I won't have you responsible for the death of one of them."
Slagor smiled cruelly. "You've gone soft on these two, Erak. I'm doing you a favor. And besides, a good whipping won't kill her. It'll just make her more obedient in the future."
"I wasn't talking about the girl," Erak said evenly. "I meant the boy there." He nodded across the room to where Will stood in the flickering shadows. Slagor followed his gaze, as did the others.
"The boy?" He frowned, uncomprehending. "I have no intention of harming him."
Erak nodded several times. "I know that," he replied. "But if you touch the girl with that whip of yours, odds are he'll kill you. And then I'm going to have to kill him to punish him. And I'm afraid I'm not prepared to lose so much profit. So let her go."
Some of the other Skandians were already laughing at Erak's speech, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone. Even Slagor's men joined in.
Slagor's brows darkened and drew together with rage. He hated being the butt of Erak's jokes and he, and most of the others, thought Erak was merely belittling him by pretending that the undersized Araluen boy could possibly best him in a fight.
"You've lost your wits, Erak." He sneered now. "The boy is about as dangerous as a field mouse. I could break him in half with one hand."
He gestured with his free hand, the one that wasn't locked around Evanlyn's upper arm. Erak smiled at him. There was no trace of humor in the smile.
"He could kill you before you took a pace toward him," he said.
There was a calm certainty to his voice that said he wasn't joking. The room sensed it and went very quiet. Slagor sensed it too.
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