The Icebound Land ra-3

by John Flanagan

  "The girl can go to the dining hall and kitchen," he told his assistant. "Put the boy in the yard."

  20

  A N HOUR AFTER SUNSET, H ALT AND H ORACE LEFT THEIR ROOM and went downstairs to the taproom of the inn for supper. The innkeeper's wife had prepared a huge pot of savory stew. It hung, simmering, in the enormous fireplace that dominated one side of the room. A serving girl brought them large wooden bowls of the steaming food, along with curious, long loaves of bread, shaped in a style Horace had never seen before. They were very long, and narrow, so they looked like thick sticks rather than loaves. But they were crusty on the outside and delightfully light and airy on the inside. And, the apprentice soon discovered, they were an ideal tool for mopping up the delicious gravy of the stew.

  Halt had accepted a large beaker of red wine with his meal. Horace had settled for water. Now, having enjoyed a large serving of a delicious berry pie, they sat over mugs of an excellent coffee.

  Horace spooned a large helping of honey into his cup, watched with a frown by the Ranger.

  "Killing the taste of good coffee," Halt muttered at him. Horace merely grinned. He was getting used to his companion's mock severity by now.

  "It's a habit I learned from your apprentice," he told him, and for a moment they were both silent, thinking of Will, wondering what had become of him and Evanlyn, hoping they were both safe and well.

  Halt finally roused them from their thoughtful mood by nodding toward the small group of townspeople seated by the fire. He and Horace had taken a table at the back of the room. It was always Halt's way to do this, keeping his back to a solid wall and sitting where he could observe the rest of the room and, at the same time, remain relatively inconspicuous himself.

  While they were eating, the room had gradually filled with townspeople, either coming to eat or to enjoy a few jugs of wine or beer before heading to their own homes. Now, the Ranger had noticed, one of the room's inhabitants had produced a set of pipes from inside his pack, and another was fiddling with the tuning pegs of a gourd-shaped, eight-stringed instrument.

  "Looks like the entertainment's about to start," he told Horace.

  And as they spoke, the other people in the room began pulling their chairs closer to the fire and calling for refills from the innkeeper and his serving assistants.

  The piper began playing a lament, and the string instrument quickly took up a counterpoint, playing rapid, vibrating strokes to form a continuous, high treble background to the soaring, swooping melody. The pipes themselves filled the room with a wild and plaintive sound, a voice that reached deep into the soul and brought thoughts of friends long gone and times past to the forefront of the listeners' minds.

  As the notes echoed around the warm room, Halt found himself remembering the long summer days in the forest surrounding Castle Redmont, and a small, busy figure who asked endless questions and brought a new feeling of energy and interest to life. In his mind's eye, he could see Will's face-hair tousled by the cowl of his cloak, brown eyes alight and filled with an irrepressible sense of fun. He remembered him as he cared for Tug, remembered the pride the boy had shown at the prospect of having a horse of his own and the special bond that had formed between the two of them.

  Perhaps it was because Halt could feel the years encroaching on him as the gray hairs in his beard became more the norm than the exception. But Will had brought a sense of youth and fun and vitality to his life, a sense that was a welcome contrast to the dark and dangerous paths that a Ranger was often required to tread.

  He remembered too the pride he had felt when Horace had told him of the way Will took it upon himself to follow the Wargal forces in Celtica, and how the boy had stood alone against the Wargals and Skandians as Evanlyn had worked to make sure the fire took hold of the bridge. There was more to Will than just an irrepressible spirit.

  There was courage and ingenuity and loyalty. The boy would have made a truly great Ranger, Halt thought, then abruptly realized that he had thought of Will as if such an eventuality were no longer possible. His eyes moistened with tears and he shifted uncomfortably. It was a long time since Halt had shown any outward sign of emotion. Then he shrugged. Will was worth at least a few tears from a grizzled old wreck like himself, he thought, and made no move to wipe them away. He glanced sideways at Horace to see if the boy had noticed, but Horace was entranced by the music, leaning forward on the bench they shared, his lips slightly parted, one finger beating time unconsciously on the rough tabletop. It was as well, Halt thought, smiling ruefully to himself. It wouldn't do for the boy to see him dissolving into tears at the first sound of sad music. Rangers, particularly treasonous ex-Rangers who had insulted the King, were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

  The music finally ended, to a roar of applause from the people in the room. Halt and Horace joined in enthusiastically and Halt used the moment to covertly dash a hand across his eyes and wipe away the traces of moisture there.

  He noticed that the performers were being rewarded by the audience with coins tossed into the hat that had been artfully left, upturned, on the floor beside them. He shoved a couple of coins toward Horace and nodded toward the players.

  "Give them these," he said. "They've earned it."

  Horace nodded wholehearted agreement and rose to cross the room, ducking his head under the heavy beams that supported the ceiling. He tossed the coins into the cap, the last in the room to do so. The piper looked up, saw an unfamiliar face and nodded his thanks. Then he began to pump the bellows on his pipes with his elbow again, and once more, the haunting voice of the pipes swelled up and began to fill the room.

  Horace hesitated, loath to move now that another song had begun.

  He glanced back to where Halt sat in the shadows, shrugged and settled onto a tabletop at the edge of the small crowd surrounding the performers.

  There was a different tone to this piece. There was a subtle note of triumph in the melody, augmented by the bold major chords struck by the stringed instrument, which came more to the fore for this piece.

  Indeed, before too long, the brittle, rippling notes of the gourd-shaped instrument had wrested the lead from the pipes and set toes tapping and hands beating time throughout the room. A delighted smile broke out on Horace's face, and as the door to the street opened and a gust of wind swept around the room, he barely took notice of the newcomer who entered.

  Others did, however, and Halt, senses finely honed by years of living through dangerous situations, felt a change in the atmosphere in the room. A sense of apprehension and almost suspicion seemed to grip the people grouped around the musicians.

  There was even a slight hesitation in the tune as the piper glanced up and saw the man who had entered. Just the slightest break in rhythm, almost imperceptible, but enough for Halt to notice.

  He looked at the newcomer. A tall, well-built man, perhaps ten years younger than himself. Black beard and hair, and heavy, black brows that gave him an ominous appearance. He was obviously not one of the simple townsfolk. As he threw back his cloak, he revealed a chain mail shirt covered with a black surcoat that bore a white raven insignia.

  The hilt of a sword was obvious at his waist, worked with gold wire and with a dully gleaming pommel in the same metal. High, soft leather riding boots marked him as a mounted warrior-a knight, judging by the insignia on his surcoat. Halt had no doubt that, tethered outside the tavern, he would find a battlehorse-most probably a jet-black one, judging by the stranger's favored color scheme.

  The newcomer was obviously looking for someone. His eyes swept the room quickly, passing over Halt without noticing the shadowy figure at the rear of the room, then finally lighting on Horace. The brows tightened fractionally and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, to himself. The boy, enthralled by the music, had barely taken note of the knight's arrival and now paid no attention to the intense study to which he was subjected. There were others in the room who did. Halt saw the heightened awareness of the innkeeper and his wife as they watc
hed and waited for events to unfold. And several of the townspeople were showing signs of anxiety, signs that they might prefer to be somewhere else.

  Halt's hand reached under the table for his quiver. As ever, his weapons were within easy reach, even when he was dining, and the longbow leaning against the wall behind him was already strung. Now he eased an arrow from the quiver and laid it on the table before him as the tune came to an end.

  This time, there was no chorus of applause from the people in the room. Only Horace clapped enthusiastically, then, realizing he was the only one doing so, he stopped, confused, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. Now he too became aware of the armed man in the room, standing half a dozen paces away from him, staring at him with an intensity that bordered on aggression.

  The boy recovered his composure and nodded a greeting to the newcomer. Halt was pleased to notice that Horace had the presence of mind not to look in his direction. He had sensed that something unpleasant might be about to happen and understood the advantage that would come from Halt's not being noticed.

  Finally, the newcomer spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. He was a tall man, as tall as Horace, and heavily built. This was no roadside warrior, Halt decided. This man was dangerous.

  "You are the oakleaf chevalier?" he asked, with a hint of derision. He spoke the Araluen language well, but with a distinct Gallic accent.

  "I believe I have been called that," Horace replied, after a moment's pause. The knight seemed to consider the answer, nodding to himself, his lip curled in a half sneer.

  "You believe so?" he said. "But can you, yourself, be believed? Or are you a lying Araluen dog who barks in the gutters?"

  Horace frowned, puzzled. It was a clumsy attempt to insult him.

  The other man was trying to provoke a fight for some reason. And that, to Horace, was sufficient reason not to be provoked.

  "If you like," he replied calmly, his face a mask of indifference.

  But Halt had noticed how his left hand had touched lightly, and almost instinctively, to his left hip, where his sword normally hung ready.

  Now, of course, it hung behind the door of their room upstairs. Horace was armed with only a dagger.

  The knight had noticed the involuntary movement as well. He smiled now, his lips curling in a cruel arc. And he moved a pace closer to the muscular young apprentice. He took stock of the young man now.

  Wide shoulders, slim at the waist and obviously well muscled. And he moved well, with a natural grace and balance that was the mark of an expert warrior.

  But the face was young and absolutely without guile. This was not an opponent who had fought men to the death repeatedly. This was not a warrior who had learned the darker skills in the unforgiving school of mortal combat. The boy had barely begun to shave. He was undoubtedly a trained fighter, and one to be respected.

  But not feared.

  Having made his assessment, the older man moved a pace closer, yet again.

  "I am Deparnieux," he said. Obviously, he expected the name to mean something. Horace merely shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.

  "Good for you," he replied. And those black brows contracted once more.

  "I am no roadside yokel for you to defeat by trickery and knavish behavior. You will not catch me unprepared with your cowardly tactics, as you have so many of my compatriots."

  He paused to see if the insulting words were having the desired effect. Horace, however, was canny enough not to take exception. He shrugged once more.

  "I'll definitely bear that in mind," he replied mildly.

  One more pace and the heavily built knight was within arm's reach.

  His face suffused with rage at Horace's answer, and the boy's refusal to be insulted.

  "I am warlord of this province!" he shouted. "A warrior who has despatched more foreign interlopers, more Araluen cowards, than any other knight in this land. Ask them if this is not so!" And he swept an arm around at the people sitting tensely at tables around the fire.

  For a moment, there was no reply, then he turned his fierce gaze on them, daring them to disagree with him.

  As one, their eyes dropped and they mumbled a grudging acknowledgment of his claim. Then his gaze came back to challenge Horace once more. The boy returned it impassively, but a shade of red was beginning to color his cheeks.

  "As I said," he replied carefully, "I will bear it in mind."

  Deparnieux's eyes glittered at the boy. "And I call you a coward and a thief who has killed Gallic warriors by subterfuge and deceit and stolen their armor and horses and belongings!" he concluded, his voice rising to a crescendo.

  There was a long silence in the room. Finally, Horace replied.

  "I think you are mistaken," he said, in the same mild tone he had maintained throughout the confrontation. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. And now Deparnieux reared back in fury.

  "You say I am a liar?" he demanded.

  Horace shook his head. "Not at all. I say you are mistaken.

  Somebody has apparently misinformed you."

  Deparnieux spread his hands and addressed the room at large.

  "You have heard this! He calls me a liar to my face! This is insupportable!"

  And, just as he had planned, in the same movement with which he had spread his hands, he had plucked one of his leather gauntlets from where it had been secured under his belt, and now, before anyone in the room could react, had drawn it back to slap it across Horace's face in a challenge that could not be ignored.

  Feeling a sense of exultation, he began the forward sweep of his hand to bring the glove swiping across the boy's face.

  Only to have it plucked from his grip by an invisible hand, and hurled across the room, where it came to a quivering halt, skewered to one of the upright oak beams that supported the ceiling.

  21

  S O THEY WERE TO BE SEPARATED AFTER ALL, W ILL THOUGHT. Evanlyn was led away, stumbling as she turned to look back over her shoulder at him, a stricken expression on her face. He forced a grin of encouragement and waved to her, making the gesture casual and lighthearted, as if they would be seeing each other shortly.

  His attempt at raising her spirits was cut short by a solid backhander to his head. He staggered a few feet, his ears ringing.

  "Get moving, slave!" snarled Tirak, the Skandian supervisor of the yard. "We'll see how much you have to smile about."

  The answer to that was precious little, Will soon discovered.

  Of all the Skandians' captives, yard slaves had the hardest, most unpleasant assignment. House slaves-those who worked in the kitchens and dining rooms-at least had the comfort of working, and sleeping, in a warm area. They might fall into their blankets exhausted at the end of a day, but the blankets were warm.

  Yard slaves, on the other hand, were required to look after all the arduous, unpleasant outdoor tasks that needed doing-cutting firewood, clearing snow from the paths, emptying the privies and disposing of the result, feeding and watering the animals, cleaning stables. They were all jobs that had to be done in the bitter cold.

  And when their exertions finally raised a sweat, the slaves were left in damp clothing that froze on them once their tasks were completed, leaching the heat from their bodies.

  They slept in a drafty, dilapidated old barn that did little to keep out the cold. Each slave was given one thin blanket-a totally inadequate covering when the night temperatures fell below the freezing point. They supplemented the covering with any old rags or sacks they could lay hands on. They stole them, begged them. And often, they fought over them. In his first three days, Will saw two slaves battered to the point of death in fights over ragged pieces of sacking.

  Being a yard slave was more than uncomfortable, he realized. It was downright dangerous.

  The system they worked under added to the danger. Tirak was nominally in charge of the yard, but he delegated that authority to a small, corrupt gang known as the Committee. These were half a dozen long-term
slaves who hunted as a pack and held the power of life or death over their companions. In return for their authority and some extra comforts such as food and blankets, they maintained the brutal discipline of the yard and organized the work roster, assigning tasks to the other slaves. Those who pandered to them and obeyed them were given the easiest tasks. Those who resisted them found themselves carrying out the wettest, coldest, most dangerous jobs. Tirak ignored their excesses. He simply didn't care about the slaves in his charge.

  They were expendable as far as he was concerned and his life was much simpler if he used the Committee to maintain order. If they killed or crippled the occasional rebel, it was a small price to pay.

  It was inevitable that Will, being the person he was, would clash with the Committee. It happened on his third day in the yard. He was returning from a firewood detail, dragging a heavily laden sled through the thin snow. His clothes were damp with sweat and from the melting snow and he knew that as soon as the exertion stopped, he would be shivering with cold. The marginal rations that they were fed would do little to restore his body heat and, with each day, he could feel his strength and resilience fading a little further. Bent almost double, he dragged the sled into the yard, heaving it to a stop beside the kitchen, where house slaves would unload it, carrying the split logs in to the warmth of the massive cooking ranges. His head spun a little as he straightened up, then, from behind one of the kitchen outhouses, he heard a voice cursing, while another whimpered in pain.

  Curious, he left the sled and went to see the cause of the commotion. A thin, ragged boy was huddled on the ground while an older, larger youth flayed at him with a length of knotted rope.

  "I'm sorry, Egon!" the victim wept. "I didn't know it was yours!"

  They were both slaves, Will realized. But the big youth looked well fed and he was warmly dressed, in spite of the fact that his clothes were ragged and stained. Will estimated his age at about twenty. He'd noticed there were no older slaves in the yard. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that this was because yard slaves didn't live very long.