"You're a thief, Ulrich!" said the larger youth. "I'll teach you to touch my belongings!"
He was aiming the knotted rope for his victim's head now, lashing furiously. The boy's face was heavily bruised, Will saw, and as he watched, a cut opened just under the smaller boy's eye and blood covered his face. Ulrich cried and tried to cover his face with his bare arms. His tormentor flailed all the more wildly. Will could stand by no longer. He stepped forward and caught the end of the knotted rope as Egon began another stroke, jerking it backward.
Egon was thrown off balance. He staggered and let go of the rope, turning to look in surprise to see who had dared interrupt him. He half expected to see Tirak or another Skandian standing there. Nobody else would dare interfere with a Committeeman. To his astonishment, he found himself facing a short, slight youth who looked to be about sixteen years old.
"He's had enough," Will said, tossing the rope into the slushy snow of the kitchen yard.
Furious, Egon started forward. He was bigger and heavier than Will and he was ready to punish this foolhardy stranger. Then something in the stranger's eyes, and in his ready stance, stopped him. He could see no fear there. And he looked fit and ready to fight. He was new to the yard, Egon realized, and still in relatively good condition. This was no easy target, like the unfortunate Ulrich.
"I'm sorry, Egon," the ragged boy now snuffled. He crawled toward the Committeeman and placed his head against his worn boots. "I won't do it again." Egon by now had lost interest in his initial victim. He shoved him away with his foot. Ulrich looked up, saw that Egon's attention was diverted and made his escape.
Egon barely noticed him go. He was glaring at Will, assessing him.
This one would be no easy victim. But there were other ways to deal with troublemakers.
"What's your name?" he asked, his eyes slitted and his voice low with fury.
"I'm called Will," the apprentice Ranger said, and Egon nodded slowly, several times.
"I'll remember that," he promised.
The following day, Will was assigned to the paddles.
The paddles were the most feared work assignment among the yard slaves.
Hallasholm's freshwater supply came from a large well in the center of the square facing Ragnak's lodge. As the colder weather set in, the water in the well, if left untended, would freeze over. So the Skandians had installed large wooden paddles to constantly agitate the water and break up the ice before it froze solid. It was a constant, grinding job, heaving on the crank handles that turned the clumsy wooden blades in the water. Like snow clearing, it was wet and cold work, thoroughly debilitating. Nobody lasted long on the paddles.
Will had been working for half the morning, but already he was exhausted. Every muscle in his arms, back and legs ached with the strain.
He heaved on the handle, worn smooth over the years by a succession of long-dead hands. It was barely minutes since he'd last agitated the surface of the well water but already a thin skin of ice had formed. It cracked now as the wooden blade stabbed into it and moved rapidly from side to side. On the far side of the well, his coworker jerked and twisted at his own paddle, keeping the water moving, stopping it from freezing. When he had first arrived, Will had nodded to the other slave. The greeting was ignored. Since then, they had worked in silence, apart from their constant groans of exertion.
A heavy leather strap, wielded by the overseer, snapped across his shoulders. He heard the noise, felt the impact. But there was no stinging sensation from the blow. That was numbed by the cold.
"Dig them in deeper!" the overseer snarled. "The water will freeze underneath if you simply skim the surface like that."
Groaning softly, Will obeyed, rising on tiptoe to drive the wooden paddle down into the frigid water, throwing up a wash of spray as he did so. He felt the icy touch of the water on his body. He was already wet through. It was almost impossible to remain dry. He knew that when he stopped for one of the brief rest periods they were allowed, the wet, freezing clothes would leach the body heat from him and the trembling would start again. It was the unstoppable shivering that frightened him most. As he cooled down, his body would begin to shake.
He tried to force it to stop, and found he couldn't. He had lost control over his own body, he realized dully. His teeth chattered and his hands shook and he was helpless to do anything about it. The only way to regain warmth was to start work again.
Eventually, it was over. Even the Skandians recognized that no one could work more than a four-hour shift on the paddles. Trembling and exhausted, utterly spent, Will staggered back to the barracks shed. He stumbled and fell as he approached his assigned sleeping space and lacked the energy to rise again. He crawled on hands and knees, longing for the meager warmth of the thin blanket.
Then a hoarse cry of despair was torn from him. The blanket was gone!
He huddled on the cold floor, weeping. His knees were drawn up and he wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to contain his failing body heat. He thought of his warm Ranger cloak, lost when he was captured by Erak and his men. The shivering began and he felt his whole body give way to it. The cold burrowed deep into his flesh, reaching right into his bones, right into the very soul of him.
There was nothing but the cold. His world was circumscribed by cold. He was the cold. It was inescapable, unbearable. There was no slight flicker of warmth in his world.
Nothing but the cold.
He felt something rough against his cheek and opened his eyes to see someone leaning over him, spreading a piece of coarse sacking over his trembling body. Then a quiet voice was in his ear. "Take it easy, friend. Be strong now." The speaker was a tall slave, bearded and unkempt. But it was the eyes that Will noticed. They were full of sympathy and understanding. Pathetically, Will drew the scratchy cloth closer around his chin.
"Heard what you tried to do for Ulrich," said his savior. "We've got to stick together if we're going to make it in here. I'm Handel, by the way."
Will tried to answer but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably and his voice shook as he tried to form words. It was useless.
"Here, try this," said Handel, glancing around to make sure they were not observed. "Open your mouth."
Will forced his chattering teeth apart and Handel slipped something into his mouth. It felt like a bundle of dried herbs, Will thought dully.
"Put it under your tongue," Handel whispered. "Let it dissolve.
You'll be fine."
And then, after a few moments, as his saliva moistened the substance under his tongue, Will felt the most glorious, liberating sense of warmth radiating through his body. Beautiful warmth that forced the cold out, that spread to the very tips of his fingers and toes in a series of pulsing waves. He had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. The trembling eased as successive waves of warmth swept gently over him. His tight muscles relaxed into a delightful sense of rest and well-being. He looked up to see Handel smiling and nodding at him. Those wonderful, warm eyes smiled reassuringly and he knew everything was going to be all right.
"What is it?" he said, speaking awkwardly around the sodden little wad in his mouth.
"It's warmweed," Handel told him gently. "It keeps us alive."
And from the shadows of a far corner, Egon watched the two figures and smiled. Handel had done his work well.
22
T HE BLACK-CLAD KNIGHT CURSED VIOLENTLY AS THE ARROW ripped his gauntlet from his grasp and thudded, carrying the glove with it, into a heavy oak beam. The solid impact of the arrow with the beam drew his eyes for a second, then he whirled suspiciously, to see where the missile had come from. For the first time, he registered the presence of a dark, indistinct shape in the shadows at the rear of the room.
Then, as Halt moved from behind the table and out into the light, he also registered the longbow, with a second arrow nocked ready to the string. The archer hadn't bothered to draw the bow, but Deparnieux had just seen an example of his skill. He knew he was facing a maste
r archer, capable of drawing and firing in a heartbeat. He stood very still now, controlling his rage with difficulty. He knew his life might well depend on his ability to do so.
"Unfortunately for the dictates of chivalry," Halt said, "Sir Horace, knight of the Order of the Oakleaf, is indisposed, with an injury to his left hand. He will therefore be unable to reply to the kind invitation you were about to issue."
He had moved farther into the light now and Deparnieux could make out his face more clearly. Bearded and grim, this was the face of an experienced campaigner. The eyes were cold and bore no hint of indecision. This, the knight knew instantly, was a man to be wary of.
There was a subdued chuckle from one of the townspeople in the room and, inwardly, the Gallic knight seethed with fury. His eyes flicked to the source of the sound and he saw a carpenter, lowering his face to hide his smile. Deparnieux noted the man mentally. His day of reckoning would come. Outwardly, however, he forced a smile.
"A pity," he told the archer. "I had hoped for a friendly trial of arms with the young chevalier-all in the spirit of good fellowship, of course."
"Of course," Halt replied levelly, and Deparnieux knew that he wasn't for a moment deceived. "But, as I say, we shall have to disappoint you, as we are traveling on a rather urgent quest."
Deparnieux's eyebrows lifted in polite enquiry. "Is that so? And where might you and your young master be bound?"
He added the "young master" to see what effect it would have on the bearded man before him. It was obvious who was the master here, and it wasn't the young knight. He'd hoped that he might sting the other man's pride, and possibly goad him to a mistake.
The hope, however, was short-lived. He noticed a faint glint of amusement in the man's eyes as he recognized the gambit for what it was.
"Oh, here and there," Halt replied vaguely. "It's not a task of sufficient importance to interest a warlord such as yourself." The tone of his voice left the knight in no doubt that he would not be answering casual questions about their end destination, or even their intended direction of travel.
"Sir Horace," he added, aware that the boy was still within arm's reach of the black knight, "why don't you sit yourself down over there and rest your injured arm?"
Horace glanced at him, then understanding dawned and he moved away from the knight, taking a seat by the edge of the fire. There was absolute silence in the room now. The townspeople gazed at the two men confronting each other, wondering where this impasse was going to end.
Only two people in the room, Halt and Deparnieux, knew that the knight was trying to gauge his chances of drawing his sword and cutting down the archer before he could fire. As Deparnieux hesitated, he met the unwavering gaze of the Ranger.
"I really wouldn't," said Halt mildly. The black knight read the message in his eyes and knew that, fast as he might be, the other man's reply would be faster. He inclined his head slightly in recognition of the fact. This was not the time.
He forced a smile onto his face and made a mocking bow in Horace's direction.
"Perhaps another day, Sir Horace," he said lightly. "I would look forward to a friendly trial of arms with you when you are recovered."
This time, he noticed, the boy glanced quickly at his older companion before replying. "Perhaps another day," he agreed.
Embracing the room with a thin smile, Deparnieux turned on his heel and walked to the door. He paused there a moment, his eyes seeking Halt's once more. The smile faded and the message he sent was clear. Next time, my friend. Next time.
The door closed behind him and a collective sigh of relief went around the room. Instantly, a babble of conversation broke out among those present. The musicians, sensing that their moment was over for the night, packed away their instruments and gratefully accepted drinks from the serving girl.
Horace moved to the beam where Halt's arrow had pinned the knight's gauntlet. He wrestled the shaft free, dropped the glove onto a table and returned the arrow to Halt.
"What was that all about?" he asked, a little breathlessly. Halt moved back to their table in the shadows, and leaned his longbow against the wall once more.
"That," he told the boy, "is what happens when you begin to acquire a reputation. Our friend Deparnieux is obviously the person who controls this area and he saw you as a potential challenge to that control. So, he came here to kill you."
Horace shook his head in bewilderment. "But:why? I don't have any quarrel with the man. Did I offend him somehow? I certainly didn't mean to," he said. Halt nodded gravely.
"That's not the point," he told the young apprentice. "He doesn't give a toss about you. You were simply an opportunity for him."
"An opportunity?" Horace asked. "For what?"
"To reaffirm his hold over the people in the area," Halt explained. "People like him rule by fear, for the most part. So, when a young knight comes into the area with a reputation as a champion, somebody like Deparnieux sees it as an opportunity. He provokes a fight with you, kills you, and his own reputation is enlarged. People fear him more and are less likely to challenge his control over them.
Understand?"
The boy nodded slowly. "It's not the way it should be," he said, a disappointed tone in his voice. "It's not the way chivalry was intended to be."
"In this part of the world," Halt told him, "it's the way it is."
23
J ARL E RAK, WOLFSHIP CAPTAIN AND MEMBER OF R AGNAK'S INNER
council of senior Jarls, had been absent from Hallasholm for several weeks. He was whistling as he strode back through the open gates to the Lodge, with a sense of satisfaction over a job well done. Borsa had sent him to sail down the coast to one of the southernmost settlements, to inquire over an apparent shortfall in taxes paid by the local Jarl. Borsa had noticed a decline over the past four or five years. Nothing too sudden to be suspicious, but a little less every year.
It had taken a calculating mind like Borsa's to notice the creeping discrepancy. And to note that the gradual reduction in reported income had coincided with the election of a new jarl in the village. Smelling a rat, the hilfmann had assigned Erak to investigate-and to persuade the local Jarl that honesty, in the case of taxes owed to Ragnak, was definitely the best policy.
It has to be admitted that Erak's version of investigating consisted of seizing the unfortunate Jarl by his beard as he lay sleeping in the predawn darkness. Erak then threatened to brain him with a battleax if he didn't make a rapid and upward adjustment to the amount of tax he was paying to Hallasholm. They were rough-and-ready tactics, but highly effective. The Jarl was only too eager to hand over the delinquent tax.
It was sheer chance that Erak came striding back through the gates at the very moment that Will was stumbling, shovel in hand, to clear the walkways of the deep snow that had fallen overnight.
For a moment, Erak didn't recognize the emaciated, shambling figure. But there was something familiar about the shock of brown hair, matted and dirty as it was. Erak stopped for a closer look.
"Gods of darkness, boy!" he muttered. "Is that you?"
The boy turned to look at him, the expression blank and incurious.
He was reacting only to the sound of a voice. There was no sign that he recognized the speaker. His eyes were red-rimmed and dull as he regarded the burly Skandian. Erak felt a deep sadness come over him.
He knew the signs of warmweed addiction, of course, knew that it was used to control the yard slaves. And he'd seen many of them die from the combined effects of cold, malnutrition and the general lack of will to live that resulted from addiction to the drug. Warmweed addicts looked forward to nothing, planned for nothing. Consequently, they had no hope to bolster their spirits. It was that, as much as anything, that killed them in the long run.
It hurt him to see this boy brought so low. To see those eyes, once so full of courage and determination, reflecting nothing but the dull emptiness of an addict's lack of hope or expectation.
Will waited a few seconds, expecti
ng to be given an order. Deep inside him, a faint memory stirred for a second or two. A memory of the face before him and the voice he had heard. Then, the effort of remembering became too great, the fog of addiction too thick, and with the slightest of shrugs, he turned away and shambled to the gateway to begin shoveling the snow. Within a few minutes, he would be soaked with sweat from the heavy work. Then the moisture would freeze on his body and the cold would eat deep into him again. He knew the cold now.
It was his constant companion. And with the thought of the cold, there came the longing for his next supply of the weed. His next few moments of comfort.
Erak watched Will as he bent slowly and clumsily to his task. He swore softly to himself and turned away. Other yard slaves were already at work on the paddles at the freshwater well, smashing the thick ice that had formed during the freezing night.
He passed them by quickly, with barely a glance. He was no longer whistling.
Two days later, late in the evening, Evanlyn was summoned to Jarl Erak's quarters.
She had managed to claim a sleeping space for herself that was close enough to the great ovens to be warm through the night, but not so close that she roasted.
Now, at the end of a long day, she spread her blanket out on the hard rushes and sank gratefully onto it, rolling it around herself.
Her pillow was a small log from the firewood pile, padded with an old shirt. She lay back on it now, listening to the noises of those around her-the occasional thick, chesty coughs that were the inevitable result of living in the snow and ice of Skandia at this time of year, and the low muttering of conversation. This was one of the few times that the slaves were free to talk among themselves. Usually, Evanlyn was too tired to take advantage of it.
The Icebound Land ra-3 Page 13