‘I see,’ Halt said, drawing rein as he came alongside the youth. Horace was a tall boy and his battlehorse stood several hands higher than Abelard. The Ranger found himself having to look up at the young face. It was set in determined lines, he noted.
‘And what do you think your apprentice master will have to say about that when he finds out?’ he asked.
‘Sir Rodney?’ Horace shrugged. ‘He knows already. I told him I was leaving.’
Halt inclined his head in some surprise. He’d expected that Horace would have simply run away in his attempt to join him. But the apprentice warrior was a straightforward type, not given to guile or subterfuge. It was not in Horace’s character to simply run off, he realised.
‘And how did he greet this momentous news?’
Horace frowned, not understanding.
‘Pardon?’ he asked uncertainly and Halt sighed quietly.
‘What did he say when you told him? I assume he gave you a good clout over the ear?’ Rodney wasn’t known for his tolerance of disobedient apprentices. He had a quick temper and the boys in Battleschool often felt the full force of it.
‘No,’ Horace answered stolidly. ‘He said to give you a message.’
Halt shook his head in wonder. ‘And the message was?’ he prompted, and noted that Horace shifted uncomfortably in his saddle before answering.
‘He said, “Good luck to you”,’ the boy replied finally. ‘And he said to tell you that I came with his approval – unofficial, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Halt replied, successfully masking the surprise he felt at this unexpected gesture of support from the Battleschool commander. ‘He could hardly give you official approval to go running off with a banished criminal, could he?’
Horace thought about that and nodded. ‘I suppose not,’ he replied. ‘So you’ll let me come with you?’
Halt shook his head. ‘Of course I won’t,’ he said briskly. ‘I don’t have time to look after you where I’m going.’
The boy’s face flushed with anger at Halt’s dismissive tone.
‘Sir Rodney also said to tell you that you could possibly use a sword to guard your back on your travels,’ he said. Halt regarded the tall boy carefully as he spoke.
‘Those were his exact words?’ he asked, and Horace shook his head.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Then tell me exactly what he said,’ Halt demanded.
Horace took a deep breath, ‘His exact words were, “You could use a good sword to guard your back”.’
Halt hid a smile.
‘Meaning who?’ he challenged. Horace sat his horse, flushing furiously, and didn’t answer. It was the best reply he could have made. Halt was watching him closely. He didn’t take Rodney’s recommendation lightly and he knew the boy had courage to spare. He’d proven that when he’d challenged Morgarath to single combat at the Plains of Uthal.
But there was the chance that he might have become boastful and overconfident – that too much adulation and praise had turned his head. If that were the case, however, he would have answered Halt’s sarcastic challenge immediately. The fact that he hadn’t, but merely sat in front of him, face set in determined lines, said a lot about the boy’s character. Strange how they turn out, Halt thought. He remembered Horace as somewhat of a bully when he’d been younger. Obviously, Battleschool discipline and a few years’ maturity had wrought some interesting changes.
He considered the boy again. Truth be told, it would be handy to have a companion along. He’d refused Gilan because he knew the other Ranger was needed here in Araluen. But Horace was a different matter. His Craftmaster had given permission – unofficially. He was a more than capable swordsman. He was loyal and he was dependable.
And besides, Halt had to admit that, since Will had been taken prisoner, he’d missed having someone younger around him. He’d missed the excitement and the eagerness that came with young people. And, God help him, he’d even missed the endless questions that came with them as well.
He realised now that Horace was regarding him anxiously. The boy had been waiting for a decision and so far had received nothing more than Halt’s sardonic challenge as to the identity of the ‘good sword’ suggested by Sir Rodney. He sighed heavily and let a savage frown crease his brow.
‘I suppose you’ll bombard me with questions day and night?’ he said. Horace’s shoulders slumped at the tone of voice then, suddenly, he understood the meaning of the words. His face shone and his shoulders lifted again.
‘You mean you’ll take me?’ he said, excitement cracking his voice into a higher register than he intended. Halt looked down and adjusted a strap on his saddle bag that required no adjustment at all. It wouldn’t do to let the boy see the slight smile that was creasing his weathered face.
‘It seems I have to,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You can hardly go back to Sir Rodney now you’ve run away, can you?’
‘No, I can’t! I mean … that’s wonderful! Thanks, Halt! You won’t regret it, I promise! It’s just that I sort of promised myself that I’d find Will and help rescue him.’ The boy was fairly babbling in his pleasure at being accepted. Halt nudged Abelard with his knee and began to ride on, Tug following easily. Horace urged his battlehorse to fall into step with Halt, and continued his flow of gratitude.
‘I knew you’d go after him, Halt. I knew that’s why you pretended to be angry with King Duncan! Nobody at Redmont could believe it when we heard what had happened but I knew it was so you could go and rescue Will from the Skandians –’
‘Enough!’ Halt finally said, holding up a hand to ward off the flow of words, and Horace stopped in mid-sentence, bowing his head apologetically.
‘Yes. Of course. Sorry. Not another word,’ he said.
Halt nodded thankfully. ‘I should think not.’
Chastened, Horace rode in silence beside his new master as they headed towards the east coast. They had gone another hundred metres when he finally could stand it no more.
‘Where will we find a ship?’ he asked. ‘Will we sail directly to Skandia after the raiders? Can we cross the sea at this time of year?’
Halt turned in the saddle and cast a baleful eye on the young man.
‘I see it’s started already,’ he said heavily. But inside, his heart felt lighter than it had for weeks.
The unexpected arrival of Slagor’s vessel, Wolf Fang, made life even more unpleasant on Skorghijl.
The crowded living conditions were now worse than ever, with two crews crammed into the space designed for one. And with the crowding came fighting. Skandians weren’t used to long hours of inactivity, so they filled their time with drinking and gambling – an almost certain recipe for trouble. When the members of one crew were involved, the disagreements that arose were usually settled quickly and forgotten. But the separate loyalties of the two crews inflamed the situation so that arguments flared, tempers were lost and, at times, weapons were drawn before Erak could intervene.
It was noticeable, Will thought, that Slagor never raised his voice to quell the fights. The more he saw of Wolf Fang’s captain, the more he realised that the man had little real authority and commanded minimal respect from the other Skandians. Even his own crew worked for pay, not out of any sense of loyalty.
The work for Will and Evanlyn had doubled, of course. There was twice as much cooking, serving and cleaning to be done now. And twice as many Skandians to demand that they take care of any other job that needed doing. But at least they had retained their living space. The lean-to was too cramped for any of the massive Skandians to even consider co-opting it for their own use. That was one compensation for having been captured by giants, Will thought.
But it was more than just the fighting and the extra work that had made life miserable for Will and Evanlyn. The news of the mysterious Vallasvow taken by Ragnak had been devastating for the princess. Her life was now at risk and the slightest mistake, the slightest incautious word, from either of them could mean her death. She pleaded
with Will to be careful, to continue to treat her as an equal, as he always had before she told him her real identity. The least sign of deference on his part, the smallest gesture of respect, might well raise suspicions and spell the end for her.
Naturally, Will assured her that he would guard her secret. He schooled himself never to think of her as Cassandra, but always to use the name Evanlyn, even in his thoughts. But the more he tried to avoid the name, the more it seemed to want to spring unbidden to his tongue. He lived in constant fear that he would inadvertently betray her.
The bad feeling between them, borne out of boredom and frustration as much as anything, had melted away in the face of this new and very real danger. They were allies and friends again, and their resolve to help and support each other regained the strength and conviction that they had enjoyed in their brief time in Celtica.
Of course, Evanlyn’s plan for ransom was now totally destroyed. She could hardly reveal herself to a man who had sworn to kill every member of her family. That realisation, coupled with her own natural resentment at being forced to do menial, unpleasant work, made her life on Skorghijl miserable. The one bright spot in her life was Will – always cheerful, always optimistic, always encouraging. She noticed how he unobtrusively took the worst, messiest jobs for himself whenever possible and she was grateful for it. Thinking back on the way she had treated him a few days earlier, she felt ashamed. But when she tried to apologise – and she was straightforward enough to admit that she had been in the wrong – he dismissed it with a laugh.
‘We’re all a little cabin crazy,’ he said. ‘The sooner we get away, the better.’
He still planned to escape, and she realised she must accompany him. She knew he had something in mind, but he was still working on his plan and so far he hadn’t told her the details.
For now, the evening meal was over and there was a massive sack full of wooden platters, spoons and mugs to clean in the sea water and fine gravel at the water’s edge. Sighing, she bent to pick them up. She was exhausted and the thought of crouching ankle-deep in the cold water while she scrubbed at the grease was almost too much to bear.
‘I’ll do those,’ Will said quietly. He glanced around to make sure none of the Skandians were watching, then took the heavy sack from her.
‘No,’ she protested. ‘It’s not fair …’ But he held up a hand to stop her.
‘There’s something I want to check anyway. This will be good cover,’ he said. ‘Besides, you’ve had a bad couple of days. Go and get some rest.’ He grinned. ‘If it makes you feel any better, there’ll be plenty of washing up to do tomorrow. And the next day. You can do it all while I skive off.’
She gave him a tired smile and touched his hand in gratitude. The thought of just stretching out on her hard bunk and doing nothing was almost too good to be true.
‘Thanks,’ she said simply. His grin widened and she knew he was genuinely glad that relations between them were back to normal.
‘At least our hosts are enthusiastic eaters,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They don’t leave too much on the plates.’
He slung the sack and its clattering contents over his shoulder and headed for the beach. Smiling to herself, Evanlyn stooped and entered the lean-to.
Jarl Erak emerged from the noisy, smoke-filled mess hut and took a deep breath of the cold sea air. Life on the island was getting him down, particularly with Slagor not pulling his weight in maintaining discipline. The man was a useless drunk, Erak thought angrily. And he was no warrior – it was common knowledge that he selected only lightly defended targets for his raids and never took part in the fighting. Erak had just been forced to intervene between one of his own men and one of Wolf Fang’s crew of criminals. Slagor’s man had been using a set of loaded dice and, when challenged, he had drawn his saxe knife on the other Skandian.
Erak had stepped in and knocked the Wolf Fang crewman senseless with one massive fist. Then, in order to show an even-handed approach, he was forced to knock his own man out as well.
Even-handedness, Skandian style, he thought wearily. A left hook and a right cross.
He heard the scrunch of feet in the gravel of the beach and looked up to see a dark figure heading towards the water’s edge. He frowned thoughtfully. It was the Araluan boy.
Stealthily, he began to follow the boy. He heard the clatter of plates and mugs being spilled on the beach, then the sound of scrubbing. Maybe he was just doing the washing up, he thought. Maybe not. Stepping carefully, he worked his way a little closer.
Erak’s concept of stealth didn’t quite match Ranger standards. Will was scrubbing the platters when he heard the massively built Skandian approaching. Either that, he thought, or a walrus was beaching itself on the shingle.
Turning to look up, he recognised the bulky form of Erak, made even larger in the darkness by the bearskin cloak he wore against the biting cold of the wind. Uncertainly, Will began to rise from his crouched position, but the Jarl waved him back.
‘Keep on with your work,’ he said gruffly. Will continued to scrub, watching the Skandian leader out of the corner of his eye as he gazed across the anchorage and sniffed at the storm-borne air.
‘Stinks in there,’ Erak muttered finally.
‘Too many people in too small a space,’ Will ventured, eyes down and scrubbing at the plate. Erak interested him. He was a hard man and a pitiless fighter. But he was not actually cruel. Sometimes, in a gruff way, he could seem almost friendly.
Erak, in turn, studied Will. What was he up to? He was probably trying to figure out a way to escape, Erak thought. That’s what he’d be doing in the boy’s place. The apprentice Ranger was smart and resourceful. He was also determined. Erak had seen the way he stuck to his gruelling exercise programme, out running on the beach in fair weather or foul.
Once again he felt that sense of regard for the apprentice Ranger – and the girl. She’d shown plenty of grit, too.
The thought of the girl made him frown. Sooner or later, there’d be trouble in that quarter. Particularly with Slagor and his men. The crew of Wolf Fang were a sorry lot – jailbirds and minor criminals for the most part. Good crew wouldn’t sign with Slagor.
Well, he thought philosophically, if it happened, he’d have to bang a few heads together. He wasn’t going to have his authority challenged by a rabble like Slagor’s men. The two slaves were Erak’s property. They’d be his only profit from this disastrous trip to Araluen and if anyone tried to damage either one, they’d answer to him. As he had the thought, he tried to tell himself that he was only protecting his investment. But he wasn’t sure it was entirely true.
‘Jarl Erak?’ the boy said in the darkness, uncertainty in his tone as he wondered whether he should ask questions of the Skandian leader. Erak grunted. The sound was noncommittal but Will took it as permission to continue.
‘What was the Vallasvow Jarl Slagor spoke of?’ he asked, trying to sound casual. Erak frowned at the title.
‘Slagor’s no jarl,’ he corrected the boy. ‘He’s merely a skirl, a captain of a wolfship.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Will said humbly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Erak angry. Obviously, by referring to Slagor as his equal, Will had risked that. He hesitated, but Erak’s annoyance seemed to have abated, so he asked again.
‘And the Vallasvow?’ he prompted.
Erak belched quietly and leaned to one side so he could scratch his backside. He was sure that Slagor’s crew had brought fleas with them into the hut. It was the one discomfort they had not had to bear so far. Cold, damp, smoke and smell. But now they could add fleas. He wished, not for the first time, that Slagor’s wolfship had gone down in the gales on the Stormwhite Sea.
‘It’s a vow,’ he said, unhelpfully, ‘that Ragnak took. Not that he had any cause to,’ he added. ‘You don’t provoke the Vallas lightly. Not if you have any sense.’
‘The Vallas?’ Will asked. ‘Who are they?’
Erak looked at the dark form crouched beneath him. H
e shook his head in wonderment. How ignorant these Araluans were!
‘Never heard of the Vallas? What do they teach you in that damp little island of yours?’ he asked. Will, wisely, said nothing in reply. There were a few moments’ silence, then Erak continued.
‘The Vallas, boy, are the three gods of vengeance. They take the form of a shark, a bear and a vulture.’
He paused, to see if that had sunk in. Will felt that this time, some comment was required.
‘I see,’ he said uncertainly. Erak snorted in derision.
‘I’m sure you don’t. Nobody in their right mind ever wants to see the Vallas. Nobody in their right mind ever chooses to swear to them either.’
Will thought about what the Skandian had said. ‘So a Vallasvow is a vow of vengeance then?’ he asked and Erak nodded grimly.
‘Total vengeance,’ he replied. ‘It’s when you hate so badly that you swear to be avenged, not just upon the person who has wronged you, but on every member of his family as well.’
‘Every member?’ said Will. For a moment, Erak wondered if there was something behind this line of questioning. But he couldn’t see how information like this could help in an escape attempt so he continued.
‘Every last one,’ he told him. ‘It’s a death vow, of course, and it’s unbreakable. Once it’s made, if the person making the vow should ever recant, the Vallas will take him and his own family instead of the original victims. They’re not the sort of gods you really want any business with, believe me.’
Again, a small silence. Will wondered if he had continued far enough with his questions, and decided he could try for a little more leeway.
‘Then if they’re so terrible, why would Ragnak …?’ he began, but Erak cut him off.
‘Because he’s mad!’ he snapped. ‘I told you, only a madman would swear to the Vallas! Ragnak has never been too stable, now the loss of his son has obviously tipped him over the edge.’
Erak made a gesture of disgust. He seemed to tire of the subject of Ragnak and the fearful Vallas.
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