‘Are you actually hoping to accomplish anything there?’ he asked in a peevish tone of voice. ‘Or are you just having fun causing me pain?’
‘I’m trying to help,’ Halt said mildly. He reached for the arm once more but Horace backed away.
‘Keep your hands off,’ he said. ‘You’re just poking and prodding. I can’t see how that’s supposed to help.’
‘I’m just trying to make sure there’s nothing broken,’ Halt explained. But Horace shook his head at the Ranger.
‘Nothing’s broken. I’ve got some bruising, that’s all.’
Halt made a helpless gesture of resignation. He opened his mouth to speak, planning to reassure Horace that he was really trying to help, when matters were taken out of his hands – literally.
There was a brief knock at the door; then, before the sound had died, the door was flung open and the innkeeper’s wife bustled in with an armful of fresh pillows for the beds. She smiled at the two of them, then her gaze lit upon Horace’s arm and the smile died, replaced instantly by a look of motherly concern.
She let go a torrent of Gallican that neither of them understood, and moved quickly to Horace’s side, dumping the pillows on his bed. He watched her suspiciously as she reached out to touch the injured arm. She stopped, pursed her lips and met his gaze with a reassuring look. Satisfied, he allowed her to examine the injury.
She did so gently, with a light, almost imperceptible touch. Horace, submitting to her ministrations, looked meaningfully at Halt. The Ranger scowled and sat on the bed to watch. Finally, the woman stepped back and, taking Horace’s arm, led him to sit on the edge of the bed. She turned to address the two of them, pointing to the discoloured arm.
‘No breaking bones,’ she said uncertainly. Halt nodded.
‘I thought as much,’ he replied and Horace sniffed disdainfully. The woman nodded once or twice, then continued, choosing her words carefully. Her command of the Araluan tongue was inexact, to say the least.
‘Bruisings,’ she said, ‘Bad bruisings. Need …’ She hesitated, seeking the word, then found it. ‘Herbs …’ She made a rubbing gesture with her two hands, miming the act of rubbing herbs together to form a poultice. ‘Break herbs … put here.’ She touched the injured arm once more. Halt nodded agreement.
‘Good,’ he told her. ‘Please go right ahead.’ He looked up at Horace. ‘We’re in luck here,’ he said. ‘She seems to know her business.’
‘You mean I’m in luck,’ Horace said stiffly. ‘If I’d been left to your tender mercies, I probably wouldn’t have an arm by now.’
The woman, hearing the tone of the voice but not understanding the words, hurried to reassure him, making crooning sounds and touching the bruise with a feather-soft hand.
‘Two days … three … no more bruisings. No more pain,’ she reassured him and he smiled at her.
‘Thank you, madame,’ he said, in the sort of courtly tone he imagined a gallant young knight should use. ‘I shall be forever in your debt.’
She smiled at him and, in mime again, indicated that she was going to fetch her stock of herbs and medicines. Horace rose and executed a clumsy bow as she left the room, giggling to herself.
‘Oh puh-lease,’ said Halt, rolling his eyes to heaven.
The heat in Ragnak’s dining hall was intense..
The large number of people present, and the huge, open fire that stretched almost the full width of one end of the room, combined to keep the temperature uncomfortably warm, in spite of the deep snow that lay on the ground outside.
It was an enormous room, long and low-ceilinged, with two tables stretching the length of the room and a third, Ragnak’s head table, placed across the others at the end opposite the fire. The walls were bare pine logs, roughly trimmed and caulked, where their uneven shape left a gap, with a mixture of mud and clay that set hard as rock.
More pine logs slanted up at angles to support the roof, a tightly woven layer of rushes and thatch that was almost a metre thick in places. There was no interior lining. Lighter slats of rough timber were fastened across the roof beams to support the thatch.
The noise, with nearly one hundred and fifty drunken Skandians eating, laughing and shouting at each other, was deafening. Erak looked around him and smiled.
It was good to be home again.
He accepted another tankard of ale from Borsa, Ragnak’s hilfmann. While Ragnak was the Oberjarl, or senior jarl of all Skandians, the hilfmann was an administrator who took care of the day-to-day running of the nation. He made sure that crops were planted, taxes paid, raids sent out on time and Ragnak’s share of all raiding booty – a quarter of everything won – was paid promptly and reckoned fairly by the wolfship commanders.
‘Bad business all round, Erak,’ he said. They were discussing the ill-fated expedition to Araluen. ‘We should never get involved in a long-running war. It’s not our game at all. We’re cut out for quick raids. Get in, grab the booty and get out again with the tide. That’s our way. Always has been.’
Erak nodded. He’d thought the same thing when Ragnak had assigned him to the expedition. But the Oberjarl hadn’t been in any mood to listen to his advice.
‘Still, Morgarath paid us upfront,’ the hilfmann continued. Erak’s eyebrows raised at that.
‘He did?’ It was the first he’d heard of it. He’d assumed that he and his men were fighting simply for whatever booty they could find, and the expedition had been a definite failure in that regard. But his companion nodded emphatically.
‘Oh yes indeed. Ragnak’s no fool when it comes to money. He charged Morgarath for your services, and those of all your men. You’ll all be paid your share.’
At least, thought Erak, he and his men would have something to show for the past few months. But Borsa was still shaking his head over the Araluan campaign.
‘You know our biggest problem?’ he said, and before Erak could respond, he continued. ‘We don’t have our own generals or tacticians. Skandians fight as individuals. And in that sense, we’re the best in the world. But when we hire out as mercenaries, we don’t have our own planners to lead us. So we’re forced to rely on fools like Morgarath.’
Erak nodded agreement. ‘When we were in Araluen, I said that his plans were too involved, too clever by half.’
Borsa jabbed a thick forefinger at him. Erak was surprised by the man’s vehemence.
‘And you’re right! We could use a few people like those Araluan Rangers,’ he added.
‘Are you serious?’ Erak said. ‘Why do we need them?’
‘Not them literally. I mean people like them. People who are trained in planning and tactics – with the ability to see the big picture and use our troops to best effect.’
Erak had to agree the other man had a point. But the mention of Rangers had led his mind to the matter of Will and Evanlyn. Now he saw a way to solve the problem of dealing with them.
‘Could you use a couple of new slaves around the Great Hall?’ he asked casually. Borsa nodded immediately.
‘We can always use extras,’ he said. ‘Got someone in mind, have you?’
‘A boy and a girl,’ Erak told him. He thought it best not to mention that Will was an apprentice Ranger. ‘Both strong. Healthy and intelligent. We captured them on the Celtic border. I was going to sell them so I could pay my crew something for the whole mess. But now, if you say we’ll be paid anyway, I’d be happy to give them to you.’
Borsa nodded gratefully. ‘I can certainly use them,’ he replied. ‘Send them over tomorrow.’
‘Done!’ said Erak cheerfully. He felt a nagging weight had been removed from his mind. ‘Now where’s that ale jug got to?’
While Erak was deciding their fate, Will and Evanlyn had been kept locked in a hut by the quayside, close to the point where Wolfwind was moored. The following morning, they were roused by a Skandian from Borsa’s staff, who led them to the Great Hall. There, the Hilfmann looked them over, studying them critically. The girl was attractive, he tho
ught, but she didn’t look as if she’d done a lot of heavy work in her life. The boy, on the other hand, was well muscled and fit, if a little on the small side.
‘The girl can go to the dining hall and kitchen,’ he told his assistant. ‘Put the boy in the yard.’
An hour after sunset, Halt and Horace left their room and went downstairs to the taproom of the inn for supper.
The innkeeper’s wife had prepared a huge pot of savoury 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 his head towards 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 round 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 grey 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 realised 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 table top. 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 towards Horace and nodded towards 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 table top 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 round 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 favoured colour 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 an
d 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 watched 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, realising he was the only one to be 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 Araluan 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 Araluan 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.
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