She crouched beside Will, shaking his shoulder to wake him – gently at first, then, realising that in his drugged state he would sleep like the dead, increasingly roughly.
‘Will!’ she hissed, leaning close to his ear. ‘Get up. Wake up!’
He muttered once. But his eyes remained tight shut and his breathing heavy. She shook him again with a growing sense of panic.
‘Please, Will,’ she begged. ‘Wake up!’ And she hit him across the cheek with the palm of her hand.
That did the trick. His eyes opened and he stared foggily at her. There was no sign of recognition but at least he was awake. She dragged at his shoulder.
‘Get up,’ she commanded. ‘And follow me.’
Her heart leapt in triumph as he obeyed. He moved slowly, but he moved, rising groggily to his feet and standing, swaying unsteadily, beside her, waiting for further instructions.
She pointed to the door, swinging open and letting a band of white light into the barracks.
‘Go. To the door,’ she ordered and he began to trudge towards it, uncaring where he put his feet, kicking and treading on the other sleeping slaves. Remarkably, they showed little reaction, at most muttering or tossing in their sleep. She turned to follow him but a cold voice from the far end of the room stopped her in her tracks.
‘Just a moment, missy. Where do you think you’re going?’
It was a Committeeman. Even worse, it was Egon. Jarl Erak had been right. They did take turns to stand watch over the other slaves. She turned to face him as he made his way through the crowded room. Like Will, he paid no heed to the sleeping figures on the floor, treading on them as he came.
Evanlyn drew herself up, took a deep breath and said, in as steady a voice as she could manage: ‘Jarl Erak sent me to fetch this slave. He needs firewood brought into his quarters.’
The gang boss hesitated. It was not impossible that she was telling the truth. If one of the senior jarls ran out of firewood in the middle of the night, he’d have no compunction about sending a slave to bring a new stack in. However, he was suspicious and he thought he recognised this girl.
‘He sent for this slave in particular?’ he challenged.
‘That’s right,’ Evanlyn replied, trying to sound unconcerned. It was the one part of their story that was thin. There was no reason why Erak, or any other Skandian, would have specified a particular yard slave for a menial carrying task.
‘Why this slave?’ he pressed and she knew the bluff wouldn’t work. She tried another tack.
‘Well, he didn’t actually say this one. He just said a slave. But Will’s a friend of mine and he’ll get to work inside where it’s warm for a few hours and maybe a decent meal, so I thought …’ She let the sentence hang, shrugging her shoulders, hoping he’d be satisfied. Egon, however, simply continued to stare at her. Then, finally, his eyes narrowed in recognition.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You were in here the other day. I saw you looking around, didn’t I?’
Inwardly, Evanlyn cursed him. She decided she had to break this impasse quickly. She tugged out the small sack of coins and jingled it.
‘Look, I’m just trying to do a friend a good turn,’ she said. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
He glanced quickly over his shoulder to make sure none of the other Committeemen were witness to the scene. Then his hand shot out and he grabbed the sack from her.
‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘I do something for you, and you do something for me.’ He shoved the coins inside his shirt and moved closer to her, standing only a few centimetres away. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Will was waiting, an uninterested spectator, by the doorway. Suddenly Egon grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
‘Maybe you can find a few more coins hidden somewhere,’ he suggested. Then a frown came over his face as he felt a sharp pain in his belly – and a warm trickle running down his skin from the spot where the pain was centred. Evanlyn smiled without any warmth.
‘Maybe I can gut you like a herring if you don’t let go,’ she said, jabbing the razor-sharp dagger into his skin once more.
She wasn’t totally sure that herrings were gutted. But neither did he seem to be. He backed off quickly, waving at the door and cursing her.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Get out of here. But I’ll make your friend pay for this when he comes back.’
With a vast sigh of relief, Evanlyn hurried to the door, grabbing Will’s arm and dragging him outside. Once there, she turned and slid the bolt home again.
‘Come on, Will. Let’s get out of here,’ she said, and led the way towards the path to the harbour.
From the shadows, Jarl Erak watched the figures leave and heaved his own sigh of relief.
Then, after a few minutes, he followed them. There was still work for him to do this night.
The small cavalcade followed the road north. Halt and Horace rode in the centre with Deparnieux, who had changed into his customary black armour and surcoat. The raddled old hack that he had been riding was now consigned to the rear of the column, and he was astride a large, aggressive and, as Halt had expected, black battlehorse.
They were surrounded by at least two dozen men at arms, marching silently ahead and behind. In addition, there were ten mounted warriors, split into two groups of five and stationed at either end of the column.
Halt noticed that the men nearest them kept their crossbows loaded and ready for use. He had no doubt that at the first indication that they wanted to escape, he and Horace would be bristling with crossbow bolts before they had gone ten steps.
His own longbow was slung across his shoulder, while Horace had retained his sword and lance. Deparnieux had shrugged at them as he took them captive, indicating the mass of armed men around them.
‘You can see it’s no use resisting,’ he said, ‘so I’ll allow you to hold onto your weapons.’ He had then glanced meaningfully at the longbow resting lightly across Halt’s saddle pommel. ‘However,’ he added, ‘I think I’d feel more at ease with that bow unstrung, and slung over your shoulder.’
Halt had shrugged and complied. His look told Horace that there was a time to fight, and a time to accept the inevitable. Horace had nodded and they had fallen in beside the Gallic warlord, finding themselves immediately bunched in by his retainers. Halt noted wryly that Deparnieux’s generosity did not extend to their string of captured horses and armour. He gruffly ordered for their lead rein to be handed to one of his mounted retainers, who now rode at the rear of the column with them. Their captor noted with interest that the shaggy little pack horse did not have a lead rope, and stayed calmly alongside Halt’s mount. He raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.
To Halt’s surprise, the black-clad knight turned his horse’s head to the north and they began their march.
‘May I ask where you are taking us?’ he said.
Deparnieux bowed from the saddle with mock courtesy.
‘We are heading for my castle at Montsombre,’ he told them, ‘where you will remain as my guests for a short while.’
Halt nodded, digesting that piece of information. Then he asked further: ‘And why might we be doing that?’
The black knight smiled at him. ‘Because you interest me,’ he said. ‘You travel with a knight and you carry a yeoman’s weapons. But you’re no simple retainer, are you?’
Halt said nothing this time, merely shrugging. Deparnieux, eyeing him shrewdly, nodded as if confirming his own thought.
‘No. You are not. You’re the leader here, not the follower. And your clothing interests me. This cloak of yours …’ He leaned across from his saddle and fingered the folds of Halt’s dappled Ranger cloak. ‘I’ve never seen one quite like it.’
He paused, waiting to see if Halt would comment this time. When he didn’t, Deparnieux didn’t seem too surprised by the fact. He continued, ‘And you’re an expert archer. No, you’re more than that. I don’t know any archer who could have pulled off that s
hot you made last night.’
This time, Halt made a small gesture of selfdeprecation. ‘It wasn’t such a great shot,’ he replied. ‘I was aiming for your throat.’
Deparnieux’s laugh rang out loud and long.
‘Oh, I think not, my friend. I think your arrow went straight where you aimed it.’
And he laughed again. Halt noticed that the merriment, loud as it was, didn’t reach his eyes. ‘So,’ Deparnieux said, ‘I decided that such an unusual fish might deserve more study. You may be useful to me, my friend. After all, who knows what other skills and abilities may lie hidden under that unusual cloak of yours?’
Horace watched the two men. The Gallic knight seemed to have lost all interest in him and he wasn’t unhappy about that fact. In spite of the light, bantering words between the two men, he could sense the deadly serious undertones of the conversation. The whole thing was getting beyond him and he was content to follow Halt’s lead and see where this turn of events took them.
‘I doubt I’ll be of any use to you,’ Halt replied evenly to the warlord’s last statement. Horace wondered if Deparnieux read the underlying message there: that Halt had no intention of using his skills in his captor’s service.
It seemed that he had, for the black knight regarded the short figure riding beside him for a moment, then replied, ‘Well, we’ll see about that. For the meantime, let me offer you my hospitality until your young friend’s arm has healed.’ He looked around to smile at Horace, including him in the conversation for the first time. ‘After all, these are not safe roads to ride if you’re not fully fit.’
They made camp that night in a small clearing close to the road. Deparnieux posted sentries, but Halt noticed that the number assigned to watch inwards exceeded those who were tasked with guarding the camp from attack. Deparnieux must feel relatively safe within these lands, Halt thought. Significantly, as they settled for the night, their captor demanded that their weapons be surrendered for safekeeping. With no real alternative, the two Araluans were forced to comply.
At least the warlord made no further pretence of cordiality, choosing instead to eat and sleep alone in the pavilion – made from black canvas, of course – that his men pitched for him.
Halt found himself facing something of a quandary. If he were travelling alone, it would be a matter of the utmost simplicity for him to just melt away into the night, retrieving his weapons as he went.
But Horace was totally unskilled in the Ranger arts of unseen movement and evasion and there was no possibility that Halt could spirit him away as well. He had no doubt that, if he were to disappear alone, Horace would not survive very long. So Halt contented himself with waiting and seeing what might transpire. At least they were heading north, which was the direction they wanted to follow.
In addition, he had learned in the tavern the night before that the high passes between Teutlandt, the neighbouring land to the north, and Skandia above it, would be blocked by snows at this time of the year. So they might as well find quarters in which to spend the next month or two. He guessed that Chateau Montsombre would fit that bill as well as any other. Halt had no doubt that Deparnieux had some inkling of his real occupation. Obviously, he hoped to enlist him in his battle against neighbouring warlords. For the moment, he mused, they were safe enough, and heading in the right direction.
When the time came, he might have to ring a few changes. But that time wasn’t yet.
The following day, they came to the warlord’s castle. After his initial display of goodwill, Deparnieux had decided not to return their weapons in the morning and Halt felt strangely naked without the comforting, familiar weight of the knives at his belt and the two dozen arrows slung over his shoulder.
Chateau Montsombre reared above the surrounding forest on a plateau reached by a narrow, winding path. As they climbed higher and higher up the path, the ground fell away on either side in a sheer slope. The path itself was barely wide enough for four men travelling abreast. It was a width that allowed reasonable access to friendly forces, but prevented any invader from approaching in large numbers. It was a grim reminder of the state of affairs in Gallica, where neighbouring warlords battled constantly for supremacy and the possibility of attack was ever-present.
The castle itself was squat and powerful, with thick walls and heavy towers at each of the four corners. It had none of the soaring grace of Redmont or Castle Araluen. Rather, it was a dark, brooding and forbidding structure, built for war and for no other reason. Halt had told Horace that the word Montsombre translated to mean ‘dark mountain’. It seemed an appropriate name for the thickwalled building at the end of the winding, tortuous pathway.
The name became even more meaningful as they climbed higher. There were poles lining the side of the road, with strange, square structures hanging from them. As they drew closer, Horace could make out, to his horror, that the structures were iron cages, only an armspan wide, containing the remains of what used to be men. They hung high above the roadway, swaying gently in the wind that keened around the upper reaches of the path.
Some had obviously been there for many months. The figures inside were dried-out husks, blackened and shrivelled by their long exposure, and festooned in fluttering rags of rotting cloth. But others were newer and the men inside were recognisable. The cages were constructed from iron bars arranged in squares, leaving room for ravens and crows to enter and tear at the men’s flesh. The eyes of most of the bodies had been plucked out by the birds.
He glanced, sickened, at Halt’s grim face. Deparnieux saw the movement and smiled at him, delighted with the impression his roadside horrors were having on the boy.
‘Just the occasional criminal,’ he said easily. ‘They’ve all been tried and convicted, of course. I insist on a strict rule of law in Montsombre.’
‘What were their crimes?’ the boy asked. His throat was thick and constricted and it was difficult to form the words. Again, Deparnieux gave him that unconcerned smile. He made a pretence of trying to think.
‘Let’s say, “various”,’ he replied. ‘In short, they displeased me.’
Horace held the other man’s amused gaze for a few seconds, then, shaking his head, he turned away. He tried to keep his own gaze from the tattered, sorry figures hanging above him. There must have been more than twenty of them all told. Then, his horror increased as he realised that not all of them were dead. In one of the cages, he saw the imprisoned figure moving. At first, he thought it was an illusion, caused by the movement of the man’s clothing in the wind. Then one hand reached through the bars as they drew closer and a pitiful croaking sound came from the cage.
Unmistakably, it was a cry for mercy.
‘Oh my God,’ said Horace softly, and he heard Halt’s sharp intake of breath beside him.
Deparnieux reined in his black horse and sat, easing his weight to one side in the saddle.
‘Recognise him?’ he asked, an amused tone in his voice. ‘You saw him the other night, in the tavern.’
Horace frowned, puzzled. The man wasn’t familiar to him. But there had been at least a dozen people in the tavern on the night when they had first encountered the warlord. He wondered why he should be expected to remember this man more than any of the others. Then Halt said, in a cold voice:
‘He was the one who laughed.’
Deparnieux gave a low chuckle. ‘That’s right. He was a man of rare humour. Strange how his sense of fun seems to have deserted him now. You’d think he might while away the hours with the odd merry jest.’
And he shook his reins, slapping them on his battlehorse’s neck and moving off once again. The entourage moved with him, stopping when he stopped, moving when he moved, and forcing Halt and Horace to keep pace.
Horace looked at Halt once more, seeking some message of comfort there. The Ranger met his gaze for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. He understood how the boy was feeling, sickened by the depravity and abject cruelty he was witnessing. Somehow, Horace found a little comfort
from Halt’s nod. He touched his knee to Kicker’s side and urged him forward.
And together, they rode towards the dark and forbidding castle that waited for them.
The pony was where Erak had told her it would be..
It stood tethered to a sapling, its hindquarters turned patiently to the icy wind that was bringing the snow clouds lower over Hallasholm. Evanlyn untied the rope bridle and the little horse came docilely along. Above their heads, the wind sighed through the pine needles, sounding like some strange inland surf as it stirred the snowclad branches.
Will followed her dumbly, staggering in the calf-deep snow that covered the path. It was hard going for Evanlyn, but even harder for the boy, exhausted and worn out as he was from weeks of hard labour with insufficient food or warmth. Soon, she knew, she should stop and find the warm clothing that Erak had said was inside the pack on the pony’s back. And she’d probably need to let Will ride the pony if they were to make any distance before dawn. But, for the moment, she wanted no delay, no matter how short. All her instincts told her to continue, to put as much distance as possible between them and the Skandian township, and to do it as fast as she could.
The path wound up into the mountains and she leaned forward, into the wind, leading the pony with one hand and holding Will’s icy cold hand in the other. Together, they stumbled on, slipping on the thick snow, staggering over tree roots and rocks that were hidden beneath its smooth surface.
After half an hour’s travelling, she felt the first tentative flakes of snow brushing her face as they fell. Then they were tumbling down in earnest, heavy and thick. She paused, looking at the path behind them, where their footprints were already half obscured. Erak had known it would snow heavily tonight, she thought. He had waited until his sailor’s instincts had told him that all signs of their passage would be covered. For the first time since she had crept out of the Lodge’s open gateway, she felt her heart lift with hope. Perhaps, after all, things would work out for them.
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