Icebound Land (13 page)

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, expecting 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.

She became conscious of the fact that someone was calling her name and she sat up with a small groan. A chamber slave was moving through the rows of prone forms, occasionally stooping to shake a shoulder and ask if anyone knew where she would find the Araluen slave called Evanlyn. For the most part, she received blank stares and disinterested shrugs. Life among the slaves was not conducive to forming new friendships.

“Over here!” Evanlyn called, and the chamber slave looked to see where the voice had come from, then picked her way carefully across the bodies to her.

“You’re to come with me,” she said, a pompous tone in her voice. Chamber slaves, who looked after the living quarters in the Lodge, saw themselves as beings superior to mere kitchen slaves—a breed of people who lived in a world of grease and spilled wine and food.

“Where?” Evanlyn asked, and the girl sniffed disdainfully at her.

“Where you’re told,” she replied. Then, as Evanlyn made no move to rise, she was forced to add: “Jarl Erak says.” After all, she had no personal authority over kitchen slaves, even though she might think herself above them. The Skandians recognized no such differentiation. A slave was a slave, and apart from the gang bosses in the yard, they were all the same as one another.

There was a small stir of interest from the others sitting and lying nearby. It was not unknown for the senior Skandian officers to recruit their personal slaves from the ranks of the more attractive young girls.

Wondering what this was all about, Evanlyn rose and carefully folded her blanket, leaving it to mark her space. Then, gesturing for the other girl to lead the way, she followed her out of the kitchen.

Ragnak’s lodge was, in effect, a veritable rabbit warren of passageways and rooms leading from the central, high-ceilinged Great Hall where meals were served and official business conducted. The girl led Evanlyn now through a series of low, dimly lit passageways, until they reached what appeared to be a dead end. There was a door set into the end of the wall and the chamber slave indicated it to her.

“In there,” she said briefly, then added, “You’d better knock first.” And she turned away, hurrying back down the dim corridor. Evanlyn hesitated a moment, not sure what this was all about, then rapped with her knuckles on the hard oak of the door.

“Come in.” She recognized the voice that answered her knock. Erak’s vocal cords were trained to carry to his men over the gales of the Stormwhite Sea. He never seemed to lessen the volume. There was a latch on the outside of the door. She raised it and went inside.

Erak’s chambers were simple. Inevitably constructed from pine logs, there was a sitting room and, screened by a woven wool curtain, a bedchamber to one side. The sitting room had a small log fire burning at one end, giving the room a comfortable warmth, and several carved oak chairs. A very expensive and, she recognized, foreign tapestry covered the rush floor. She guessed it was the result of one of Erak’s raids to Gallica. In her years at Castle Araluen, she had seen many similar pieces. Woven by the artists of the Tierre Valley over a period of years that often spanned one or two decades, the rugs usually changed hands for a small fortune. Somehow, she didn’t think Erak had paid cash for his. The Jarl was sitting by the fire, leaning back in one of the comfortable-looking carved chairs. He motioned her in and indicated a bottle and glasses on a low table in the center of the room.

“Come in, girl. Pour us some wine and sit down. We have some talking to do.”

Uncertainly, she crossed the room and poured the red wine into two glasses. Then, handing one to the Skandian, she sat on the other armchair. Unlike Erak, however, she didn’t sprawl comfortably back. She perched nervously on the edge, as if poised for flight. The Jarl studied her with what appeared to be a hint of sadness in his look, then he waved a hand at her.

“Relax, girl. Nobody’s going to harm you—least of all me. Drink your wine.”

Tentatively, she took a sip and found it good. Erak was watching her and he saw the involuntary expression of surprise on her face.

“You know good wine, then?” he asked her. “I took a hogshead of this out of a Florentine ship in the last raiding season. Not bad, is it?”

She nodded her agreement. She was beginning to relax a little and the wine sent a soft glow through her. She hadn’t touched alcohol in any form for months, she realized. The thought occurred to her that she had better watch her step. And her tongue.

She waited now for the Skandian captain to speak. He seemed to be hesitating, as if not sure how he should proceed. The silence grew between them until, eventually, she could bear it no longer. She took another quick sip of her wine, then asked: “Why did you send for me?”

Jarl Erak had been staring into the flames of the small fire. He looked up in surprise now as she spoke. He must be unused to having slaves begin conversations with him, she thought. Then she shrugged. They could sit here in silence all night if someone didn’t get the ball rolling. She was intrigued to see a slow smile break out on the bearded face. It occurred to her that in another place, under different conditions, she could grow to quite like the Skandian pirate.

“Probably not for the reason you’re thinking,” he said, then, before she could reply, he continued, almost to himself, “But somebody has to do something and I think you’re the one for the job.”

“Do something?” Evanlyn repeated. “Do something about what?”

Erak seemed to come to a decision then. He heaved a deep sigh, drained the last of the wine in his glass and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his craggy, bearded face thrust toward her.

“Have you seen your friend lately?” he asked. “Young Will?”

Her eyes dropped from his gaze. She had seen him all right—or rather, she had seen the shambling, mindless figure that he had become. Some days ago, he had been working outside the kitchen and she had taken him some food. He snatched the bread from her hands and devoured it like an animal. But when she spoke to him, he had merely stared at her.

In two short weeks, he had already forgotten Evanlyn, forgotten Halt and the little cottage by the edge of the woods outside Castle Redmont. He had forgotten even the major events that had happened at the Plains of Uthal, when King Duncan’s army had faced and defeated Morgarath’s implacable Wargal regiments.

Those events, and all the others of his young life, might as well have taken place on the far side of the moon for all he was concerned. Today, his life and his total being centered on one thought and one thought only.

His next supply of warmweed.

One of the other slaves, an older woman, had witnessed the encounter. As Evanlyn returned to the kitchen, she had spoken softly to her.

“Forget your friend. The drug’s got him. He’s already dead.”

“I’ve seen him,” she told Erak now in a low voice.

“I had nothing to do with that,” he said angrily, surprising Evanlyn with the intensity of his reply. “Nothing. Believe me, girl, I hate that damn drug. I’ve seen what it does to people. No one deserves that sort of shadow life.”

She looked up to meet his gaze again. He was obviously sincere and, equally obviously, wanted her to acknowledge what he had said. She nodded.

“I believe you,” she said.

Erak rose from his chair. He strode restlessly about the small, warm room as if action, any form of physical action, would relieve the fury that had been building within him since he’d encountered Will.

“A boy like that, he’s a real warrior. He may only be knee-high to a gnat, but he’s got the heart of a true Skandian.”

“He’s a Ranger,” she told him quietly, and he nodded.

“That he is. And he deserves better than this. That damned drug! I don’t know why Ragnak allows it!”

He paused for a long moment, gaining control of his temper. Then he turned to her and continued.

“I want you to know that I tried to keep you two together. I had no idea Borsa would send him to the yard. The man has no concept of how to treat an honorable enemy. But what can you expect? Borsa’s no warrior. He counts sacks of grain for a living.”

“I see,” Evanlyn said carefully. She wasn’t sure that she did, but she felt some response was expected of her. Erak looked at her keenly, assessing her, she thought. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.

“Nobody survives the yard,” he added softly, almost to himself. As he said it, Evanlyn felt a cold hand wrap around her heart.

“So,” he said, “it’s up to us to do something about it.”

Evanlyn looked at him, hope rising inside her as he spoke those last words.

“Exactly what sort of thing do you have in mind?” she asked slowly, hoping against hope that she was judging this conversation correctly. Erak paused for a second or two, then decided, irrevocably, to commit himself.

“You’re going to escape,” he said finally. “You’re taking him with you and I’m helping you do it.”

T
HE TWO TRAVELERS SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT, TAKING IT IN
turns to keep watch. Neither of them trusted the local warlord not to come sneaking back in the darkness. As it turned out, however, their fears were unfounded. There was no further sign of Deparnieux that night.

The next morning, as they were saddling their horses in the barn at the rear of the building, the innkeeper approached Halt nervously.

“I can’t say, sir, that I am sorry to see you leave my inn,” he said apologetically. Halt patted him on the shoulder to show that he took no offense.

“I can understand your position, my friend. I’m afraid we haven’t endeared ourselves to your local thug.”

The innkeeper glanced around anxiously before agreeing with Halt, as if frightened that someone might be observing them and might report his disloyalty to Deparnieux. Halt guessed that such a thing had probably happened many times before in this town. He felt sorry for the man in the bar the previous night who had laughed—and been seen to do so by the black knight.

“He’s a bad, bad man, right enough, sir,” the innkeeper admitted in a lowered voice. “But what can the likes of us do about him? He has a small army at his back and we’re just tradesmen, not warriors.”

“I wish we could help you,” Halt told him, “but we do have to be on our way.” He hesitated just a second, then asked innocently, “Does the ferry at Les Sourges operate every day?”

Les Sourges was a river town that lay to the west, some twenty kilometers away. Halt and Horace were traveling north. But the Ranger was sure that Deparnieux would return, asking for any clues as to the direction they had taken. He didn’t expect the innkeeper would keep his question a secret. Nor would he blame him if he didn’t. The man was nodding now in confirmation of the question.

“Yes, sir, the ferry will still be running at this time of year. Next month, when the water freezes, it will close down and travelers will have to use the bridge at Colpennières.”

Halt swung up into the saddle. Horace was already mounted, and held the lead rein for their string of captured horses. After the previous night’s events, they had decided it would be wiser to leave the town as quickly as possible.

“We’ll make for the ferry, then,” he said in a carrying voice. “The road forks a few miles to the north, I take it?”

Again, the innkeeper nodded. “That’s right, sir. It’s the first major crossroads you come to. Take the road to the left and you’re headed for the ferry.”

Halt raised a hand in thanks and farewell, and nudging Abelard with his knee, he led the way out of the stable yard.

They traveled hard that day. Reaching the crossroads, they ignored the left turn and continued straight ahead, heading north. There was no sign on the road behind them that there was any pursuit. But the hills and the woods that surrounded them could have concealed an army if need be. Halt wasn’t entirely convinced that Deparnieux, who knew the countryside, wasn’t traveling parallel to them somewhere, perhaps outflanking them to set up an ambush at some point farther along the road.

It came as something of an anticlimax when, in midafternoon, they arrived at yet another small bridge, with yet another knight in attendance, barring their passage across and offering them the choice of paying tribute or contesting with him.

The knight, astride a bony chestnut horse that should have been retired two or three years ago, was a far cry from the warlord they had confronted the night before. His surcoat was muddy and tattered. It may have been yellow once, but now it had faded to a dirty off-white. His armor had been patched in several places and his lance was obviously a roughly trimmed sapling, with a decided kink about a third of the way along its length. His shield was inscribed with a boar’s head. It seemed appropriate for a man as rusty, tattered and generally grubby as he was.

They came to a halt, surveying the scene. Halt sighed wearily.

“I am getting so very tired of this,” he muttered to Horace, and began unslinging his longbow from where he wore it across his shoulders.

“Just a moment, Halt,” said Horace, shrugging his round buckler from its position on his back and onto his left arm. “Why don’t we let him see the oakleaf insignia and see if that changes his mind about things?”

Halt scowled at the tatterdemalion figure in the road ahead of them, hesitating as his hand reached for an arrow.

“Well, all right,” he said reluctantly. “But we’ll give him one chance only. Then I’m putting an arrow through him. I’m heartily sick of these people.”

He slouched back in his saddle as Horace rode to meet the scruffy knight. So far, there had been no sound from the figure in the middle of the road and that, thought Halt, was unusual. As a general rule, the road warriors couldn’t wait to issue challenges, usually peppering their speech with generous helpings of “Ho, varlet!” and “Have at thee then, sir knight” and other antiquated claptrap of the sort.

And even as the thought occurred to him, warning bells went off in his mind and he called to the young apprentice who was now some twenty meters away, trotting Kicker to meet his challenger.

“Horace! Come back! It’s a…”

But before he could say the last word, an amorphous shape dropped from the branches of an oak tree that overhung the road, draping itself around the head and shoulders of the boy. For a moment, Horace struggled uselessly in the folds of the net that enveloped him. Then an unseen hand tugged on a rope and the net tightened around him and he was jerked out of the saddle, to crash heavily onto the road.

Startled, Kicker reared away from his fallen rider, trotted a few paces, then, sensing he was in no danger himself, stopped and watched, ears pricked warily.

“…trap,” finished Halt quietly, cursing his lack of awareness. Distracted by the ridiculous appearance of the shabby knight, he had allowed his senses to relax, leading them into this current predicament.

He had an arrow on the bowstring now, but there was no visible target, save the knight on the ancient battlehorse, who still sat silently in the middle of the road. He was part of the entire elaborate setup, without a doubt. He had shown no sign of surprise when the net had fallen onto Horace.

“Well, my friend, you can pay for your part in this deception,” Halt muttered, and brought the bow up smoothly, bringing it back in a full draw until the feathered end touched his cheek, just above the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think I’d do that,” said a familiar gravelly voice. The ragged, rusty knight pushed back his visor, revealing the dark features of Deparnieux.

Halt swore to himself. He hesitated, the arrow still at full draw, and heard a series of small noises from the underbrush on either side of the road. Slowly, he released the tension on the string as he became aware that at least a dozen shapes had risen from the bushes, all of them holding deadly little crossbows.

All of them pointing toward him.

He replaced the arrow in the quiver at his back and lowered the bow until it rested across his thighs. He glanced hopelessly to where Horace still struggled against the fine woven mesh that had wrapped itself around him. Now more men were emerging from the bushes and trees that flanked the road. They approached the helpless apprentice, and as four of them covered him with crossbows, the others worked to loosen the folds of the net and bring him, red-faced, to his feet.

Deparnieux, grinning widely with satisfaction, urged his bony horse down the road toward them. Stopping within easy speaking distance, he performed a cursory bow from the waist.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said mockingly, “I will be privileged to have you as my guests at Château Montsombre.”

Halt raised one eyebrow. “How could we possibly refuse?” he asked, of no one in particular.