Icebound Land (6 page)

T
HE WOLFSHIP WAS IN BAD SHAPE.
S
HE CRABBED AWKWARDLY
toward the shingle beach, where the crew of Erak’s ship was spilling out of their hut to watch. She was listing heavily, and she sat a good deal lower in the water than she should. The guardrail on the downward side of the list was barely ten centimeters from the water.

“It’s Slagor’s ship!” one of the Skandians on the beach called, recognizing the wolfshead crest on the upcurving bowsprit.

“What’s he doing here?” another asked. “He was safe back in Skandia when we left for Araluen.”

Will had hurried around from the rocks where he had been tossing driftwood into the water. He saw Evanlyn making her way down from the lean-to and he joined her. Her former annoyance was forgotten at this new turn of events.

“Where did the ship come from?” she asked, and Will shrugged.

“I have no idea. I was out on the rocks and I just looked up and there she was.”

The ship was close in now. The crewmen looked haggard and exhausted, Will noticed. Now he could see gaps between several of the planks forming the hull, and the ragged stump where the mast had shattered and gone overboard. The Skandians standing around them noted these facts, and commented on them.

“Slagor!” Erak called across the calm water. “Where the devil did you spring from?”

The burly man at the stern, controlling the ship’s steering oar, waved a hand in greeting. He was plainly exhausted, and glad to make harbor.

One of the crew now stood in the bow of the ship and tossed a heavy line to Erak’s men waiting on the beach. In a few seconds, a dozen of them had tailed onto the rope and begun to haul the wolfship in the last few meters. Gratefully, the rowers slumped back on their benches, without the energy to ship their oars. The heavy, carved-oak sweeps trailed in the water, bumping dully against the ship’s sides as they pivoted back in the oarlocks. The keel grated against the shingle and the ship came to a halt. Sitting lower in the water than
Wolfwind,
it wouldn’t ride as far up the slope of the beach. The bow struck and stuck fast.

The men on board began to disembark, hauling themselves over the bulwarks at the bow and dropping to the beach. The rowing crew staggered up onto dry land and stretched themselves out with groans of weariness, dropping onto the coarse stones and sand and lying as if dead. One of the last to come ashore was Slagor, the captain.

He dropped tiredly to the beach. His beard and hair were matted and rimed white with salt. His eyes were red and haunted-looking. He and Erak faced each other. Oddly, they didn’t greet each other with the normal grasped forearms. Will realized that there must be little love between the two men.

“What are you doing here at this time of year?” Erak asked the other skipper.

Slagor shook his head disgustedly. “We’re damned lucky to be here. We were two days out of Hallasholm when the storm hit us. Waves as big as castles there were, and the wind was straight from the pole. The mast went in the first hour and we couldn’t cut it loose. Lost two men trying to clear it. Then the butt end kept slamming into the ship’s waterline, and before we got rid of it, it had driven a hole in the planks. We had one compartment flooded before we knew what was happening, and leaks in the other three.”

The wolfships, in spite of the fact that they looked like open boats, were actually highly seaworthy vessels. This was in no small part due to the design that divided the hulls into four separate, watertight compartments beneath the main deck and between the two lower galleries where the rowers sat. It was the buoyancy of these compartments that kept the ships afloat even when they were swamped by the huge waves that coursed across the Stormwhite Sea.

Will glanced at Erak now. He saw the heavily built Jarl was frowning at Slagor’s words.

“What were you doing at sea in the first place?” Erak asked. “This is no time to try to cross the Stormwhite.”

Slagor took a wooden beaker of brandy-spirit offered by one of Erak’s men. Around the small harbor, the crew of Erak’s ship was bringing drinks to their exhausted countrymen and, in some cases, tending to injuries obviously sustained as their ship had tossed and heaved in the storm. Slagor made no gesture of thanks and Erak frowned slightly. Again, Will was conscious of a feeling of animosity between the two captains. Even Slagor’s manner was belligerent as he described their misfortune, as if he were somehow defensive about the whole matter. Now he drank half the brandy in one long gulp and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.

“Weather had cleared back in Hallasholm,” he said shortly. “I thought we had a break long enough to get across the storm zone.”

Erak’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“At this time of year?” he asked. “Are you mad?”

“Thought we could make it,” Slagor repeated stubbornly, and Will saw Erak’s eyes narrow. The burly Jarl lowered his voice so that it didn’t carry to the other crewmen. Only Will and Evanlyn heard him.

“Damn you, Slagor,” he said bitterly. “You were trying to get a jump on the raiding season.”

Slagor faced the other captain angrily. “And if I was? It was my decision to make as captain. No one else’s, Erak.”

“And your decision cost two men their lives,” Erak pointed out. “Two men who were sworn to abide by your decisions, no matter how foolhardy those decisions might be. Any man with more than five minutes’ experience would know that this is too early to make the crossing!”

“There was a lull!” the other man shot back, and Erak snorted in disgust.

“A lull! There are always lulls! They last a day or two. But that’s not long enough to make the crossing and you know it. Damn you for your greed, Slagor!”

Slagor drew himself up. “You’ve no right to judge me, Erak. A captain is master of his own ship and you know it. Like you, I’m free to choose when and where I go,” he said. His voice was louder than Erak’s and Will sensed he was blustering.

“I’ll note you chose not to join us in the war we’ve just been fighting,” Erak replied, scorn in his voice. “You were content to sit at home for that, then try to sneak out and get the easy pickings before other captains were ready to leave.”

“My choice,” Slagor repeated, “and a wise one, as it’s turned out.” His voice became a sneer. “I notice you didn’t exactly have a great deal of success in your invasion, did you, Jarl Erak?”

Erak stepped closer. His eyes blazed a warning at the other man.

“Watch your tone, you sneak thief. I left good friends behind me there.”

“And more than friends, as I’ve heard,” replied Slagor, emboldened now. “You’ll get scant thanks from Ragnak for leaving his son behind as well.”

Erak stepped back, his jaw dropping. “Gronel was taken in the battle?”

Slagor shook his head now, smiling at the other man’s loss of poise. “Not taken. Killed, I heard, at the Thorntree battle. Some of the ships managed to make it back to Skandia before the storms set in.”

Will glanced up quickly at that.
Wolfwind,
Erak’s ship, had been the last to leave the Araluen coast. The crew were still waiting for Erak’s return when the survivors of Horth’s ill-fated expedition had straggled back to the ships, bringing news of the failure and then sailing away. Will had later heard
Wolfwind
’s crew talking about the Thorntree battle. Two Rangers, one short and grizzled, the other young and tall, had led the King’s forces that decimated the Skandian army as they had marched to outflank Duncan’s main force. Somehow, Will knew in his heart that they had been Halt and Gilan.

Erak shook his head sadly. “Gronel was a good man,” he said. “We’ll feel his loss sorely.”

“His father is feeling it. He’s sworn a Vallasvow against Duncan and his family.”

“That can’t be right,” Erak said, frowning in disbelief. “A Vallasvow is only to be taken against treachery or murder.”

Slagor shrugged. “He’s the Oberjarl. He can do as he likes, I’d say. Now for pity’s sake, do you have any food on this godforsaken island? Our stores are ruined by seawater.”

Erak, still distracted by the news he’d just heard, became aware of Will and Evanlyn’s presence. He jerked his head toward the huts.

“Get a fire going,” he told them. “These men need hot food.”

He was angry that Slagor had to remind him of his duty in this matter. He may not have liked the other captain, but his men deserved help and attention after all they had been through. He shoved Will roughly toward the hut. The boy staggered, then began to run, Evanlyn close behind him.

Will had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had no idea what a Vallasvow might be, but he knew one thing. Keeping Evanlyn’s identity a secret had suddenly become a matter of life and death.

T
HE ROAD NEARED THE OCEAN, AND THE WOODS ON EITHER SIDE
gradually moved closer and closer, as fertile, tilled fields gave way to denser forest country. It was the sort of country where peaceful travelers might well become fearful of bandits, as the thick trees close to the roadside gave ample cover for an ambush. Halt, however, had no such fears. In fact, his mood was so dark that he might well have welcomed an attempt by bandits to rob him of his few belongings.

His heavy saxe knife and throwing knife were easy to hand under his cloak, and he carried his longbow strung, resting across the pommel of his saddle, in Ranger fashion. One corner of his cloak, specially made for the purpose, folded back from his shoulder, leaving the feathered ends of the two dozen arrows in his quiver within quick, unimpeded reach. It was said that each Ranger carried the lives of twenty-four men in his quiver, such was their uncanny, deadly accuracy with the longbow.

Aside from these obvious weapons, and his own finely honed instinct for danger, Halt had two other, not so obvious, advantages over any potential attacker. The two Ranger horses, Tug and Abelard, were trained to give quiet warning of the presence of any strangers that they sensed. And now, as Halt rode, Abelard’s ears twitched several times and he and Tug both tossed their heads and snorted.

Halt reached forward and patted his horse’s neck gently.

“Good boys,” he said softly to the two stocky little horses, and their ears twitched in recognition of his words. To any observer, the cloaked rider was merely quietening his mount—a perfectly normal turn of events. In fact, his senses were heightened and his mind was racing. He spoke again, one word.

“Where?”

Abelard’s head angled slightly to the left, pointing toward a copse of trees closer to the road than the rest, some fifty meters further on. Halt glanced quickly over his shoulder and noted that Tug, trotting quietly behind him, was looking in the same direction. Both horses had sensed the presence of strangers, or perhaps a stranger, in the trees. Now Halt spoke again.

“Release.”

And the two horses, knowing that their warning had been taken and the direction noted, turned their heads back from the direction they had indicated. It was this sort of specialized skill that gave Rangers their uncanny capacity for survival and for anticipating trouble.

Still apparently totally unaware of the presence of anyone in the trees, Halt rode forward at the same relaxed pace. He smiled grimly to himself as he considered the fact that the horses could only tell him that someone was there. They could not foretell that person’s intentions, or whether or not he was an enemy.

That would be supernatural power indeed, he thought to himself.

He was forty meters from the trees now. There were half a dozen of them—bushy and surrounded by heavy undergrowth. They afforded perfect cover for an ambush. Or, he reasoned, for someone who simply wanted shelter from the soft rain that had fallen for the past ten hours or so. From beneath the cowl of his hood, shaded and invisible to any observer, Halt’s eyes darted and searched the thick cover. Abelard, closer now to the potential danger, let go a deep-throated grumbling sound. It was barely audible, and was felt by his rider more as a rumbling vibration in his horse’s barrel chest than anything else. Halt nudged him with one knee.

“I know,” he said softly, knowing the shadow of his cowl would hide any movement of his lips.

This was close enough, he decided. His bow gave him the advantage as long as he stayed at a distance. He tweaked the reins gently and Abelard halted, Tug taking one more pace before he too came to a stop.

With an easy, fluid motion, Halt reached for an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the string of his bow. He made no attempt to draw the bow. Years of constant practice made him capable of drawing, aiming, firing and hitting in the blink of an eye.

“I’d like to see you in the open,” he called, in a carrying voice. There was a moment’s hesitation, then a heavyset mounted figure spurred forward from the trees, coming to a halt on clear ground at the verge of the road.

A warrior, Halt saw, noting the dull gleam of chain mail at his arms and around his neck. He wore a cloak as well, to keep the rain off. A simple, conical steel helmet was slung to his saddlebow and a round, unblazoned buckler was slung at his back. Halt could see no sign of a sword or other weapon, but he reasoned that any such would most likely be worn on the man’s left side, the side farthest away from him. It was safe to assume that the rider would be carrying a weapon of some kind. After all, there was no point in wearing half armor and going weaponless.

There was something familiar about the figure, however. A moment more and Halt recognized the rider. He relaxed, replacing the arrow in his quiver with the same smooth, practiced movement.

He urged Abelard forward and rode to greet the other rider.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, already having a pretty good idea what the answer was going to be.

“I’m coming with you,” said Horace, confirming what Halt had suspected. “You’re going to find Will and I want to join you.”

“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 realized.

“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 realized 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 saddlebag 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 that 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 midsentence, 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 toward the east coast. They had gone another hundred meters 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.