Icebound Land (15 page)

“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 centimeters 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 centered. 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 toward the path to the harbor.

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.

T
HE SMALL CAVALCADE FOLLOWED THE ROAD NORTH.
H
ALT AND
Horace rode in the center with Deparnieux, who had changed into his customary black armor 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 on to 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 armor. 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 packhorse 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. 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 shot you made last night.”

This time, Halt made a small gesture of self-deprecation. “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 inward 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 Araluens were forced to comply.

At least the warlord made no further pretense 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 traveling 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 neighboring 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 Château 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 neighboring 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.

Château 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 traveling 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 neighboring 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 thick-walled 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 arm span 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 shriveled by their long exposure, and festooned in fluttering rags of rotting cloth. But others were newer and the men inside were recognizable. 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 pretense 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 realized 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. “Recognize 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 humor. 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 toward the dark and forbidding castle that waited for them.

T
HE PONY WAS WHERE
E
RAK HAD TOLD HER IT WOULD BE.
I
T
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 snow-clad 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 labor 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 traveling, 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.

Behind her, Will stumbled and, muttering incoherently, fell to his knees in the snow. She turned to him and realized that he was shivering and blue with the cold, virtually done in. Moving to the pack slung over the pony’s back, she unlaced the fastenings and rummaged inside.

There was a thick sheepskin vest, among other items, and she draped it around the shivering boy’s shoulders, helping him push his arms through the armholes. He stared at her dully as she did so. He was a dumb animal, mutely accepting whatever befell him. She could hit him, she knew, and he would make no attempt to avoid the blow, or to strike back at her. Sadly, she contemplated him, remembering him as he had been. Erak had said he could possibly recover, although very few warmweed addicts ever got the chance. Isolated in the mountains as they would be, Will was going to have every opportunity to break the vicious cycle of the drug. She prayed now that the Skandian Jarl was right, and that it was possible for an addict, deprived of warmweed, to make a full recovery.

She shoved the unresisting boy toward the pony, motioning for him to climb astride. For a moment he hesitated, then, clumsily, he hauled himself up into the saddle and sat there, swaying uncertainly, as she headed out again, following the forest pathway as it led them up into the mountains.

Around them, the fat flakes of snow continued to tumble down.

Erak watched the two figures move furtively off into the forest, taking the fork that he had described to Evanlyn. Satisfied that they were on their way, he followed them out of the stockade but continued past the point where they had turned off, and headed for the harbor instead.

There were no sentries posted at the Great Hall at this time of year. There was no fear of attackers, as the thick snows covering the mountains around them were more effective than any human sentries. But Erak was more cautious as he approached the harbor front. A watch was kept here, to ensure that the wolfships rode safely at their moorings. A sudden squall could see the ships dragging their anchors and being cast up onshore, and so a few men were posted to give warning and rouse the duty crews in case of danger.

But they could just as easily see him and wonder what he was doing at this time of night, so he stayed in the shadows wherever he could.

His own ship,
Wolfwind,
was moored to the harbor quay and he boarded her silently, knowing that there was no duty crew present. He’d dismissed them that afternoon, relying on his reputation as a weather forecaster to reassure them that there would be no strong winds that night. He leaned over the outboard bulwark and there, floating in the lee of the ship, was the small skiff he had moored there earlier in the day. He glanced at the way the boats in the harbor rode to their moorings and saw that the tide was still running out. He had timed his arrival to coincide with the falling tide and now he climbed quickly down into the smaller craft, felt around in the stern for the drainage plug and pulled it loose. The icy water cascaded in over his hands. When the boat was half-full, he replaced the plug and heaved himself back over the rail onto the wolfship. Drawing his dagger, he cut through the painter holding the skiff alongside.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the little craft, already sitting lower in the water, began to slide astern, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the tide drew it along. There was one oar in the boat, set in the oarlock. He’d arranged it that way in case the boat was found in the next few days. The combination of an empty boat, apparently swamped and half-full of water, with one oar missing, would all point to an accident. The skiff drifted down harbor, becoming lost to sight among the larger craft that crowded the anchorage.

Satisfied that he had done all he could, Erak slipped back ashore and retraced his steps to the Great Hall. As he went, he noticed with satisfaction that the heavy snow had already obliterated the tracks he had made earlier. By morning, there would be no sign that anyone had passed this way. The missing boat and the cut painter would be the only clues as to where the escaped slaves had gone.

The going was harder as the pathway through the forest grew steeper. Evanlyn’s breath came in ragged gasps, and hung on the frigid air in great clouds of steam. The slight wind that had stirred the pines earlier had died away as the snow began to fall. Her throat and mouth were dry and there was an unpleasant, brassy taste in her mouth. She’d tried to ease her thirst several times with handfuls of snow, but the relief was short-lived. The intense cold of the snow undid any benefit that she might have gotten from the small amount of water that trickled down her throat as the snow melted.

She glanced behind her. The pony was trudging doggedly in her tracks, head down and seemingly unaffected by the cold. Will was a huddled shape on the pony’s back, wrapped deep in the folds of the sheepskin vest. He moaned softly and continuously.

She paused for a moment, breathing raggedly, taking in huge gulps of the freezing air. It bit almost painfully at the back of her throat. The muscles in the backs of her thighs and calves were aching and trembling from the effort of driving on through the thick snow, but she knew she had to keep going as long as she could. She had no idea how far she had traveled from the Lodge at Hallasholm, but she suspected it was not far enough. If Erak’s attempt to lay a false trail was unsuccessful, she had no doubt that a party of able-bodied Skandians could cover the ground she and Will had traveled in less than an hour. Erak’s instructions were to get as far up the mountain as possible before dawn came. Then they must get off the pathway and into the cover of the thick trees, where she and Will could hide for the day.

She looked up at the narrow gap through the trees above her. The thick overcast hid any sign of the moon or stars. She had no idea how late it was or how soon the dawn might come.

Miserably, with every muscle in her legs protesting, she started upward again, the pony trailing stolidly behind her. For a moment, she considered climbing up onto the saddle behind Will and riding double. Then she dismissed the notion. It was only a small pony, and while he might carry one person and their packs uncomplainingly, a double load in these conditions would quickly tire him. Knowing how much depended on the shaggy little beast, she reluctantly decided that it was best for her to continue on foot. If she exhausted the pony, it could well be a death sentence for Will. She’d never keep him moving, exhausted and weakened as he was.

She trudged on, lifting each foot clear of the snow, planting it down, slipping slightly as it crunched through the ever-thickening ground cover, compacting it until she had a firm footing once more. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Mouth drier than ever. Breath still clouding on the air and hanging in the still night behind her, briefly marking where she had passed. Unthinkingly, she began to count the paces as she took them. There was no reason to it. She wasn’t consciously trying to measure distance. It was an instinctive reaction to the constant, repetitive rhythm she had established. She reached two hundred and started again. Reached it again and started from one once more. Then, after several more times, she realized that she had no idea how many times she had reached that two hundred mark and she stopped counting. Within twenty steps, she became aware that she was counting again. She shrugged. This time, she decided, she’d count to four hundred before starting back at one again. Anything for a little variety, she thought with grim humor.

The thick flakes of snow continued falling, brushing her face and matting her hair pure white. Her face was growing numb and she rubbed it vigorously with the back of her hand, realized the hand was numb as well and stopped to look through the pack once more.

She’d seen gloves in there when she’d found the vest for Will. She located them again, thick wool gauntlets, with a thumb piece and a single space for the rest of her fingers. She pulled them onto her freezing hands, swinging her arms, slapping her hands against her ribs and up under her armpits to stimulate the circulation. After a few minutes of this, she felt a brief tingle of returning sensation and began walking again.

The pony had stopped when she did. Now, patiently, it moved off again in her footprints.

She reached four hundred and started back at one.