The hope, however, was short-lived. He noticed a faint glint of amusement in the man’s eyes as he recognised the gambit for what it was.
‘Oh, here and there,’ Halt replied vaguely. ‘It’s not a task of sufficient importance to interest a warlord such as yourself.’ The tone of his voice left the knight in no doubt that he would not be answering casual questions about their end destination, or even their intended direction of travel.
‘Sir Horace,’ he added, aware that the boy was still within arm’s reach of the black knight, ‘why don’t you sit yourself down over there and rest your injured arm?’
Horace glanced at him, then understanding dawned and he moved away from the knight, taking a seat by the edge of the fire. There was absolute silence in the room now. The townspeople gazed at the two men confronting each other, wondering where this impasse was going to end. Only two people in the room, Halt and Deparnieux, knew that the knight was trying to gauge his chances of drawing his sword and cutting down the archer before he could fire. As Deparnieux hesitated, he met the unwavering gaze of the Ranger.
‘I really wouldn’t,’ said Halt, mildly. The black knight read the message in his eyes and knew that, fast as he might be, the other man’s reply would be faster. He inclined his head slightly in recognition of the fact. This was not the time.
He forced a smile onto his face and made a mocking bow in Horace’s direction.
‘Perhaps another day, Sir Horace,’ he said lightly. ‘I would look forward to a friendly trial of arms with you when you are recovered.’
This time, he noticed, the boy glanced quickly at his older companion before replying. ‘Perhaps another day,’ he agreed.
Embracing the room with a thin smile, Deparnieux turned on his heel and walked to the door. He paused there a moment, his eyes seeking Halt’s once more. The smile faded and the message he sent was clear. Next time, my friend. Next time.
The door closed behind him and a collective sigh of relief went round the room. Instantly, a babble of conversation broke out among those present. The musicians, sensing that their moment was over for the night, packed away their instruments and gratefully accepted drinks from the serving girl.
Horace moved to the beam where Halt’s arrow had pinned the knight’s gauntlet. He wrestled the shaft free, dropped the glove onto a table and returned the arrow to Halt.
‘What was that all about?’ he asked, a little breathlessly. Halt moved back to their table in the shadows, and leaned his longbow against the wall once more.
‘That,’ he told the boy, ‘is what happens when you begin to acquire a reputation. Our friend Deparnieux is obviously the person who controls this area and he saw you as a potential challenge to that control. So, he came here to kill you.’
Horace shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But … why? I don’t have any quarrel with the man. Did I offend him somehow? I certainly didn’t mean to,’ he said. Halt nodded gravely.
‘That’s not the point,’ he told the young apprentice. ‘He doesn’t give a toss about you. You were simply an opportunity for him.’
‘An opportunity?’ Horace asked. ‘For what?’
‘To re-affirm his hold over the people in the area,’ Halt explained. ‘People like him rule by fear, for the most part. So, when a young knight comes into the area with a reputation as a champion, somebody like Deparnieux sees it as an opportunity. He provokes a fight with you, kills you, and his own reputation is enlarged. People fear him more and are less likely to challenge his control over them. Understand?’
The boy nodded slowly. ‘It’s not the way it should be,’ he said, a disappointed tone in his voice. ‘It’s not the way chivalry was intended to be.’
‘In this part of the world,’ Halt told him, ‘it’s the way it is.’
Jarl Erak, wolfship captain and member of Ragnak’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 enquire 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 pre-dawn darkness. Erak then threatened to brain him with a battleaxe 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 recognise 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 recognised 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 shovelling 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 fresh water 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 round her. 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 Araluan 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 came 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 superior beings to mere kitchen slaves – a breed of people who lived in a world of grease and spilt 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 recognised no such differentiation. A slave was a slave and, apart from the gang bosses in the yard, they were all the same as each other.
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, highceilinged 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 recognised the voice that answered her knock. Erak’s vocal chords 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 recognised, 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 centre 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 surprisingly 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 realised. 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 towards 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 centred 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 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 honourable 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.’
The two travellers 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 offence.
‘I can understand your position, my friend. I’m afraid we haven’t endeared ourselves to your local thug.’
The innkeeper glanced round nervously 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.