The Icebound Land

10

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.