The Icebound Land

14

"W OULDN'T YOU KNOW IT?" H ALT SAID SOFTLY, IN A DISGUSTED tone.

Ahead of them, a humpbacked stone bridge reared over a small stream.

Sitting his horse between the two travelers and the bridge was a knight in full armor.

Halt reached back over his shoulder and took an arrow from the quiver there, laying it on the bowstring without even looking to see what he was doing.

"What is it, Halt?" Horace asked.

"It's the sort of tomfoolery these Gallicans go on with when I'm in a hurry to be on my way," he muttered, shaking his head in annoyance. "This idiot is going to demand tribute from us to allow us to cross his precious bridge."

Even as he spoke, the armored man pushed up his visor with the back of his right hand. It was a clumsy movement, made even more so by the fact that he was holding a heavy, three-meter lance in that hand.

He nearly lost his grip on the lance, managing to bang it against the side of his helmet in the process, an action that caused a dull clanging sound to carry to the two travelers.

"Arretez la, mes seigneurs, avant de passer ce pont-ci!" he called, in a rather high-pitched voice. Horace didn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakably supercilious.

"What did he say?" Horace wanted to know, but Halt merely shook his head at the knight.

"Let him speak our tongue if he wants to talk to us," he said angrily, then, in a louder voice, he called: "Araluens!"

Even at the distance they stood from the other man, Horace made out the shrug of disdain at the mention of their nationality. Then the knight spoke again, his thick accent making the words barely more recognizable than when he had been speaking Gallican.

"You, ma sewers, mah not croess ma brudge wuthut you pah meh a trebute," he called. Horace frowned now.

"What?" he asked Halt, and the Ranger turned to him.

"Barbaric, isn't it? He said, 'You, my sirs'-that's us, of course-'may not cross my bridge without you pay me a tribute.'"

"A tribute?" Horace asked.

"It's a form of highway robbery," Halt explained. "If there were any real law in this idiotic country, people like our friend there would never get away with this. As it is, they can do as they like.

Knights set themselves up at bridges or crossroads and demand that people pay tribute to pass. If they can't pay tribute, they can choose to fight them. Since most travelers aren't equipped to fight a fully armored knight, they pay the tribute."

Horace sat back on his horse, studying the mounted man. He was trotting his horse back and forth across the road now, in a display that was doubtless intended to discourage them from resistance. His kite-shaped shield was emblazoned with a crude rendition of a stag's head. He wore full mail armor, covered by a blue surcoat that also bore the stag's-head symbol. He had metal gauntlets, greaves on his shins and a pot-shaped helmet with a sliding visor, currently open.

The face under the visor was thin, with a prominent, pointed nose. A wide mustache extended past the sides of the visor opening. Horace could only assume that the knight crammed its ends inside when he lowered the visor.

"So what will we do?" he asked.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to shoot the silly idiot," Halt replied in a resigned sort of voice. "I'll be damned if I'll pay tribute to every jumped-up bandit who thinks the world owes him a free living. It could be a damn nuisance, though."

"Why's that?" Horace asked. "If he goes around asking for a fight, who's going to care if he gets killed? He deserves it."

Halt laid the bow, arrow nocked and ready, down across his saddle.

"It's to do with what these idiots call chivalry," he explained.

"If he were to be killed or wounded by another knight in knightly combat, that would be quite excusable. Regrettable perhaps, but excusable. On the other hand, if I put an arrow through his empty head, that would be considered cheating. He's sure to have friends or relatives in the area. These morons usually travel in packs. And if I kill him, they'll want to come after us. It's a damned nuisance, as I said."

Sighing, he began to raise the bow.

Horace glanced once more at the imperious figure ahead of them.

The man seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he was a few seconds away from a very messy end. Obviously, he'd had little to do with Rangers and was given confidence by the fact that he wore full armor.

He seemed to have no idea that Halt could put an arrow through the closed visor of his helmet if he chose. The open visor was almost too easy a mark for someone of Halt's skill.

"Would you like me to take care of it?" Horace finally offered, a little hesitantly. Halt, his bow halfway up to the ready position, reacted with surprise.

"You?" he said.

Horace nodded. "I'm not a full knight yet, I know, but I think I could handle him all right. And as long as his friends think he was knocked over by another knight, nobody will come after us, will they?"

"Sirrahs!" the man shouted now, impatiently, "yer murst enswer mah demond!" Horace cocked an eyebrow at Halt.

"We must answer his demand. Are you sure you're not taking on too much?" the Ranger said. "After all, he is a fully qualified knight."

"Well:yes," said Horace awkwardly. He didn't want Halt to think he was boasting. "But he's not actually very good, is he?"

"Isn't he?" Halt asked sarcastically, and to his surprise the boy shook his head.

"No. Not really. Look at how he sits his horse. He's got dreadful balance. And he's already holding his lance too tightly, see? And then there's his shield. He's got it slung way too low to cover a sudden Juliette, hasn't he?"

Halt's eyebrows raised. "And what might a Juliette be?"

Horace didn't seem to notice the note of sarcasm in the Ranger's voice. He explained stolidly: "It's a sudden change of target with the lance. You begin by aiming for the shield at chest height, then at the last moment you raise the tip to the helmet." He paused, then added, with a slight tone of apology, "I don't know why it's called a Juliette. It just is."

There was a long silence between them. The boy wasn't boasting, Halt could see. He really seemed to know what he was talking about.

The Ranger scratched his cheek thoughtfully. It might be useful to see how good Horace really was, he thought. If things got awkward for him, Halt could always revert to Plan A and simply shoot the loudmouthed guardian of the bridge. There was one more small problem, however.

"Not that you'll be able to carry out any 'Juliettes,' of course.

You don't appear to have a lance."

Horace nodded agreement. "Yes. I'll have to use the first pass to get rid of his. Shouldn't be too big a problem."

"Sirrahs!" called the knight. "Yer merst enswer!"

"Oh, shut up," Halt muttered in his general direction. "So it shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

Horace pursed his lips and shook his head decisively. "Well, look at him, Halt. He's nearly dropped it three times while we've been sitting here. A child could take it from him."

At that, Halt had to grin. Here was Horace, barely more than a boy, declaring that a child could take the lance away from the knight who blocked their way. Then Halt remembered what he'd been doing when he was Horace's age and recalled how Horace had battled with Morgarath, a far more dangerous opponent than the ludicrous figure by the bridge. He appraised the boy once more and saw nothing but determination and quiet confidence there.

"You actually do know what you're talking about, don't you?" he said. And even though it was phrased as a question, it was more a statement of fact. Again, Horace nodded.

"I don't know how, Halt. I just have a feeling for things like this. Sir Rodney told me I was a natural."

Gilan had told Halt much the same thing after the combat at the Plains of Uthal.

Abruptly, Halt came to a decision.

"All right," he said. "Let's try it your way."

He turned to the impatient knight and called to him in a loud voice.

"Sirrah, my companion chooses to engage you in knightly combat!" he said. The horseman stiffened, sitting upright in his saddle. Halt noticed that he nearly lost his balance at this unexpected piece of news.

"Knightly cermbat?" he replied. "Yewer cermpenion ers no knight!"

Halt nodded hugely, making sure the man could see the gesture.

"Oh yes he is!" he called back. "He is Sir Horace of the Order of the Feuille du Chene." He paused and muttered to himself, "Or should that have been Crepe du Chene? Never mind."

"What did you tell him?" Horace asked, slinging his buckler around from where it hung at his back and settling it on his left arm.

"I said you were Sir Horace of the Order of the Oakleaf," Halt told him, then added uncertainly, "At least, I think that's what I told him. I may have said you were of the Order of the Oak Pancake."

Horace looked at him, a slight hint of disappointment in his eyes.

He took the rules of chivalry very seriously and he knew he was not yet entitled to use the title "Sir Horace."

"Was that totally necessary?" he asked, and the Ranger nodded.

"Oh yes. He won't fight just anybody, you know. Has to be a knight. I don't think he noticed you had any armor," he added as Horace settled his conical helmet firmly on his head. He had already pulled up the cowl of chain mail that had been folded back on his shoulders, under the cloak. Now he unfastened the cloak and looked to find somewhere to leave it. Halt held out a hand for it.

"Allow me," he said, taking the garment and draping it across his own saddle. Horace noticed that, as he did so, Halt took care to keep his longbow clear of the cloak. The apprentice nodded at the weapon.

"You won't need that," he said.

"I've heard that before," Halt replied, then he looked up as the guardian of the bridge called again.

"Yewer freund hes no lence," he said, gesturing with his own three-meter length of ash, surmounted by an iron point.

"Sir Horace proposes that you do combat with the sword," Halt replied, and the knight shook his head violently.

"No! No! Ah wull use my lence!"

Halt raised one eyebrow in Horace's direction. "It seems chivalry is all very well," he said quietly, "but if it involves giving up a three-meter advantage, forget it."

Horace merely shrugged. "It's not a problem," he said calmly.

Then, as a thought struck him, he asked: "Halt, do I have to actually kill him? I mean, I can handle him without going that far."

Halt considered the question.

"Well, it's not obligatory," he told the apprentice. "But don't take any chances with him. After all, it'd serve him right if someone did kill him. He might not be so keen to extort tribute from passersby after that."

It was Horace's turn to raise a pained eyebrow at the Ranger this time. Halt shrugged.

"Well, you know what I mean," he said. "Just make sure you're okay before you let him off too lightly."

"Seigneur!" the knight cried, setting his lance under his arm and clapping his spurs into his horse's flanks. "En garde! Ah am cerming to slay yew!"

There was a quick hiss of steel on leather as Horace drew his long sword from its scabbard and wheeled Kicker to face his charging opponent.

"I won't be a minute," he told Halt, then Kicker bounded away, reaching full stride in the space of a few meters.