The Icebound Land

16

T HE BATTLE, IF YOU COULD CALL IT THAT, LASTED NO MORE than a few seconds. The two mounted warriors spurred toward each other, the hooves of their battlehorses thundering on the unsealed surface of the road, clods of dirt spinning in the air behind them and dust rising in a plume to mark their passage.

The Gallic knight had his lance extended. Halt could now see the fault that Horace had noticed in the other man's technique. Held too tightly at this early stage, the lance point swayed and wavered with the horse's movement. A lighter, more flexible hold on the weapon might have kept its point centered on its target. As it was, the lance dipped and rose and wobbled with every stride of the horse.

Horace, on the other hand, rode easily, his sword resting on his shoulder, content to conserve his strength until the time for action came.

They approached each other shield to shield, as was normal. Halt half expected to see Horace repeat the maneuver he'd used against Morgarath, and spin his horse to the other side at the last moment.

However, the apprentice kept on, maintaining the line of attack. When he was barely ten meters away, the sword arced down from its rest position, the point describing a circle in the air, then, as the lance tip came toward Horace's shield, the sword, still circling, caught the lance neatly and flicked it up and over the boy's head. It looked deceptively easy, but Halt realized as he watched that the boy was truly a natural weapons master. The Gallic knight, braced for the expected impact of his lance on Horace's shield, suddenly found himself heaving his body forward against no resistance at all. He swayed, feeling himself toppling from the saddle. In a desperate attempt at self-preservation, he grabbed at his saddle pommel.

It was bad luck that he chose to do so with his right hand, which was also trying to maintain control of the unwieldy lance. Twisted upward by Horace's circling sword point, it was now describing a giant arc of its own. He couldn't manage his balance and the lance at the same time and a muffled curse came from inside the helmet as he was forced to let the lance drop.

Enraged, he groped blindly for the hilt of his own sword, trying to drag it clear of its scabbard for the second pass.

Unfortunately for him, there was to be only one pass.

Halt shook his head in silent admiration as Horace, the lance taken out of play, instantly hauled Kicker to a rearing, spinning stop, using his knees and his shield hand on the reins to wheel the horse on its hind legs before the Gallic knight had gone past him.

The sword, still describing those easy circles that kept his wrist fluid and light, now arced around once more and slammed into the back of the other man's helmet with a loud, ringing clang.

Halt winced, imagining what it must sound like from inside the steel pot. It was too much to expect that a single blow might shear through the tough metal. It would take a series of heavy strokes to accomplish that. But it put a severe dent in the helmet, and the concussion of the blow went straight through the steel to the skull of the knight wearing it.

Unseen by the two Araluens, his eyes glazed out of focus, went slightly crossed, then snapped back again.

Then, very slowly, he toppled sideways out of the saddle, crashed onto the dust of the road and lay there, unmoving. His horse continued galloping for a few more meters. Then, realizing that nobody was urging it on any longer, it slowed to a walk, lowered its head and began cropping the long grass by the roadside.

Horace trotted his horse back slowly, stopping level with the point where the Gallic knight lay sprawled on the road.

"I told you he wasn't very good," he said, quite seriously, to Halt.

The Ranger, who prided himself on his normal taciturn manner, couldn't prevent a wide grin breaking out across his face.

"Well, perhaps he's not," he told the earnest young man before him. "But you certainly looked reasonably efficient there."

Horace shrugged. "It's what I'm trained for," he replied simply.

Halt realized that the boy just didn't have a boastful bone in his body. Battleschool had certainly had a good effect on him. He gestured to the knight, now beginning to regain consciousness. The man's arms and legs made weak, uncoordinated little movements, giving him the appearance of a half-dead crab.

"It's what he's supposed to be trained for too," he replied, then added, "Well done, young Horace."

The boy flushed with pleasure at Halt's praise. He knew the Ranger wasn't one to hand out idle compliments.

"So what do we do with him now?" he asked, indicating his fallen foe with the tip of his sword. Halt slipped quickly down from the saddle and moved toward the man.

"Let me take care of that," he said. "It'll be my pleasure."

He grabbed hold of the fallen man by one arm and dragged him into a sitting position. The dazed knight mumbled inside the helmet, and now that he had time to notice such details, Horace could see that the ends of the mustache protruded from either side of the closed visor.

"Thank yew, sirrah," the knight mumbled incoherently as Halt dragged him to a more or less upright sitting position. His feet scrabbled on the road as he tried to stand, but Halt shoved him back down, none too gently.

"None of that, thank you," the Ranger said. He reached under the man's chin and Horace realized that he had the smaller of his two knives in his hand. For a moment, the horrified boy was convinced that Halt meant to cut the man's throat. Then, with a deft stroke, Halt severed the leather chin strap holding the helmet on the other man's head. Once the strap was cut, Halt dragged the helmet off and tossed it into the bushes at the roadside. The knight let out a small mew of pain as his mustache ends tugged free of the still-closed visor.

Horace sheathed his sword, finally sure that there was no further threat from the knight. For his part, the vanquished warrior peered owlishly at Halt and at the figure towering over them both on horseback. His eyes still wouldn't focus.

"We shell continue the cermbet ern foot," he declared shakily.

Halt slapped him heartily on the back, setting his eyes spinning once more.

"The hell you will. You're beaten, my friend. Toppled fair and square. Sir Horace, knight of the Order de la Feuille du Chene, has agreed to spare your life."

"Oh:thenk you," said the unsteady one, making a vague, saluting gesture in Horace's direction.

"However," Halt went on, allowing a grim tone of amusement to creep into his voice, "under the rules of chivalry, your arms, armor, horse and other belongings are forfeit to Sir Horace."

"They are?" Horace asked, a little incredulously.

Halt nodded.

"They are."

The knight tried once more to stand but, as before, Halt held him down.

"But, sirrah:," he protested weakly. "My erms and ermor? Surely not?"

"Surely so," Halt replied. The other man's face, already shaken and pale, now looked even paler as he realized the full import of what the gray-cloaked stranger was saying.

"Halt," Horace interrupted, "won't he be a little helpless without his weapons-and his horse?"

"Yes, he certainly will," was the satisfied reply. "Which will make it a great deal harder for him to prey on innocent travelers who want to cross this bridge."

Realization dawned on Horace. "Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I see."

"Exactly," Halt said, looking meaningfully at him. "You've done a good day's work here, Horace. Mind you," he added, "it took you barely two minutes to do it. But you'll keep this predator out of business and make the road a little bit safer for the locals. And of course, we will now have a quite expensive suit of chain mail, a sword, a shield and a pretty good-looking horse to sell in the next village we come to."

"You're sure that's in the rules?" Horace asked, and Halt smiled broadly at him.

"Oh yes. It's all fair and aboveboard. He knew it. He simply should have looked more carefully when he challenged us. Now, my beauty," he said to the crestfallen knight sitting at his feet, "let's have that mail shirt off you."

Grudgingly, the dazed knight began to comply. Halt beamed at his young companion.

"I'm starting to enjoy Gallica a lot more than I expected," he said.