The Icebound Land

26

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 Chateau 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.

Chateau 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.