The Sorcerer of the North

16

Will left late the following morning, his purse a good deal heavier than it had been when he arrived. The tavern keeper had been right. Once word spread that there was a jongleur in the village, people had flocked in from the surrounding countryside. The tavern had done a roaring trade and Will was kept singing until well past midnight, by which time he had exhausted his repertoire and was having to resort to the pretense that people had asked him to repeat songs he had already performed-another trick Berrigan had taught him.

Gelderris stood by as Will tightened the girths on Tug and his packhorse. "A good night," he said. "Call by again when you're passing south, Will Barton."

He didn't resent Will's leaving. He was realistic enough to know that simple country folk couldn't afford more than one night of overspending in the tavern.

"I'll do that," Will said, swinging easily into the saddle. He reached down and clasped Gelderris's hand. "Thanks, Cullum. I'll see you then."

The tavern keeper sniffed the damp air and looked uncertainly at the clouds gathering in the north.

"You'll do well to keep an eye on the weather. There's snow in those clouds. If it starts to blizzard, take shelter in the trees until it eases. A man can lose his way all too easily in a whiteout."

"I'll bear it in mind," said Will. He glanced at the clouds himself. "Mind you, chances are I'll reach Macindaw before it snows." He touched Tug with his heel and the little horse moved away, the pack animal following stolidly behind. The dog went ahead, head down and belly low, glancing back continually to be sure Will was following.

"Maybe so," said Gelderris, more to himself than to Will's retreating form. But he didn't sound convinced.

He was right. Will was barely a third of the way on his journey when the big, fat flakes began to drift down from the sky. He had felt the temperature dropping, then there was the inexplicable moment when it rose a few degrees, signaling the onset of the snow. Then it was falling, without any other warning. He pulled his hood up and huddled inside the warmth of his cloak. It intrigued him how snow falling seemed to deaden all sound, although perhaps this was an illusion, he thought. It seemed logical to expect such large objects to make a noise when they fell to earth-after all, you could hear rain when it fell. Perhaps it was this lack of any falling sound that created the illusion of overall silence. Of course, as the snow on the ground grew deeper, it muffled the sound of his horses' hoof-beats. There was only the slight squeaking sound of the dry, powdery crystals being compressed with each stride.

Noticing that the snow was rapidly accumulating, he whistled softly to the dog and pointed to the packhorse. The dog, ears pricked at the sound, waited until the horse was level with her, then sprang up into the nest created for her in the center of the packsaddle. It was a move the packhorse was familiar with now and she took it with no sign of alarm or resentment.

He rode on. The snow was heavy but it was nowhere near whiteout conditions and he was confident that he could find his way easily enough. The surface of the road might be covered, but the way was still clearly visible, cut between the trees as it was.

From time to time, there was a slithering rush as built-up snow on a branch finally became too heavy and slid off onto the ground below. Once, there was a splitting crack as a tree gave way, weakened by the intense cold and the weight of the snow until it sagged drunkenly against its neighbors. A black-and-white head rose above the packsaddle at the noise, ears pricked, nose quivering.

"Easy," Will said, grinning. His voice seemed strangely loud in his ears. She gave a small snuffle, sank her head back onto her paws, eyes closing. Then they opened again as she shook her head in that ear-rattling way dogs have, clearing the fallen snow from her fur. Content, she settled again.

Will's face was chilled but the rest of him was relatively warm. There was no wind to cut through his protective clothing and the subzero temperature meant that the snow stayed dry as it gathered on his shoulders and cowl-not melting and soaking the material of his cloak. From time to time he would dust it off, smiling as he reminded himself of the dog shaking her coat clear.

Two hours later, he crossed a ridge and there, before him, stood Castle Macindaw. It was a thickset, ugly building. The dark stone of its walls seemed black against the pure white snowscape that surrounded it. As was the custom, it was built on a small hill and the forest trees had been cut back on all four sides, preventing attackers from approaching unseen. It might be ugly, he thought, but it looked effective enough in design. The walls were solid, made of stone and at least five meters high. Towers at each of the four corners added another few meters to the overall height, and there was the usual dominant keep tower in the center, soaring above the others. The southern side held the main gate, with a drawbridge over a dry moat The moat, he noticed, didn't continue too far around the side walls. He assumed it was only there to make access to the main entrance more difficult.

Halt and Crowley had told him that the normal garrison consisted of thirty men-at-arms and half a dozen mounted knights. That would be more than enough to hold the walls against any Scotti raiding party, he thought.

He pushed back his hood and produced the narrow-brimmed hat that Berrigan had given him. Adorned with a green-dyed swan's feather, it marked him as a jongleur and should guarantee easy entry to the castle yard. He pulled the hat down tight and rode toward the gate.