The Icebound Land

24

T HE TWO TRAVELERS SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT, TAKING IT IN turns to keep watch. Neither of them trusted the local warlord not to come sneaking back in the darkness. As it turned out, however, their fears were unfounded. There was no further sign of Deparnieux that night.

The next morning, as they were saddling their horses in the barn at the rear of the building, the innkeeper approached Halt nervously.

"I can't say, sir, that I am sorry to see you leave my inn," he said apologetically. Halt patted him on the shoulder to show that he took no offense.

"I can understand your position, my friend. I'm afraid we haven't endeared ourselves to your local thug."

The innkeeper glanced around anxiously before agreeing with Halt, as if frightened that someone might be observing them and might report his disloyalty to Deparnieux. Halt guessed that such a thing had probably happened many times before in this town. He felt sorry for the man in the bar the previous night who had laughed-and been seen to do so by the black knight.

"He's a bad, bad man, right enough, sir," the innkeeper admitted in a lowered voice. "But what can the likes of us do about him? He has a small army at his back and we're just tradesmen, not warriors."

"I wish we could help you," Halt told him, "but we do have to be on our way." He hesitated just a second, then asked innocently, "Does the ferry at Les Sourges operate every day?"

Les Sourges was a river town that lay to the west, some twenty kilometers away. Halt and Horace were traveling north. But the Ranger was sure that Deparnieux would return, asking for any clues as to the direction they had taken. He didn't expect the innkeeper would keep his question a secret. Nor would he blame him if he didn't. The man was nodding now in confirmation of the question.

"Yes, sir, the ferry will still be running at this time of year.

Next month, when the water freezes, it will close down and travelers will have to use the bridge at Colpennieres."

Halt swung up into the saddle. Horace was already mounted, and held the lead rein for their string of captured horses. After the previous night's events, they had decided it would be wiser to leave the town as quickly as possible.

"We'll make for the ferry, then," he said in a carrying voice.

"The road forks a few miles to the north, I take it?"

Again, the innkeeper nodded. "That's right, sir. It's the first major crossroads you come to. Take the road to the left and you're headed for the ferry."

Halt raised a hand in thanks and farewell, and nudging Abelard with his knee, he led the way out of the stable yard.

They traveled hard that day. Reaching the crossroads, they ignored the left turn and continued straight ahead, heading north. There was no sign on the road behind them that there was any pursuit. But the hills and the woods that surrounded them could have concealed an army if need be. Halt wasn't entirely convinced that Deparnieux, who knew the countryside, wasn't traveling parallel to them somewhere, perhaps outflanking them to set up an ambush at some point farther along the road.

It came as something of an anticlimax when, in midafternoon, they arrived at yet another small bridge, with yet another knight in attendance, barring their passage across and offering them the choice of paying tribute or contesting with him.

The knight, astride a bony chestnut horse that should have been retired two or three years ago, was a far cry from the warlord they had confronted the night before. His surcoat was muddy and tattered.

It may have been yellow once, but now it had faded to a dirty off-white. His armor had been patched in several places and his lance was obviously a roughly trimmed sapling, with a decided kink about a third of the way along its length. His shield was inscribed with a boar's head. It seemed appropriate for a man as rusty, tattered and generally grubby as he was.

They came to a halt, surveying the scene. Halt sighed wearily.

"I am getting so very tired of this," he muttered to Horace, and began unslinging his longbow from where he wore it across his shoulders.

"Just a moment, Halt," said Horace, shrugging his round buckler from its position on his back and onto his left arm. "Why don't we let him see the oakleaf insignia and see if that changes his mind about things?"

Halt scowled at the tatterdemalion figure in the road ahead of them, hesitating as his hand reached for an arrow.

"Well, all right," he said reluctantly. "But we'll give him one chance only. Then I'm putting an arrow through him. I'm heartily sick of these people."

He slouched back in his saddle as Horace rode to meet the scruffy knight. So far, there had been no sound from the figure in the middle of the road and that, thought Halt, was unusual. As a general rule, the road warriors couldn't wait to issue challenges, usually peppering their speech with generous helpings of "Ho, varlet!" and "Have at thee then, sir knight" and other antiquated claptrap of the sort.

And even as the thought occurred to him, warning bells went off in his mind and he called to the young apprentice who was now some twenty meters away, trotting Kicker to meet his challenger.

"Horace! Come back! It's a:"

But before he could say the last word, an amorphous shape dropped from the branches of an oak tree that overhung the road, draping itself around the head and shoulders of the boy. For a moment, Horace struggled uselessly in the folds of the net that enveloped him. Then an unseen hand tugged on a rope and the net tightened around him and he was jerked out of the saddle, to crash heavily onto the road.

Startled, Kicker reared away from his fallen rider, trotted a few paces, then, sensing he was in no danger himself, stopped and watched, ears pricked warily.

":trap," finished Halt quietly, cursing his lack of awareness.

Distracted by the ridiculous appearance of the shabby knight, he had allowed his senses to relax, leading them into this current predicament.

He had an arrow on the bowstring now, but there was no visible target, save the knight on the ancient battlehorse, who still sat silently in the middle of the road. He was part of the entire elaborate setup, without a doubt. He had shown no sign of surprise when the net had fallen onto Horace.

"Well, my friend, you can pay for your part in this deception,"

Halt muttered, and brought the bow up smoothly, bringing it back in a full draw until the feathered end touched his cheek, just above the corner of his mouth.

"I don't think I'd do that," said a familiar gravelly voice. The ragged, rusty knight pushed back his visor, revealing the dark features of Deparnieux.

Halt swore to himself. He hesitated, the arrow still at full draw, and heard a series of small noises from the underbrush on either side of the road. Slowly, he released the tension on the string as he became aware that at least a dozen shapes had risen from the bushes, all of them holding deadly little crossbows.

All of them pointing toward him.

He replaced the arrow in the quiver at his back and lowered the bow until it rested across his thighs. He glanced hopelessly to where Horace still struggled against the fine woven mesh that had wrapped itself around him. Now more men were emerging from the bushes and trees that flanked the road. They approached the helpless apprentice, and as four of them covered him with crossbows, the others worked to loosen the folds of the net and bring him, red-faced, to his feet.

Deparnieux, grinning widely with satisfaction, urged his bony horse down the road toward them. Stopping within easy speaking distance, he performed a cursory bow from the waist.

"Now, gentlemen," he said mockingly, "I will be privileged to have you as my guests at Chateau Montsombre."

Halt raised one eyebrow. "How could we possibly refuse?" he asked, of no one in particular.