But there was one important item he didn’t see.
This arrow was one of the three that Halt had placed in the cuff of his boot. And this arrow was different, with a much heavier head, made from heat-hardened steel. Unlike the normal war arrows in Halt’s quiver, it was not a leaf-shaped broadhead. Rather, it was shaped like the point of a cold chisel, surrounded by four small spurs that would stop it deflecting from Deparnieux’s plate armour and allow it to punch through into the flesh behind.
It was an arrowhead designed to pierce armour and Halt had learnt its secrets years before, from the fierce mounted archers of the eastern steppes.
The arrow flew from the bow. As Deparnieux raised his shield, he never saw the extra weight of the head already causing it to drop below its point of aim. The arrow arced in underneath the slanted shield and punched into the breastplate exposed there, with barely a check to its speed and force.
Deparnieux heard it. A dull impact of metal on metal – more a metallic thud than a ringing tone. He wondered what it was. Then he felt a small core of intense pain, a bright flare of agony, that began in his left side and expanded rapidly until it engulfed his entire body.
He never felt the impact as his body hit the grassy field.
Halt lowered the bow. He eased the string and replaced the second armour-piercing arrow, already nocked and ready, back in his quiver.
The lord of Chateau Montsombre lay unmoving. A stunned silence hung over the small crowd of onlookers who had come out of the castle to watch the combat. None of them knew how to react. None of them had expected this result. The servants, cooks and stable hands felt a cautious sense of pleasure. Deparnieux had never been a popular master. His use of the lash and the iron cages on any servant who displeased him had seen to that. But their expectations of the man who had just killed him were not necessarily any higher. Logically, they assumed that the bearded stranger had killed their master so that he could take control of Montsombre. That was the way of things here in Gallica and former experience had shown them that a change in master brought no improvement to their lot. Deparnieux himself had defeated a former tyrant some years back. So, while they felt satisfaction to see the sadistic and pitiless black knight dead, they viewed his successor with no great sense of optimism.
For the men at arms who had served under Deparnieux, it was a slightly different matter. They, at least, felt a closer bond to the dead man, although to class that feeling as loyalty would be overstating matters. But he had led them to many victories and a considerable amount of booty over the years, so now three of them started towards Halt, their hands dropping to their sword hilts.
Seeing the movement, Horace spurred Kicker forward to come between them and the grey-cloaked archer. There was a ringing hiss of steel on leather as his sword came free of the scabbard, catching the early afternoon sun on its blade as it did so. The soldiers hesitated. They knew of Horace’s reputation and none of them fancied himself swordsman enough to contest matters with the younger man. Their normal battleground was the confusion of a pitched battle, not the cold, calculating atmosphere of a duelling ground such as this.
‘Get the horse,’ Halt called to Horace. The apprentice glanced round in surprise. Halt hadn’t moved. He stood, feet slightly apart, side on to the approaching soldiers. Once again, an arrow was nocked to his bowstring, although the bow remained lowered.
‘What?’ Horace asked, puzzled, and the Ranger jerked his head at the warlord’s battlehorse, shifting its weight from foot to foot, tossing its head uncertainly.
‘The horse. It’s mine now. Get it for me,’ Halt repeated, and Horace trotted Kicker slowly to a point where he could lean down and gather the black horse’s reins. He had to resheath his sword to do so and he glanced warily at the three soldiers – and the dozen others who stood behind them, as yet uncommitted one way or the other.
‘Captain of the guard!’ Halt called. ‘Where are you?’
A stockily built man in half armour took a pace forward from the larger group of warriors. Halt looked at him a moment, then called again:
‘Your name?’
The captain hesitated. In the normal course of events, he knew, the victor of such a combat would simply demand a continuation of the status quo, and life at Montsombre would go on, relatively unchanged. But the captain also knew that, often as not, a new commander could choose to demote or even eliminate the ranking officers from the previous regime. He was wary of the bow in the stranger’s hands. But he saw no point in not making himself known. The others would be quick to isolate him if it meant possible advancement for them. He came to a decision.
‘Philemon, my lord,’ he said. Halt’s eyes bored into him and there was a long, uncomfortable, silence.
‘Step over here, Philemon,’ Halt said finally and, replacing the arrow in his quiver, he slung the longbow over his left shoulder. That gesture was encouraging for the captain, although he had no doubt that, if Halt wished, he could unsling the bow and have several arrows on the way in less time than he, Philemon, could blink. Cautiously, every nerve end tingling with anticipation, he moved closer to the small man. When he was within easy talking distance, Halt spoke.
‘I have no wish to stay here any longer than I need,’ he said quietly. ‘In a month, the passes into Teutlandt and Skandia will be open and my companion and I will be on our way.’
He paused and Philemon frowned, trying to understand what he was being told.
‘You want us to come with you?’ he asked, at last. ‘You expect us to follow you?’
Halt shook his head. ‘I have no wish to ever see any of you again,’ he said flatly. ‘I want nothing of this castle, nothing of its people. I will take Deparnieux’s battlehorse, because I am entitled to it as the victor in this combat. As for the rest, you’re welcome to it: castle, furnishings, booty, food, the lot. If you can keep it from your friends, it’s yours.’
Philemon shook his head in disbelief. This was phenomenal luck! The stranger was moving on, and handing over the castle, lock, stock and barrel, to him – a mere captain of the guard. He whistled softly to himself. He would replace Deparnieux as the controller of this region. He would be a lord, with a castle, and men at arms and servants to do his bidding!
‘Two things,’ Halt interrupted his thoughts. ‘You’ll release those people in the cages immediately. As for the rest of the castle servants and slaves, I’ll give them their choice of whether they stay or go. I’ll not bind them to you in any way.’
The captain’s heavy brows darkened at the statement. He opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated as he saw the look in Halt’s eyes. It was cold, determined and utterly without pity.
‘To you or your successor,’ he amended. ‘The choice is yours. Argue about it and I’ll put the choice to whoever replaces you after I kill you.’
And as he heard the words, Philemon realised that Halt would have no hesitation in carrying out the threat. Either he or the muscular young swordsman on the battlehorse would have no trouble taking care of him.
He weighed the alternatives: jewels, gold, a wellstocked castle, a force of armed men who would follow him because he would have the wherewithal to pay them, and a possible lack of servants.
Or death, here and now.
‘I accept,’ he said.
After all, Philemon realised, most of the servants and slaves would have nowhere to go. The chances were good that the majority would choose to stay on at Chateau Montsombre, trusting to a weary fatalism that things couldn’t really be much worse and they might just possibly be a little better.
Halt nodded slowly. ‘I rather thought you would.’
Evanlyn was concentrating hard. The tip of her tongue protruded through her teeth and there was a small frown on her face as she began to trim the piece of soft leather to the correct shape.
She couldn’t afford to make mistakes, she knew. She had found the piece of leather in the stable lean-to and there was only just enough for the purpose she had in mind. It was s
oft, supple and thin. There were other odds and ends of harness and tack in the shed but they were dried out and stiff. This was the piece she needed.
Evanlyn was making a sling.
She had finally given up trying to learn any skill with the bow. By the time she could hit the side of a barn, she thought, she and Will would have been long dead from hunger. She sighed. Being brought up as a princess had definite disadvantages. She could do fine needlework and embroidery, judge good wine and host a dinner party for a dozen nobles and their wives. She could organise servants and sit for hours, straight-backed and apparently attentive, through the most boring official ceremonies.
All valuable skills in their right place, but none of them were much use to her in her present situation. She wished she had spent a few hours learning even the rudiments of archery. The bow, she admitted ruefully, was beyond her.
But a sling! That was a different matter. As a little girl she and her two male cousins had made slings and wandered through the woods outside Castle Araluen, hurling stones at random targets. She recalled that she had been pretty good, too.
On her tenth birthday, to her intense fury, her father had decided that it was time for his daughter to stop being a tomboy and to begin to learn the ways of a lady. The wandering and slinging ceased. The embroidering and hostessing began.
Still, she thought, she could probably remember enough of the technique to serve her now, with a little practice.
She smiled a little, remembering those privileged days at Castle Araluen. They were a far cry from all this. These days, she had new skills, she thought wryly. She could drag a pony through thigh-deep snow, sleep rough, bathe a lot less frequently than polite society might think appropriate and, with any luck, even kill, clean and cook her own food.
That is, of course, if she could get the damn sling right. She shaped the soft leather patch around a large round stone, wrapping the stone in it and pulling the soft leather tight to create a pouch. She wrapped and released over and over again, forcing the shape of the rock into the leather. Her hands were starting to ache with the effort and she seemed to recall that, as a child, servants had done this part for her.
‘I’m not really much use, am I?’ she said to herself.
In fact, she was selling herself short. Her reserves of courage, determination and loyalty were vast, as was her ingenuity.
Unlike someone raised to these conditions, she might not always find the best way to solve their problems. But somehow, she would find a way. She would never give in. And it was that strength of purpose and ability to adapt that would make her a great ruler, if she were ever to make her way back to Araluen.
She heard a noise behind her and turned. Her heart sank as she saw Will standing close to her. His eyes were empty, his expression blank. For one awful moment, she thought he was looking for another dose of warmweed and she felt a real surge of fear. It had been two weeks since his last dose of the drug. When she had given him that, the packet was left virtually empty. She had no idea what would happen the next time the need clawed at him.
Each day, she lived with the constant dread that he would ask for more, mixed with a desperate growing hope that perhaps he was cured of the addiction. Since the day he had unstrung the bow, she had looked for some further sign of awareness or memory from him. But in vain.
He pointed to the water jug on the bench and she heaved a sigh of relief. She poured him a mug of water and he shambled away, his mind still locked in that faraway place only addicts know. Not cured, she thought, but at least the moment she was dreading had been postponed a little longer.
Her eyes blurred with tears. She dashed them away and turned back to her work. Earlier, she had cut two long thongs from the saddle pack, and now she attached one to either side of the pouch. She placed the stone in the pouch and swung the sling experimentally. It had been a long time, but it felt vaguely familiar. The weight of the rock felt comfortable and it nestled securely in the pouch. She glanced across at Will. He was huddled against the wall of the cabin, his eyes closed, lost to the world. He’d stay like that for hours, she knew.
‘No point wasting any more time,’ she said to herself, then called to Will, ‘I’m going hunting, Will. I’ll be a while.’
She collected a supply of pebbles and set out. Her previous attempts with the bow had taught her that the local wildlife tended to give the cabin a wide berth now that it was inhabited. Bitter experience in the past, she thought. It was certainly nothing to do with her attempts at hunting.
As she went, she took the opportunity to practise her technique, loading a rock into the sling, whirling it round her head till it made a dull droning sound, then releasing to cast at nearby tree trunks.
At first, the results were less than encouraging. The velocity was fine but the accuracy was sadly lacking. But as she continued to practise, her old skill began to return. More and more often, the stones she flung slammed into their targets.
She did even better when she loaded two stones into the sling, doubling her chances of a hit. Eventually, satisfied that she was ready, she set out, heading for a clearing by a stream, where she had seen rabbits feeding and sunning themselves on the warm rocks.
She was in luck. A large buck rabbit was sitting on the rocks, eyes closed, ears and nose twitching as he basked in the sunlight and the heat of the sun-warmed rock beneath it.
She felt a thrill of satisfaction as she loaded two of the larger stones into the sling and began to whirl it above her head. The dull, droning sound built as the sling gathered speed and the rabbit’s eyes came open as he heard it. But he sensed no danger in the sound and remained where he was. Evanlyn saw his eyes open and resisted the temptation to cast instantly. She let the sling whip around two or three more times, then released, following through with a full arm cast, straight at her target.
Perhaps it was beginner’s luck, but both stones hit the rabbit with the full force of the whirling sling behind them. The larger of the two broke its right hind leg, so that when it tried to flee, it flopped awkwardly over in the snow. Evanlyn, with a surge of fierce triumph, was across the clearing, grabbing the struggling animal and wringing its neck to put it out of its misery.
The fresh meat would be a welcome addition to their meagre diet. Flushed with success, she decided she might as well try another hunting spot and see if her luck held. Two rabbits would definitely be better than one.
She moved cautiously, and the soft snow underfoot aided her stealthy progress. As she drew closer to the next clearing, she began to walk with greater care, setting her feet carefully and making sure that, as she held tree branches aside to pass by, she allowed them to return to their initial position noiselessly.
In all likelihood, it was this extreme caution that saved her life.
She was about to step clear of the trees when some sixth sense made her hesitate. Something wasn’t right. She had heard something, or felt something, that was out of place here. She hung back, staying in the shadows inside the tree-line and waiting to see if she could identify the cause of her unease. Then she heard it again, and this time she recognised it. The soft fall of a horse’s hooves on the thick snow that still blanketed the ground.
Mouth dry, heart suddenly pounding, Evanlyn froze in place. She remembered Will’s instructions on Skorghijl.
She was still well concealed from anyone or anything in the clearing. The pines grew thickly and the midmorning sunshine cast deep shadows between the trees. Her hair had risen on the back of her neck as she stood, motionless. Her eyes darted this way and that, straining to see through the alternating patches of bright, sunlit snow and deep shadow. Now she heard the soft, snuffling snort of a horse breathing and she knew she hadn’t been mistaken. Across the clearing, a cloud of steam hung on the air and, as she watched, she saw the horse and its rider emerge from the deep shadows behind it.
For one brief moment, she felt a surge of joy as she thought the horse was Will’s Ranger horse, Tug. Small, sturdy and shaggy in the co
at, it was barely more than a pony in size. As she saw him, she nearly stepped forward into the sunlight but then, just in time, she stopped, as she saw the rider.
He was dressed in furs, with a flat-topped fur hat on his head and a bow slung over his shoulder. She could make out his face quite clearly: brown, weatherbeaten skin and high, prominent cheekbones, which made the eyes appear as little more than slits above them. He was small and stocky, she realised, like his horse, and something about him spelt danger. His head turned as he looked at the trees on his right and Evanlyn took the opportunity to shrink further back into the cover of the forest. Satisfied that there was nobody watching, the rider urged his horse forward a few paces, into the centre of the clearing.
He paused there, and his eyes seemed to pierce through the shadows to where the girl stood, concealed behind the rough-barked bole of a large pine. For a few breathless seconds, she thought he had seen her. But then he touched the horse’s flank with the heel of one of his fur-trimmed boots and wheeled him to the right, trotting quickly out of the clearing and into the trees. In a moment, he was lost to her sight, the only sign of his presence the clouds of steam left hanging on the freezing air by the horse’s warm breath.
For several minutes, Evanlyn stayed huddled against the pine tree, fearing that the rider might suddenly turn and backtrack. Then, long after the soft thud of his horse’s hoofbeats on the snow had died away, she turned and began to run back through the forest towards the cabin.
Will had been sleeping.
He woke slowly, consciousness gradually filtering through to him as he became aware that he was sitting on a hard wood floor. His eyes opened and he frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. He was in a small cabin, where the bright sunlight of late winter struck through an unglazed window and formed an elongated square on the floor, wider at its base than at the top.
Groggily, still half asleep, he stood, realising that for some reason he had been sleeping while sitting on the floor, his back against one of the walls. He wondered why he had chosen such a spot, when he could see that the cabin contained one rough bunk and two chairs. As he came slowly to his feet, something fell clattering from his lap to the floor. He looked down and saw a small hunting bow lying there. Curious, he picked it up, studying it. It was a low-powered affair, without any recurve, and without the long, heavy limbs of a proper longbow. Useful for small game, he thought vaguely, and precious little else. He wondered where his own recurve bow had got to. He couldn’t remember having ever owned this toy.