The Battle for Skandia (19 page)

It was all Will's fault, she thought.

Now, as she watched him talking with his old teacher, and saw the two of them stop as Will made a point, she realized with a sense of sadness that there was a part of Will's life from which she would always be excluded. Young as he was, he was already a part of the mysterious, close-knit Ranger clan. And Rangers, she had been told since she was a small child, kept themselves to themselves. Even her father the King had been frustrated from time to time by the closemouthed nature of the Ranger Corps. As the realization hit home, she turned sadly away, leaving the two Rangers, master and apprentice, to their discussion with the Skandian jarl.

Morosely, she kicked at a stone on the ground in front of her. If only there were something for her to do!

She stood uncertainly, undecided about where to go next. She turned abruptly to see if Will and Halt were still where she'd last seen them. They had moved on, but her sudden turn brought her into unexpected eye contact with a familiar, though unwelcome, figure.

Slagor, the thin-lipped, shifty-eyed wolfship captain whom she had first seen on the rocky, windswept island of Skorghijl, had just emerged from one of the smaller buildings that flanked Ragnak's Great Hall. He stood now, staring after her. There was something in his look that made her uncomfortable. Something knowing, something that boded ill for her. Then, as he realized she had seen him, he turned away, walking quickly into the dark-shadowed alleyway between the two buildings. She frowned to herself. There had been something suspicious about the Skandian's manner, she thought. Half because she wanted to know more, and half because she was bored, with nothing constructive to do, she set out after him.

There had been something in the way he looked at her that told her it might be better if he didn't know she was following him. She moved to the end of the alley and peered cautiously around, just catching sight of him as he turned right at the rear of the building. She paralleled his path, moving cautiously to the next alley, pausing, then peering around again. Once more, she caught a quick glimpse of Slagor and she guessed from his general direction that he was heading for the quays, where the wolfships docked. Realizing that her own actions might appear highly suspicious, she glanced quickly around to see if anyone might be watching her. Apparently not, she decided. Still, she crossed back to the far side of the street before following in the pursuit of the wolfship skirl.

As she slid unobtrusively from building to building, she saw him several more times, confirming her first impression that he was heading for the docks. That was logical. Presumably his ship was among the fleet moored there. Probably Slagor had some ship's business to attend to, she thought. The suspicious manner that she had noticed was probably nothing more than his normal shifty-eyed demeanor.

Then she cast the doubts aside. There had been something else: something knowing. Something calculating.

Evanlyn was, naturally, constantly aware of her precarious position here in Hallasholm. Ragnak might have no interest in punishing a recaptured slave. But if her real identity were to become known, his reaction was a foregone conclusion. He had vowed to kill any member of the Araluen royal family. Now it seemed important to her to find out what had been behind Slagor's look. She quickened her pace and hurried down one of the narrow connecting alleys, emerging in the broad waterfront thoroughfare that Slagor had taken.

He was twenty meters ahead of her as she peered cautiously around the end of the building. His back was turned and she realized that he had no idea that she had been following him. To the left, the masts of the moored wolfships formed a forest of bare poles, bobbing and swaying with the movement of the water. On the right of the street were a series of waterfront taverns. It was toward one of these that Slagor was hurrying now, she realized.

Some instinct made her ease into a doorway as the skirl reached the tavern entrance. It was as well she did, for he turned and looked back the way he had come, apparently checking to see if anyone had followed him. She frowned to herself as she shrank into the shadows of the doorway. Why should Slagor be nervous, here in the middle of Hallasholm? Certainly he was one of the less popular wolfship captains, but it was unlikely that anyone would actually do him harm. There was obviously something going on, she thought, and she determined to get to the bottom of it. Close by, moored to one of the timber quays, she saw Slagor's ship,
Wolf Fang
. She recognized it by the distinctive carved figurehead. No two wolfships had the same figurehead and she remembered this one all too well from the day when
Wolf Fang
had come limping into the anchorage at Skorghijl. With it had come the news of Ragnak's Vallasvow against her father and herself, so she had good reason to remember the grotesquely carved icon.

For a moment, she hesitated in the doorway. Then, the door behind her opened and two Skandian women emerged, shopping baskets in hand. They stared at the stranger on their doorstep and she hurriedly apologized and moved away. Behind her, she heard the angry comments of the women as they headed for the market square. She was too obvious here, she realized. Any moment, Slagor might emerge from the tavern and see her. She glanced uncertainly at the ship, then came to a decision and, moving at a half run, she made her way down the waterfront to the quay where
Wolf Fang
was moored. It was reasonable to assume that Slagor might come here eventually, and then she might get an inkling of what he was up to.

There was an anchor watch aboard, of course. But it was just one man and he was at the stern, leaning on the bulwark and staring at the harbor and the sea beyond. Crouching below the level of the high prow, she approached the ship and vaulted lightly over the railing, her soft-shod feet making virtually no sound as she landed on the planks of the deck. She dropped immediately into the rowing well, set below the main deck, where the rowing crew would normally sit to wield their heavy, white oak oars. The area was deserted at the moment, and she was concealed from the sight of the solitary guard at the stern. But it was only a temporary hiding place and she looked now for a better one.

Right at the prow of the ship was a small triangular space, screened by a canvas flap. It was large enough to accommodate her if she crouched, and she moved quickly into it now, letting the canvas screen fall back into place behind her. She found herself sitting on coils of stiff, coarse rope, and something hard jabbed into her side. Shifting to a better position, she realized that it had been the fluke of the anchor, and the coils of heavy rope were the anchor cable. With the ship moored alongside the quay, they weren't in use. This would be as good a hiding place as any, she thought. Then she wondered if she might not be wasting her time here. Odds were that Slagor had simply come this way to visit the tavern and that after he'd drunk his fill of the harsh spirits the Skandians favored, he'd probably head on back to his lodge.

She shrugged morosely. She had nothing better to do with her time. She might as well give it an hour or so and see if anything transpired. What that
anything
might be, she really had no idea. She'd followed Slagor on an impulse. Now, following the same impulse, she was crouched here, waiting to see what she might overhear if and when he came aboard.

It was warm in the confines of the forepeak and, once she'd moved a few of the coils, the rope made a relatively comfortable resting place. She wriggled herself into a better position and rested her chin on her elbows, peering through a small gap in the canvas to see if anything was happening outside. She felt the footsteps of the sentry as he crossed to the landward side of the ship, giving up his scrutiny of the harbor, and heard him call to someone on the shore. There was an answering voice but the words were too muffled for her to make out. Probably just a casual greeting to a passing friend, she reasoned. She yawned. The warmth was making her drowsy. She hadn't slept well the night before, thinking about Will and how their friendship seemed to be eroding with every passing day. She tried to dislike Halt, blaming him for the sudden estrangement between them. But she couldn't. She liked the small, roughly bearded Ranger. There was a dry sense of humor about him that appealed to her. And after all, he had rescued her from the Temujai reconnaissance party. She sighed. It wasn't Halt's fault. Nor Will's. It was just the way things were, she guessed. Rangers were different to other people. Even princesses.

Especially
princesses.

She woke suddenly, thinking she was falling. She hadn't realized that she'd drifted off to sleep, lying here on the coils of rope. But she knew what had woken her. The deck beneath her had dropped suddenly as
Wolf Fang
heaved herself into a short head sea. Now she could hear the creak and thump of the oars in their rowlocks and she realized, with a terrible sinking feeling, that
Wolf Fang
had put to sea and she was trapped on board.

BETWEEN THEM, HALT AND WILL HAD FOUND A HUNDRED SLAVES who claimed to have some level of skill with the bow. Finding them had been one matter. Convincing them that they should volunteer to help defend Hallasholm was something else.

As a burly Teutlander forester, who seemed to have assumed the role of spokesman for them, told the two Rangers, “Why should we help the Skandians? They've done nothing except enslave us, beat us and give us too little food to eat.”

Halt eyed the man's ample girth speculatively. If some of the slaves were underfed, this one could hardly claim to be one of them, he thought. Still, he decided to let that matter pass.

“You might find it more agreeable to be a slave of the Skandians than to fall into the hands of the Temujai,” he told them bluntly.

Another of the assembled men spoke up. This one was a southern Gallican and his outlandish accent made his words almost indecipherable. Will finally pieced the sounds together in sufficient order to know that the man had asked: “What do the Temujai do with their slaves?”

Halt turned a steely gaze on the Gall. “They don't keep slaves,” he said evenly, and a buzz of expectation ran through the assembled men. The big Teutlander stepped forward again, grinning.

“Then why would you expect us to fight against them?” he asked. “If they beat the Skandians, they'll set us free.”

There was a loud mumble of consent among the others behind him. Halt held up a hand and waited patiently. Eventually, the hubbub died away and the slaves looked at him expectantly, wondering what further inducement he could offer them—what he would consider to be more attractive to them than the prospect of freedom.

“I said,” he intoned clearly, so that everyone could hear him, “they don't keep slaves. I didn't say they set them free.” He paused, then added, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “Although the religious ones among you may consider death to be the ultimate freedom.”

This time, the commotion among the slaves was even louder. Finally, the self-appointed spokesman stepped forward again and asked, with a little less assertion, “What do you mean, Araluen? Death?”

Halt made a careless gesture. “The usual, I suppose: the sudden cessation of life. The end of it all. Departure for a happier place. Or oblivion, depending upon your personal beliefs.”

Again a buzz ran through the crowd. The Teutlander studied Halt closely, trying to see some indication that the Ranger was bluffing.

“But . . .” He hesitated, not sure whether to ask the next question, not sure that he wanted to know the answer. Then, urged by his companions, he went on: “Why should these Temujai want to kill us? We've done nothing to them.”

“The truth of the matter is,” Halt told them all, “you
mean
nothing to them either. The Temujai consider themselves a superior race. They'd kill you out of hand because you can do nothing for them—but left behind their backs, you could constitute a threat.”

A nervous silence settled over the crowd now. Halt let them digest what he had said, then he spoke again.

“Believe me, I've seen what these people are like.” He looked into the faces of the crowd. “I can see there are some Araluens among you. I'll give you my word as a Ranger that I'm not bluffing. Your best chance of survival is to fight with the Skandians against these Temujai. I'll leave you for half an hour to consider what I've said. You Araluens might tell the others what a Ranger's word means,” he added. Then, beckoning for Will to follow, he turned on his heel and walked some distance away, out of earshot.

“We're going to have to offer them more,” he said when the others couldn't hear him. “Reluctant recruits will be almost useless to us. A man's got to have something worth fighting for if he's going to do his best. And that's what we're going to need from this bunch—their best effort.”

“So what are you going to do?” Will asked, almost jogging to keep pace with his teacher's urgent stride.

“We're going to see Ragnak,” Halt told him. “He's going to have to promise to free every slave who fights for Hallasholm.”

Will shook his head doubtfully. “He won't like that,” he said. Halt turned and looked at him, a faint grin touching the corner of his mouth.

“He'll hate it,” he agreed.

 

“Freedom?” Ragnak exploded. “Give them their freedom? A hundred slaves?”

Halt shrugged disdainfully. “Probably closer to three hundred,” he replied. “A lot of them will have women and children they'll want to take with them.”

The Oberjarl gave an enormous snort of incredulous laughter. “Are you mad?” he asked the Ranger. “If I give three hundred slaves their freedom, we'll have virtually no slaves left. What will I do then?”