The Battle for Skandia (15 page)

Most of all, Halt noted the eyes. He recognized the dislike that he saw there. He had been expecting to see that. But the eyes were deep-set and he could read an intelligence and cunning there as well. For that, he was grateful.

If Ragnak had been a stupid man, Halt's position might well have become untenable here. He knew of the Oberjarl's ingrained dislike for Rangers, and knew the reasons behind it. But an intelligent leader would be aware of Halt's usefulness to him, and might be prepared to set aside his personal dislike for the greater good of his people.

“I have no love of your kind, Ranger,” the Oberjarl said. His mind was obviously running on lines similar to Halt's.

“You have little reason to,” Halt agreed. “But you might well find a use for me.”

“So I'm told,” the Skandian leader replied, once again finding himself admiring the Ranger's forthrightness.

When he'd first heard of his son's death at Thorntree, Ragnak had been overcome with grief and rage—at Araluens, Rangers and, in particular, at King Duncan.

But that had been an immediate and spontaneous reaction to his grief. A realist, he knew that his son had risked death by joining the ill-fated adventure with Morgarath's forces and, indeed, death in battle was commonplace among the Skandians, who lived to raid and pillage. As a result, over the intervening months, Ragnak's anger, if not his grief, had faded. His son had died honorably, with a weapon in his hands. That was all any Skandian could ask. That wasn't to say that he felt any affection for Rangers, but he could respect their abilities and their courage, and their worth as opponents.

Or even, possibly, as allies.

Ragnak's vow against King Duncan and his family was another matter altogether. Chances are, had he waited, his hatred might well have abated and a more reasonable attitude might have prevailed. But, acting on impulse, he had sworn a vow to the Vallas, the triple deity who ruled Skandian religion, and that vow was inviolable.

Ragnak might be able to accept Halt as an ally. He might be able to recognize that those same qualities that made the Ranger a dangerous opponent could also render him a useful confederate in the upcoming battle against the Temujai invaders. That would be his personal choice. But his Vallasvow against Duncan was irrevocable.

“So,” Ragnak said abruptly. “Can you help us?”

Halt answered without any hesitation. “I'm willing to do whatever I can,” he said. “What that might be, I have no idea as yet.”

“No idea!” Ragnak repeated scornfully. “I was told that Rangers are always full of ideas.”

Halt shook his head. “I need to assess your strengths and weaknesses first. And then I'll need maps of the surrounding countryside,” he said. “We'll have to find a spot that will offset their superiority of numbers as far as possible. Then I'm going to ride out for another look at the Temujai. Last time I saw them, I had my hands full keeping your senior jarl alive. Then, after I've done all that, I might be able to answer your question.”

Ragnak chewed on one end of his mustache, taking in what the Ranger had said. He was impressed, in spite of himself. His ability to plan for a battle usually amounted to the words “Everyone ready? Follow me!” before he led the way in a frontal assault.

Perhaps, he thought, this Ranger might be useful after all.

“Be aware of one thing, however, Oberjarl,” Halt continued. Ragnak looked up at him, surprised at the tone of uncompromising command in his voice.

“I'm going to be asking you questions about your establishment, your fighting men, your numbers. They're questions that might give me an advantage in any future disagreement between our two countries.”

“I see . . . ,” said Ragnak slowly. He didn't like the direction the conversation was taking.

“You'll be tempted to lie to me. To exaggerate your numbers and your abilities. Don't do it.”

Once more, the Oberjarl was taken aback at the peremptory tone of command. But Halt's gaze was unwavering.

“If I am to help you, you'll need to be honest with me. And so will your jarls.”

Ragnak considered the statement for a moment or two, then nodded ponderously.

“Agreed,” he said. “Mind you,” he added, “that ax cuts two ways. You'll also be showing us how you think and plan for a battle.”

And once more, that trace of a smile hovered around Halt's mouth as he acknowledged the Oberjarl's point.

“That's true,” he said. “I guess if we want to win, we both have to be willing to lose a little.”

The two men studied each other once more. Each decided that he liked what he saw in the other's eyes. Abruptly, Ragnak gestured to one of the massive pinewood armchairs.

“Sit down!” he said, indicating a flagon of Gallican wine on the table between them, almost lost in the glittering crystal fittings of the chandelier.

“Have a drink and tell me this. Why do you think these Temujai have chosen to make themselves a nuisance in Skandia? Surely the way would have been easier for them to move south, through Teutlandt and Gallica.”

Halt poured himself a glass of the brilliant red wine and drank deeply. He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Ragnak certainly knew the right wines to steal, he thought.

“I've been wondering that myself,” he said at last. He wished the chair he was sitting on was made for someone smaller than the normal massive Skandian build. His feet barely brushed the floor as he sat there and he felt like a small boy in his father's study. “Even if they win here, they must know that you'll be a tough nut to crack. Certainly tougher than the Teutlanders.”

Ragnak snorted in derision at the mention of the unorganized, squabbling race to the immediate south. Riddled by factions and internecine distrust, the Teutlanders were at the mercy of any would-be conquerors. In fact, if Skandian ambitions had lain in that direction, Ragnak would have felt confident that he could have subjugated the country with his small army of warriors.

“And the Gallicans are nearly as bad,” Halt continued. “They'd be almost incapable of agreeing on one overall leader to take command. So I wondered what it was that made the Temujai swing north and risk a bloody nose here in Skandia.”

“And?” the Oberjarl prompted. Halt took another swallow of wine and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I asked myself what you had that would make the risk worthwhile,” he said. “And there was only one thing I could think of.”

He paused. It was a theatrical thing to do, he knew, but he couldn't resist it. As he felt sure would happen, the Oberjarl leaned forward.

“What was it? What are they after?”

“Ships,” replied Halt. “The Temujai want control of the seas. And that means their ambitions don't stop here. They're planning to invade Araluen as well.”

EVANLYN WAS WATCHING WILL PRACTICING HIS SHOOTING. IT was something that Halt had insisted on, once they had reached the relative safety of Hallasholm. Will's speed and accuracy had fallen far below the levels that Halt found acceptable and he wasted no time making his apprentice aware of the fact.

“Remember the golden rule?” he'd said after he'd watched Will shoot a dozen arrows at different targets set up in a semicircle in front of him, at ranges varying from fifty meters out to two hundred. Most of Will's arrows flew wide of the more distant targets, and it took him far too long to fire the set of twelve shots.

Will had looked up at his mentor, knowing how badly he'd shot. Halt was frowning and shaking his head slightly. It made matters worse that Horace and Evanlyn had chosen that moment to come and watch.

“Practice?” he'd replied glumly, and Halt had nodded.

“Practice,” he affirmed. As they'd walked out to collect the arrows he'd fired, Halt had dropped a consoling arm around the boy's shoulders.

“Don't feel too bad about it,” he told him. “Your technique is still good. But you can't expect to spend the winter making snowmen in the mountains and retain your edge.”

“Making snowmen?” Will replied indignantly. “I'll have you know things were pretty rough up in the mountains . . .” He stopped as he realized that Halt had been pulling his leg. He had to admit that the Ranger was right, however. The only way to attain the almost instinctive accuracy and speed with the bow that were the hall-marks of a Ranger was to practice, constantly and assiduously.

Over the following days, he took himself to the practice area and gave himself over to the task of perfecting his skills once more. As his old skill returned, along with his strength and fitness, a small crowd would follow and watch. Even though Will couldn't boast the skill levels of a full-fledged Ranger, his ability was far above that of normal archers and he was regarded by Skandians and some of the slaves with a deal of respect.

Evanlyn and Horace, however, seemed to find plenty of other things to fill their days—riding and hiking in the nearby woods, or sometimes taking a small skiff out on the bay. Of course, they had asked Will to join them, but each time, he had replied that he had to attend to his practice.

There were times when he could have gone. But even on these occasions, his feelings injured, he begged off, claiming the need for extra work sessions.

The practice sessions were intensified when Erak produced the double knife scabbard that Will had been wearing when he and Evanlyn had been captured by the Skandians. Erak, a true hoarder, had kept the weapons and now saw fit to return them to their rightful owner. A word from Halt let Will know that he would soon be tested for his knife-throwing skills as well. Experience had taught Will by now that the long months without practice would have eroded his abilities in this area too. So he set about restoring them. The township of Hallasholm soon rang to the repetitive thud of his throwing knife and saxe knife striking point first into a target of soft pinewood.

As each day passed, his accuracy and speed improved with both the bow and the knives. He was beginning to recapture that smooth, flowing action that Halt had drilled into him over so many hours in the forest outside Castle Redmont.

Now he switched easily from target to target, his arm raising or lowering the bow to adjust for the variations in distance, his eyes wide open, seeing a total sighting picture that included the bow, the arrow and the eventual target. He was pleased that Evanlyn had chosen today to come and watch his practice session. He felt a savage exultation as arrow after arrow thudded into the targets, striking either in the center or close enough to make no difference.

“So,” he said casually as he released two arrows at two widely varying targets in quick succession. “Where's Horace today?”

The arrows thudded, one after another, into their respective targets and he nodded to himself, turning ninety degrees to loose another at one of the targets set closer in.

Another hit. Another thud.

The girl shrugged. “I think you made him feel guilty,” she replied. “He thought he'd better get some practice in. He's working out with some of the Skandians from Erak's crew.”

“I see,” replied Will, then paused to put an arrow into one of the farthest targets, watching it arc smoothly through the air before burying its point in the center ring.

“And why didn't you go along to watch him?” He felt a little pleased that Evanlyn had chosen, finally, to see how proficient he was becoming and hadn't bothered to watch her constant companion of the past few days. Her next words dashed that small glow of pleasure, however.

“I did,” she replied. “But after you've seen two people whack at each other for several minutes, you develop a sense of déjà vu. I thought I'd come and see if you'd improved since the other day.”

“Oh, really?” Will replied, a little stiffly. “Well, I hope you don't feel you've wasted your time.”

Evanlyn looked up at him. He was facing away from her, firing a sequence of shots at three targets—one at fifty meters, one at seventy-five and one at a hundred. She could hear the stiff tone in his voice and wondered what was bothering him. She decided not to answer the question. Instead, she commented on the three-shot sequence, as all three arrows found their marks.

“How do you do that?” she asked. Will stopped and turned toward her. There was a genuine note of inquiry in her voice.

“Do what?”

She gestured toward the three targets.

“How do you know how far to lift the bow for each distance?” she asked. For a moment the question left him nonplussed. Finally, he shrugged.

“I just . . . feel it,” he replied uncertainly. Then, frowning, he tried to elaborate. “It's a matter of practice. When you do it over and over again, it becomes sort of . . . instinctive, I suppose.”

“So, if I took the bow, could you tell me how high to hold it for that middle target, for instance?” she asked, and he cocked his head to one side, thinking the question through.

“Well . . . it's not just that. I suppose I could, but . . . there are other factors.”

She leaned forward, her face querying, and he continued.

“Like your release . . . it has to be smooth. You can't snatch at it or the arrow goes off line. And your draw weight would probably vary.”

“Draw weight?”

He indicated the tension on the bowstring as he pulled it back to full draw. “The longer your draw, the more weight you put behind the arrow. If you didn't draw exactly the same distance as I did, the result would vary.”

She thought about the answer. It seemed logical. She pursed her lips pensively and nodded once or twice.

“I see,” she said. There was a slight tone of disappointment in her voice.