John Flanagan - The sorcerer of the North

"Good pastnoon," called a clear voice. "What can we do for you?"

It was the surprisingly young voice of the speaker, as well as the fact that he used the traditional Skandian greeting, that caused Gundar to hesitate. Behind him, he heard his men muttering, as puzzled as he was at this sudden appearance. They had expected either resistance or flight from the people they encountered, not a polite inquiry.

Realizing that he had somehow lost the initiative, Gundar called angrily, "Step aside! Step aside, run or fight. We don't care which way. You choose."

He started forward and the figure straightened slightly in the saddle. "No further." The voice had a ring of authority now and no sign of any indecision. Gundar hesitated again. Behind him, he heard Ulf's low voice.

"Be careful, Gundar. These Rangers can shoot like the devil himself."

As if he had heard Ulf's whispered warning, the Ranger continued: "Keep coming and you'll be dead before you take another two steps. Let's just talk a while, shall we?"

Gundar, conscious of the eyes of his men on him, snorted disdainfully and started toward the rider. He saw a brief blur of movement. Recalling the incident later, he had no clear recollection of what the movement was. The strange, shimmering, mottled pattern of the cloak confused the eye and the Ranger moved at lightning speed as well. But he heard the savage hiss-thud! and an arrow was quivering in the ground, its head buried directly between his feet. He stepped back rapidly.

"It could have been between your eyes," the voice said calmly, and Gundar realized that it was the truth. He lowered the battleax that had been resting over his shoulder, and leaned on its hilt as its head touched the ground.

"What do you want?" he asked, and the figure shrugged.

"Just a few words between friends. I wasn't aware that the Hallasholm Treaty had been rescinded."

"The treaty doesn't ban individual raiding," Gundar replied. He thought he saw the figure nodding, although it was hard to tell with the cowl of the cloak covering his head.

"Not in so many words, perhaps," he said. "But Erak Starfollower is said to disapprove strongly-particularly where it concerns his friends and their property."

Gundar laughed scornfully. "Friends? The Oberjarl doesn't look for friends among Araluens!" he said, although a worm of doubt was wriggling in his belly as he said the words. There was a pause. The Ranger didn't answer his question directly. Instead, he looked at the sky and the low autumn sun.

"It's late in the raiding season," Will said finally. "I assume you've been raiding the Gallic and Iberic coasts?" It was an easy assumption. There had been no word of any raiding on the south coast of Araluen. Now, watching the group before him, he thought he understood why they had landed here.

"It'll be a long hard pull across the Stormwhite at this time of year," he said, maintaining his easy, friendly tone. "The autumn gales will be starting soon. You'll winter at Skorghijl, I suppose?"

He saw the ripple of surprise go through the Skandians. The leader glanced at his men to silence them.

"Skorghijl? What do you know of Skorghijl?"

"I know it's a black rock, hundreds of kilometers from anywhere. It's wet and freezing and totally devoid of any comfort or even a single blade of grass," Will told him, "but it's still preferable to crossing the Stormwhite in bad weather." He paused for effect, then added casually, "Or at least, it was when I was there in Wolfwind."

Now that had an effect, thought Will. Wolfwind had been Erak's wolfship before he had been elected Oberjarl of the Skandians. Yet there would be very few Araluens who knew the fact-Skandian ships didn't have their names painted on them. He saw the group muttering in low voices, saw the uncertainty in the stance of their leader as they realized that the only way he might have known the name of Erak's ship would be to have known Erak himself.

That was precisely the thought that was going through Gundar's mind. Yet he hadn't made the obvious connection. Ulf had. He grabbed his leader's arm.

"It's him!" he said urgently. "The one who helped defeat the eastern riders!"

Gundar peered at the figure on the horse. He'd heard of the young Ranger apprentice who had fought side by side with the Skandians five years ago, but he'd never seen him. Gundar had been upcountry during the brief, bloody war with the Temujai. Not so Ulf. He'd taken his place in the shield wall during the final confrontation. Now, as Will tossed back the cowl of his cloak and the shock of unruly hair was visible, he recognized him.

"It's him, Gundar!" he told his captain, then added, with a grim laugh, "As well you stopped when you did. I saw him empty five Temujai saddles in as many seconds during the battle."

That wasn't all, Ulf knew. If this were the legendary apprentice he was thinking of, then he was a close friend of the Oberjarl-and raiding in his territory might not be the best career move a wolfship skirl could make. Erak was renowned for his loyalty to friends-and his short temper with those who offended them.

Gundar, not the quickest of thinkers, had reached the same contusion a few seconds after his deputy. He hesitated, not sure what to say or do next. He and his men had an urgent need that had influenced their decision to raid Seacliff. They needed provisions to see them through the long, bitter winter months on Skorghijl. The bare island provided a safe harbor for wolfships but little in the way of food, and Wolfcloud's cruise had been anything but successful when it came to capturing supplies. If they sailed to Skorghijl as they were, they would quite possibly starve to death. At best they would go very hungry. Gundar and his men needed to raid. They needed meat and flour and grain to see them through the winter. And wine, if they could get it, he thought, his tongue unconsciously licking his dry lips as the thought crossed his mind. Friend or not, he thought, the Oberjarl could hardly blame him for looking after the well-being of his crew.

"Ride away, Ranger," he called, making a decision. "I'd prefer not to raise my weapon against a friend of Skandia, so I'll give you this last chance."

He hefted the massive ax again as he spoke. He was a little disconcerted to see a smile touch the young man's face.

"How very kind of you," Will said pleasantly. "And if I do 'ride away,' what do you propose to do?"

Gundar pointed in the direction of the castle and the attendant village that he knew lay some way beyond the trees.

"What we came here to do," he declared. "We'll take what we want and go."

"You won't get much with only ten men," Will said, in a reasonable tone of voice. Gundar snorted angrily.

"Ten? I've got twenty-seven men behind me!" There was an angry growl of assent from his men-although Ulf didn't join in, Gundar noticed.

This time, when the Ranger spoke, there was no trace of the pleasant, reasonable tone. Instead, the voice was hard and cold.

"You haven't reached the castle yet," Will said. "I've got twenty-three arrows in my quiver still, and a further dozen in my packsaddle. And you've got several kilometers to go-all within bowshot of the trees there. Bad shot as I am, I should be able to account for than half your men. Then you'll be facing the garrison with just ten men."

Involuntarily, Gundar's eyes swung to the tree line. He realized that the Ranger was right. He could fade into the forest and keep a constant fire on them as they tried to reach the castle.

"Try to come after me and you'll just make it easier," Will added, and Gundar swore explosively under his breath. Mounted as he was, and with a Ranger's skill at avoiding detection in the trees, Will could evade pursuit easily while he cut the small force of Skandians to ribbons. The wolfship skirl felt rage boiling up inside him. He was trapped here, with no options left to him. On the one hand, if he didn't raid the village, he and his men would starve. On the other, if they tried, a lot of them would certainly die. Will watched him carefully, waiting for the right moment, just before the rage boiled over into frustrated action.