John Flanagan - The Icebound Land

"Other than yourself," Gilan countered, and Halt acknowledged the fact with a slight inclination of his head. It wasn't ego talking. It was an honest assessment of the truth.

"That may be true," he said. "But it bears out my point. If we both go missing, Crowley will have to find someone else to do the job."

"I don't care," Gilan replied stubbornly, twisting the reins in his hand into a tight little knot, then releasing them again. Halt smiled gently at him.

"I do, Gilan. I know how it feels to break the faith like this.

It's a deep, bitter hurt, believe me. And I won't allow you to inflict it on yourself."

"But, Halt," Gilan said miserably, and the grizzled, smaller man could see that tears weren't far from his eyes, "I was responsible for leaving Will. I deserted him in Celtica! If I had stayed with him, he would never have been captured by the Skandians!"

Halt shook his head. His voice was gentler now as he consoled the young man.

"You can't blame yourself for that," he told him. "What you did at the time was right. Blame me, rather, for recruiting a boy with the honor and courage to act as he did. And for training him so that there would never be any doubt that he would act that way."

He paused, to see if his words were having any effect. Gilan was wavering, he knew. Halt added the final touch.

"Don't you see, Gilan, it's because I know that you are here that I can desert my post like this. Because I know you can cover for me.

But if you refuse to do so, I can't go myself."

And at that, Gilan's shoulders slumped in submission. His eyes fell once more and he muttered throatily, "All right, Halt. But find him. Find him and bring him back, banished or not."

Halt smiled at him and leaned across to grip his shoulder.

"It's only a year," he said. "We'll be back before you know it.

Good-bye, Gilan."

"Godspeed, Halt," the Ranger said in a breaking voice. His vision was obscured by tears and he heard the dull clopping of hooves on the wet road as Abelard and Tug paced out toward the coast.

The wind was in Halt's face as he rode on his way and it drove the light rain against him. It formed into small drops on his weather-beaten features, drops that rolled down his cheeks.

Strangely, some of them tasted of salt.

T HE WOLFSHIP WAS IN BAD SHAPE. S HE CRABBED AWKWARDLY toward the shingle beach, where the crew of Erak's ship was spilling out of their hut to watch. She was listing heavily, and she sat a good deal lower in the water than she should. The guardrail on the downward side of the list was barely ten centimeters from the water.

"It's Slagor's ship!" one of the Skandians on the beach called, recognizing the wolfshead crest on the upcurving bowsprit.

"What's he doing here?" another asked. "He was safe back in Skandia when we left for Araluen."

Will had hurried around from the rocks where he had been tossing driftwood into the water. He saw Evanlyn making her way down from the lean-to and he joined her. Her former annoyance was forgotten at this new turn of events.

"Where did the ship come from?" she asked, and Will shrugged.

"I have no idea. I was out on the rocks and I just looked up and there she was."

The ship was close in now. The crewmen looked haggard and exhausted, Will noticed. Now he could see gaps between several of the planks forming the hull, and the ragged stump where the mast had shattered and gone overboard. The Skandians standing around them noted these facts, and commented on them.

"Slagor!" Erak called across the calm water. "Where the devil did you spring from?"

The burly man at the stern, controlling the ship's steering oar, waved a hand in greeting. He was plainly exhausted, and glad to make harbor.

One of the crew now stood in the bow of the ship and tossed a heavy line to Erak's men waiting on the beach. In a few seconds, a dozen of them had tailed onto the rope and begun to haul the wolfship in the last few meters. Gratefully, the rowers slumped back on their benches, without the energy to ship their oars. The heavy, carved-oak sweeps trailed in the water, bumping dully against the ship's sides as they pivoted back in the oarlocks. The keel grated against the shingle and the ship came to a halt. Sitting lower in the water than Wolfwind, it wouldn't ride as far up the slope of the beach. The bow struck and stuck fast.

The men on board began to disembark, hauling themselves over the bulwarks at the bow and dropping to the beach. The rowing crew staggered up onto dry land and stretched themselves out with groans of weariness, dropping onto the coarse stones and sand and lying as if dead. One of the last to come ashore was Slagor, the captain.

He dropped tiredly to the beach. His beard and hair were matted and rimed white with salt. His eyes were red and haunted-looking. He and Erak faced each other. Oddly, they didn't greet each other with the normal grasped forearms. Will realized that there must be little love between the two men.

"What are you doing here at this time of year?" Erak asked the other skipper.

Slagor shook his head disgustedly. "We're damned lucky to be here.

We were two days out of Hallasholm when the storm hit us. Waves as big as castles there were, and the wind was straight from the pole. The mast went in the first hour and we couldn't cut it loose. Lost two men trying to clear it. Then the butt end kept slamming into the ship's waterline, and before we got rid of it, it had driven a hole in the planks. We had one compartment flooded before we knew what was happening, and leaks in the other three."

The wolfships, in spite of the fact that they looked like open boats, were actually highly seaworthy vessels. This was in no small part due to the design that divided the hulls into four separate, watertight compartments beneath the main deck and between the two lower galleries where the rowers sat. It was the buoyancy of these compartments that kept the ships afloat even when they were swamped by the huge waves that coursed across the Stormwhite Sea.

Will glanced at Erak now. He saw the heavily built Jarl was frowning at Slagor's words.

"What were you doing at sea in the first place?" Erak asked. "This is no time to try to cross the Stormwhite."

Slagor took a wooden beaker of brandy-spirit offered by one of Erak's men. Around the small harbor, the crew of Erak's ship was bringing drinks to their exhausted countrymen and, in some cases, tending to injuries obviously sustained as their ship had tossed and heaved in the storm. Slagor made no gesture of thanks and Erak frowned slightly. Again, Will was conscious of a feeling of animosity between the two captains. Even Slagor's manner was belligerent as he described their misfortune, as if he were somehow defensive about the whole matter. Now he drank half the brandy in one long gulp and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before answering.

"Weather had cleared back in Hallasholm," he said shortly. "I thought we had a break long enough to get across the storm zone."

Erak's eyes widened in disbelief.

"At this time of year?" he asked. "Are you mad?"

"Thought we could make it," Slagor repeated stubbornly, and Will saw Erak's eyes narrow. The burly Jarl lowered his voice so that it didn't carry to the other crewmen. Only Will and Evanlyn heard him.

"Damn you, Slagor," he said bitterly. "You were trying to get a jump on the raiding season."

Slagor faced the other captain angrily. "And if I was? It was my decision to make as captain. No one else's, Erak."

"And your decision cost two men their lives," Erak pointed out.

"Two men who were sworn to abide by your decisions, no matter how foolhardy those decisions might be. Any man with more than five minutes' experience would know that this is too early to make the crossing!"