John Flanagan - The Icebound Land

"He's injured!" he said eagerly. "That's a stroke of luck!"

But Halt was frowning, shaking his head.

"I don't think so," he said. "There's something fishy going on here."

The two armored warriors now drew their broadswords and charged again. They crashed together. Deparnieux took the other knight's stroke on his shield. His own sword struck ringingly against his opponent's helmet, and again the young man reeled in the saddle.

The battlehorses screamed in fury as they circled and reared now, with each rider trying to gain a winning position. The warriors struck at each other again and again as they came within reach, Deparnieux's men cheering every time their lord landed a blow.

"What's he doing?" Horace asked, his earlier excitement gone. "He could have finished him off after that first stroke!" His voice took on a tone of disgust as he realized the truth. "He's playing with him!"

Below them, the ringing, slithering screech of sword on sword continued, interspersed by the duller clang as they struck each other's shield. To experienced spectators like Halt and Horace, who had seen many tournaments at Castle Redmont, Deparnieux was obviously holding back. His men, however, didn't seem to notice. They were peasants who had no real knowledge of the skills involved in a duel such as this. They continued to roar their approval with each stroke Deparnieux landed.

"He's playing to the audience," Halt said, indicating the men-at-arms on the ramparts below them. "He's making the other man look better than he really is."

Horace shook his head. Deparnieux was showing yet another side of his cruel nature by prolonging the battle like this. Far better to give the young knight a merciful end than to toy with him.

"He's a swine," he said in a low voice. Deparnieux's behavior went against all the tenets of chivalry that meant so much to him. Halt nodded agreement.

"We knew that already. He's using this lad to boost his own reputation."

Horace threw him a puzzled look and he explained further.

"He rules by fear. His hold over his men depends on how much they respect and fear him. And he has to keep renewing that fear. He can't let it slip. By making his opponent look better than he really is, he enhances his own reputation as a great warrior. These men"-he gestured contemptuously at the ramparts below-"don't know any better."

Deparnieux seemed to decide that he had prolonged matters long enough. The two Araluens detected a subtle change in the tempo and power of his blows. The young knight swayed under the onslaught and tried to give ground. But the black-armored figure urged his battlehorse after him, following him relentlessly, raining blows on sword, shield or helmet at will. Finally, there was a duller sound as Deparnieux's sword struck a vulnerable point-the chain mail protecting his opponent's neck.

The black knight knew it was a killing stroke. Contemptuously, he wheeled his horse toward the castle gate, without a backward glance at his opponent, who was crumpling sideways from the saddle. The ramparts resounded with cheers as the limp figure crashed onto the turf and lay, unmoving. The gate slammed shut behind the victor.

Halt stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"I think," he said, "we might have found the key to our problem with Lord Deparnieux."

I T WAS MIDMORNING WHEN E VANLYN WOKE, ALTHOUGH SHE had no way of knowing it. There was no sign of the sun. It was hidden behind the low-lying snow clouds. The light was so flat and diffused that it seemed to come from every direction and no direction. It was daylight and that was all she knew.

She eased her cramped muscles and looked around. Beside her, Will sat upright and wide-awake. He may have been that way for hours or he may have woken only minutes before her. There was no way of knowing.

He simply sat, eyes wide, rocking slowly back and forward and staring straight ahead.

It tore at her heart to see him that way.

As she stirred, the horse sensed her movement and began to heave itself back upright. She moved away from the animal to give it room, taking Will's hand and pulling him away too. The horse came to its feet and stamped once or twice, then shook itself and snorted violently, blowing a huge cloud of steam into the frigid air.

The snow had stopped during the night but not before it had obliterated all sign of their passage to the hollow under the tree. It would be a hard slog back to the path, Evanlyn realized, but at least she was rested now. She thought briefly about eating-there was a small supply of food in the pack-then she discarded the idea, in favor of moving on and putting more distance between them and Hallasholm. She had no way of knowing that the search parties had already been recalled by Borsa.

She decided that she could live for a few more hours with the empty feeling in her belly, but not with the raging thirst that had dried her mouth. Moving to a point where the snow lay thick and new, she took a handful and put it in her mouth, letting it melt there. It produced a surprisingly small amount of water, so she repeated the action several more times. She considered showing Will how to do the same but suddenly felt impatient to be on their way. If he was thirsty, she reasoned, he could work it out for himself.

She strapped the pack saddle onto the pony's back again, tightening the girths as much as she could. The pony, canny in the way of its kind, tried to suck air and expand his belly, so he could exhale and allow the straps to loosen. But Evanlyn had been awake to that trick since she had been eleven years old. She kneed the horse firmly in the belly, forcing him to gasp the air out, then, as his body contracted, she jerked the straps tight. The pony turned a reproachful eye on her but otherwise accepted his fate philosophically.

As she led the way out from under the tree, forcing a path once more through the waist-deep snow, Will made a move to mount the pony.

She stopped him, holding up a hand and saying no gently to him. They needed the pony and Will should be rested after an undisturbed night in the relative warmth of the snow hollow. Later, she might need to let him ride the horse again. She knew his reserves of strength couldn't be very deep. But for now, he could walk and they could preserve the little horse's strength as much as possible.

It took five minutes' hard work to reach the relatively easy going of the path once more, and already breathing hard and wet with perspiration, she doggedly resumed her uphill path.

The horse plodded patiently behind her and Will walked half a pace to her right. His low-level, nonstop keening was beginning to set her teeth on edge, but she did her best to ignore it, knowing that he couldn't help it. For the hundredth time since they had left Hallasholm, she found herself wishing for the day when he might have finally expelled all traces of the drug from his system.

That day was to be further postponed, unfortunately. After a couple of hours of solid, dogged plodding through the fresh fallen snow, Will was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable fit of shivering.

His teeth chattered and his body shook and trembled and heaved as he fell to the ground, rolling helplessly in the snow, his knees drawn up to his chest. One hand flailed uselessly at the snow, while the other was jammed firmly in his mouth. She watched in horror as the moaning turned to a shuddering cry, dragged deep from his soul and torn with agony. She dropped to her knees beside him, putting her arms around him and trying to soothe him with her voice. But he jerked away from her, rolling and thrashing again, and she realized that there was nothing for it but to give him a little of the warmweed Erak had put in the pack. She'd seen it already when she had searched for warm clothes and blankets. There was a small amount of the dried leaf packed in an oiled linen pouch. Jarl Erak had warned her that Will would not be able to quit the drug straightaway. Warmweed built up a physical dependence in its addicts, so that total deprivation meant actual pain.