John Flanagan: The Icebound Land

Horace hesitated once more, making sure he phrased his reply exactly. As Halt had told him, accuracy now was of paramount importance. In fact, as Horace realized only too well, it was a matter of life and death.

"It's time that right was challenged," he replied, after a pause.

Deparnieux, allowing a wolfish smile to show on his dark features, now rose from his seat, leaning forward over the table, resting both hands on the bare wood surface.

"So you challenge me?" he asked, the pleasure in his voice all too obvious. Horace, however, made an uncertain gesture.

"Before any challenge is issued, I would demand that you respect it," he said, and the warlord frowned slightly.

"Respect it?" he repeated. "What do you mean, you whining pup?"

Horace shook his head doggedly, dismissing the insult.

"I want an undertaking that you will abide by the terms of the challenge. And I want it made before your own men."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Now the hint of anger in Deparnieux's voice wasn't assumed. It was real. He could see where the boy was going.

"I think," Halt interrupted quietly, "that the boy feels you rule by fear, Lord Deparnieux," he said. The Gall turned to face him.

"And what is that to either of you, bowman?" he asked, although he thought he already knew.

Halt shrugged, then replied casually, "Your men are with you because of your reputation as a warrior. I believe Horace would prefer to see the challenge issued and accepted before your men."

Deparnieux frowned. With the challenge more or less issued in front of some of his men already, he knew he had no choice but to comply. A warlord who even seemed to show fear of a sixteen-year-old youth would find little respect from the men he commanded, even if he were to win the resultant battle.

"You feel I am afraid of this boy's challenge?" he asked sarcastically. Halt held up a cautioning hand.

"No challenge has been issued:yet," he said. "We're merely concerned to see that you have the courage to honor any challenge that might eventuate."

Deparnieux snorted in disgust at the Ranger's careful words. "I can see your true calling now, bowman," he replied. "I thought you might be a sorcerer. I see now you are no more than a grubby lawyer, bickering over words."

Halt smiled thinly and inclined his head slightly. He made no other reply and the silence stretched between them. Deparnieux glanced quickly at the two sentries who stood inside the large double doors of the dining hall. Their faces betrayed their interest in the scene being played out. The details would spread throughout the castle within the hour if he were to refuse the challenge now, or try to gain any unfair advantage over the boy. His men had little love for him and he knew that, should he not treat the challenge fairly, he would begin to lose them. Not immediately, perhaps, but gradually, by ones and twos as they deserted his banner and flocked to his enemies. And Deparnieux had all too many enemies.

He glared at the boy now. He had no doubt whatsoever that he could best Horace in a fair fight. But he resented the fact that he had been manipulated into this position. In Chateau Montsombre, it was Deparnieux who preferred to do the manipulating. He forced a smile and tried to look as if he were bored with the entire affair.

"Very well," he said, in a careless tone, "if this is what you wish, I will abide by the terms of the challenge."

"And you give that undertaking in front of your own men here?"

Horace said quickly, and the warlord scowled at him, abandoning any pretense that he didn't dislike the quibbling boy and his bearded companion.

"Yes," he spat at them. "If I must spell it out to please you, I guarantee my acceptance, in front of my men."

Horace heaved a large sigh of relief. "Then," he said, beginning to tug one of his gloves free from where it was tucked securely into his belt, "the challenge may be issued. The combat will take place in two weeks' time."

"Agreed," Deparnieux replied.

"On the grassed field before Chateau Montsombre:"

"Agreed." The word was almost spat out.

":in view of your own men and the other people of the castle:"

"Agreed."

":and it shall be mortal combat." Horace's voice hesitated slightly over the phrase, but he glanced quickly at Halt and the Ranger nodded slightly to give him courage. And now the smile returned to the warlord's lips, thin and bitter and savage.

"Agreed," he said again. Yet this time, the word was almost purred. "Now get on with it, boy, before you lose your courage and wet your pants."

Horace cocked his head at the warlord and, for the first time, felt in control of the situation.

"What a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work you are, Deparnieux," he said softly, and the black knight leaned forward across the table, thrusting his chin out for the ritual blow with a glove that would issue the challenge and make the entire event irrevocable.

"Frightened, boy?" He sneered, and then flinched as a glove slapped stingingly across his cheek.

Not that the pain made him flinch. Rather, it was the unexpectedness of it all. For the boy across the table hadn't moved.

Instead, the bearded, grizzled bowman had come to his feet with a speed and agility that left the warlord no time to react, and struck him across the face with the glove that he had held under the table for the past few minutes.

"Then I challenge you, Deparnieux," the Ranger said. And for a few seconds the warlord felt a surge of uncertainty as he saw the light of satisfaction deep behind those steady, unwavering eyes.

A SMALL PATCH OF SUNLIGHT CREPT ACROSS THE SINGLE ROOM of the hut.

Evanlyn, dozing in a chair, felt the warmth of the sun on her face and smiled, unconsciously. Outside, the snow was still deep on the ground, but the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue in the midafternoon.

Half-asleep, she enjoyed the warmth as it slowly moved across her.

Behind closed eyelids, she saw the bright red of the sun's glare.

Then, abruptly, the light was blocked and she opened her eyes.

Will stood before her, in the attitude that had become familiar to her over the past week. His hands were clasped together and his dark brown eyes, once so alight with amusement and fun, held nothing but a wistful plea. He stood patiently, waiting for her to react, and she smiled at him, a little sadly.

"All right," she told him gently.

The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, seeming for a moment to reflect in those dark eyes, and she felt a renewal of the surge of hope that had been growing within her over the past days.

Gradually, but noticeably, Will was changing. At first, as she withheld the drug from him, he had convulsed in those awful shuddering fits, only recovering when she doled out a small portion of the warmweed.

But, as the intervals between doses had grown longer and the doses themselves smaller, she had begun to hope that he would eventually recover. The seizures were a thing of the past. Now, instead of being ruled by his body as it craved the drug, Will was becoming more mentally attuned to a smaller supply. There was still a need there, but it was reflected in the pleading, almost childlike behavior that she was seeing now.

After three days without a taste of the weed, he would come to her and simply stand in front of her, the message clear in his eyes. And, in response, she would measure out a helping of the ever-decreasing stock of drug that remained in the oiled cotton pouch. It was a race, she knew, to see whether his dependence would outlast the supply. If that were the case, she could see some hard times ahead for the two of them. She had no idea what his reaction would be if she refused him.

But she sensed that further deprivation would result in another bout of uncontrollable shivering and crying.