John Flanagan: The Icebound Land

He wore no armor, only a studded leather vest that would give him no protection at all against Deparnieux's lance and sword. And, of course, his ever-present gray-and-green dappled cloak.

His young companion rode a few paces behind him. He was fitted out in chain mail and had his helmet slung at the saddlebow of his battlehorse. He wore his sword and carried the round buckler emblazoned with the oakleaf symbol.

Interesting, thought Deparnieux. Obviously, in the event of Halt's inevitable defeat, his young fellow traveler would attempt to avenge his friend. All the better, thought the black knight. If one death would serve as a salutary lesson to his more unruly retainers, two would be doubly effective. After all, that was how this entire disappointing business had started in the first place.

He brought his horse to a stop now, testing his grip on the lance in his right hand, ensuring that he had it at just the right point of balance. At the far end of the field, his opponent continued to ride forward, slowly and steadily. He seemed ridiculously small, dwarfed by the muscular youth and the huge battlehorse that paced beside him.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Horace said, trying to speak without moving his lips, in case Deparnieux was watching-which he undoubtedly was. Halt turned in the saddle and almost smiled at him.

"So do I," he said quietly. He noticed that Horace's right hand was easing his sword in its scabbard once more. He had done that same thing at least half a dozen times as they rode forward. "Relax," he added calmly. Horace glanced at him openly now, no longer caring if Deparnieux saw him or not.

"Relax?" he repeated incredulously. "You're going to fight an armored knight with nothing more than a bow and you tell me to relax?"

"I'll have one or two arrows as well, you know," Halt told him mildly, and Horace shook his head in disbelief.

"Well:I just hope you know what you're doing," he said again. Halt smiled at him now. Just the briefest flash of a smile.

"So you keep saying," he replied. Then he nudged Abelard with his knee and the little horse came to a stop, ears pricked and ready for more signals. Halt's eyes locked on the distant figure in the black armor and he raised his right leg over the saddlebow and slid off the horse.

"Take him out of harm's way," he told the apprentice, and Horace leaned down and took the Ranger horse's rein. Abelard twitched his ears and looked inquisitively at his master. "Go along," Halt told him quietly and the horse allowed himself to be led away. Halt glanced once at the youth sitting astride the battlehorse. He could see the worry in every line of the boy's body.

"Horace?" he called, and the apprentice warrior stopped and looked back at him.

"I do know what I'm doing, you know."

Horace managed a wan smile at that.

"If you say so, Halt," he said.

As they were talking, Halt carefully selected three arrows from the two dozen in his quiver and slid them, point down, into the top of his right boot. Horace saw the movement and wondered at it. There was no need for Halt to place his arrows ready to hand in that way. He could draw and fire from the quiver on his back in a fraction of a second.

He didn't have time to wonder about it any further. Deparnieux was calling from the far end of the field.

"My lord Halt." His accented voice came to Horace clearly as he reined in, off to one side. "Are you ready?"

Not bothering to speak, Halt raised a hand in reply. He looked so small and vulnerable, Horace thought, standing all alone in the center of the mown field, waiting for the black-clad knight on his massive battlehorse to bear down on him.

"Then may the best man win!" shouted Deparnieux mockingly, and this time Halt did reply.

"I plan to," he called back as Deparnieux clapped his spurs to the horse and it began to lumber forward, building up to a full gallop as it came.

It struck Horace then that Halt had not said anything to him about what he should do if Deparnieux were victorious. He had half expected the Ranger to instruct him to try to escape. He certainly expected that Halt would forbid him to challenge Deparnieux immediately after the combat-which was precisely what Horace planned to do if Halt lost.

He wondered now if the Ranger hadn't said anything because he knew that Horace would ignore any such instruction, or if it was simply because he was totally confident of emerging as the victor.

Not that there seemed any way that he could. The earth shook under the hooves of the black battlehorse and Horace's expert eye could see that the Gallic warlord was a warrior of enormous experience and natural ability. Perfectly balanced in his seat on the horse, he handled the long, heavy lance as if it were a lightweight staff, leaning forward and rising slightly in his stirrups as the point of his lance drew ever closer to the small figure in the gray-green cloak.

It was the cloak that first sent a slight feeling of misgiving through Deparnieux's mind. Halt was swaying slightly as he stood his ground, and the uneven patterns on the cloak, set against the gray-green of the mown winter grass, seemed to send his figure in and out of focus. The effect was almost mesmerizing. Angrily, Deparnieux thrust the distracting thought aside and tried to center his attention on the archer. He was close now, barely thirty meters away, and still the archer hadn't:

He saw it coming. A blur of movement as the bow came up and the first arrow spat toward him at incredible speed, coming straight toward the vision slits in his helmet and bringing instant oblivion with it.

Yet, fast as the arrow was traveling, Deparnieux was even faster, raising the shield in a slant to deflect the arrow. He felt it slam against the shield, steel screeching on steel as it gouged a long furrow in the gleaming black enamel then went hissing off as the shield deflected it.

But the shield was now blocking his sight of the little man and he lowered it quickly.

All the devils in hell take him! It was what Halt had planned on, firing a second arrow even as the shield was still up! Deparnieux's incredible reflexes saved him again, bringing the shield back up to deflect the treacherous second shot. How could anyone manage to fire so quickly, he thought, then cursed as he realized that, unsighted as he was, he had already been carried past the spot where the archer stood, calmly stepping out of the line of the lance point.

Deparnieux let the battlehorse slow to a canter, wheeling him in a wide arc. It wouldn't do to risk injury to the horse by trying to wheel it too quickly. He'd take his time and:At that moment there was a bright flash of pain in his left shoulder. Twisting awkwardly, his vision constricted by the helmet, he realized that, as he had galloped past, Halt had sent another arrow spitting at him, this time aiming for the gap in his armor at the shoulder.

The chain mail that filled the gap had taken most of the force of the arrow, but the razor-sharp broadhead had still managed to shear through a little way and penetrate the flesh. It was painful, but only minor, he realized, moving the arm quickly to ensure that no major muscles or tendons had been damaged. If the fight were to be a prolonged one, it could stiffen and affect his shield defense.

As it was, the wound was a nuisance. A painful nuisance, he amended as he felt the hot blood trickling down his armpit. Halt would pay for that, he promised himself. And he would pay dearly.

Because now, Deparnieux believed he understood Halt's plan. He would continue to blind him as he came charging in, forcing him to raise the shield to protect his eyes at the last minute, then sidestepping as Deparnieux went charging past.

Except the knight had no intention of playing Halt's game. He would abandon the wild high-speed charge with a lance for a slow, deliberate approach. After all, he didn't need the force and momentum of a charge. He wasn't facing another armored knight, trying to knock him from the saddle. He was facing a man standing alone in the middle of the field.