John Flanagan: The Icebound Land

As the minutes dragged by, the Ranger's insults and slandering of King Duncan grew more vivid and more outrageous. The landlord swallowed nervously. His wife had been gone ten minutes now. Surely she must have found a detachment of the Watch? Surely they should be arriving here any minute, to remove this dangerous man and stop this treasonous talk?

And, even as he framed the thought, the front door banged back on its hinges and a squad of five men, led by a corporal, forced their way into the dimly lit room. Each of them was armed with a long sword and a short, heavy-headed club hanging at his belt, and each wore a round buckler slung across his back.

The corporal appraised the room as his men fanned out behind him.

His eyes narrowed as they made out the figure hunched at the table.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, and the Ranger smiled. It was a smile that never reached his eyes, the tavern keeper noticed.

"We were talking politics," he said, his words laden with sarcasm.

"Not what I heard," the corporal replied, thin-lipped. "I heard you were talking treason."

The Ranger's mouth formed an incredulous O and his eyebrows arched in mock surprise. "Treason?" he repeated, then looked curiously around the room. "Has someone here been telling tales out of school, then? Is someone here a tell-tale tit, whose tongue should be:split!"

It happened so quickly that the tavern keeper barely had time to throw himself flat behind the bar. As the Ranger spat out the last word, he had somehow scooped up the longbow from behind him and nocked and fired an arrow. It slammed into the wall behind the spot where the tavern keeper had been standing a second before, and buried itself deep into the wood panel, quivering still with the force of its impact.

"That's enough:," the corporal began. He started to move forward, but incredibly, the Ranger had another arrow nocked already. The dully gleaming broadhead was aimed at the corporal's forehead, the bow was drawn and tensed. The corporal stopped, staring death in the face.

"Put it down," he said. But his voice lacked authority and he knew it. It was one thing to keep dockside drunks and rowdies in line, another entirely to face a Ranger, a skilled fighter and a trained killer. Even a knight would think twice about such a confrontation. It was way beyond the capabilities of a simple corporal of the Watch.

Yet the corporal was no coward and he knew he had a duty to perform. He swallowed several times, then slowly, slowly, raised his hand to the Ranger.

"Put:down:the:bow," he repeated. There was no answer. The arrow remained centered on his forehead, at eye level. Hesitantly, he took a pace forward.

"Don't."

The word was flat and unequivocal. The corporal was sure he could hear his own heart beating, rattling like a kettledrum. He wondered if others in the room could hear it too. He took a deep breath. He'd taken an oath of loyalty to the King. He wasn't a noble or a knight, just an ordinary man. But his word meant as much to him as it did to any highborn officer. He'd been happy to wield his authority for years, dealing with drunks and minor criminals. Now the stakes were higher, much higher. Now was the time to return payment for those years of authority and respect.

He took another step.

The twang of the bow releasing was almost deafening in the tension-charged room. Instinctively, violently, the corporal flinched and staggered back a pace, expecting the burning agony of the arrow, then the blackness of certain death.

And realized what had happened: the bowstring had snapped.

The Ranger stared incredulously at the useless weapon in his hands. The tableau remained frozen for a full five seconds. Then the corporal and his men leaped forward, swinging the short, heavy clubs that they carried, swarming over the small gray-and-green-clad figure.

As the Ranger went down under the rain of blows, no one noticed him drop the small blade he had used to sever the bowstring. But the tavern keeper did wonder how a man who had moved so quickly to defeat a stevedore twice his size now seemed to be so slow and vulnerable.

O N THE BARREN, WINDSWEPT ISLAND OF S KORGHIJL, W ILL was running.

He had done five laps of the shingle beach. Now he turned toward the steep cliffs that reared above the tiny harbor. His legs burned with the effort as he forced himself to climb, the muscles in his thighs and calves protesting. The weeks of inactivity on the wolfship had taken their toll on his fitness and now he was determined to regain it, to harden his muscles and bring his body back to the fine-tuned edge that Halt had demanded of him.

He might not be able to practice his archery or knifework, but he could at least make sure his body was ready if the chance came to escape.

And Will was determined that such a chance would come.

He drove himself up the steep slope, the small stones and shale slipping and giving way under his feet. The higher he went, the more the wind plucked at his clothes until, finally, he reached the top of the cliff and was exposed to the full force of the north wind-the Summer Gales, as the Skandians called them. On the northern side of the island, the wind drove the waves against the unyielding black rock, sending fountains of spray high into the air. In the harbor behind him, the water was relatively calm, sheltered from the wind by the massive horseshoe of cliffs that surrounded it.

As he always did when he reached this point, he scanned the ocean for some sign of a ship. But as ever, there was nothing to see but the relentlessly marching waves.

He looked back into the harbor. The two large huts seemed ridiculously small from here. One was the dormitory where the Skandian crew slept. The other was the eating hall, where they spent most of their time, arguing, gambling and drinking. To the side of the dormitory, built against one of the long side walls, was the lean-to that Erak had assigned to him and Evanlyn. It was a small space but at least they didn't have to share with the Skandians, and Will had rigged an old blanket across one end to provide Evanlyn with a little privacy.

She was sitting outside the lean-to now. Even from this distance, Will could see the dispirited slump in her shoulders and he frowned.

Some days ago, he had suggested that she might like to join him in his attempt to keep fit. She had dismissed the idea out of hand. She seemed to have simply accepted their lot, he thought. She had given in, and over the past few days, their exchanges had become increasingly waspish as he tried to boost her spirits and talked about the possibility of escape-for he already had an idea forming in that direction.

He was puzzled and hurt by her attitude. It was unlike the Evanlyn he remembered from the bridge-the brave, resolute partner who had run across the narrow beams of the bridge to help him without any thought for her personal safety, then tried to fight off the Skandians as they closed in on them.

This new Evanlyn was strangely dispirited. Her negative attitude surprised him. He would never have picked her as someone who would quit when the going got tough. Maybe that's how girls were, he told himself. But he didn't believe it. He sensed there was something else, something she hadn't told him. Shrugging away the thoughts, he started down the cliff once more.

The downhill run was easier than uphill, but not by too much. The slippery, treacherous surface beneath his feet meant that he had to continually run faster and faster to maintain his balance, setting off miniature landslides as he went. Where the uphill course had burned his thigh muscles, now he felt it in his calves and ankles. He reached the bottom of the slope, breathing hard, and dropped to the shingle to do a series of rapid push-ups. His shoulders were burning after a few minutes but he kept at it, forcing himself past the point of pain, blinded by the perspiration that was running into his eyes until, eventually, he could continue no longer. Exhausted, he collapsed, his arms unable to bear his weight, and lay facedown on the shingle, panting for breath.