Sorcerer of the North (5 page)

The one area in which Seacliff excelled was in the kitchen. Kitchenmaster Rollo was a true master indeed and his skill rivaled that of Master Chubb at Redmont, long recognized as one of the kingdom's finest. Perhaps that was part of the problem, Will thought. Life at Seacliff was too comfortable, too settled.

Altogether too uneventful.

At the same time, he had traveled to the mainland several times and visited some of the other villages and hamlets within a day's ride of the castle. On several of these occasions, he discarded the symbols of his authority as a Ranger—the gray and green mottled cloak, the longbow and the distinctive double knife scabbard—and took the guise of a traveling peasant. He found that people spoke more freely in front of an anonymous traveler than they would if one of the mysterious Ranger Corps was in their midst. Will sensed that all was not totally well in Seacliff Fief. Life at the castle might be comfortable enough. Life among the outlying hamlets and farms was somewhat less so.

There were rumors of highwaymen and bandits preying on lone travelers. Of strangers being waylaid and even, on some occasions, disappearing altogether. They were rumors only, and Will knew that country folk, with their relatively uneventful day-to-day existence, tended to exaggerate anything out of the ordinary to the point where it assumed massive proportions. But he heard the rumors sufficiently often to sense that they had at least a basis in truth. Several times, as well, he heard the name Buttle spoken—most times with a sense of uncertainty that bordered on fear.

On the positive side, the dog had grown in strength with each day and was virtually recovered from the wound in her side. Now that she could move about more freely, he could see that she was young, probably only half grown. But the reputation that border shepherds held for loyalty and intelligence was no exaggeration. The dog became a constant companion for him and Tug, able to run all day beside the small horse in an effortless lope.

Not so effortless were his attempts to think of a suitable name for the dog. Edwina's comment "a fine dog like that deserves a good name" stuck in his mind. He wanted something special for her, but so far, all his ideas seemed rather pedestrian. For the moment, he referred to her as "the dog" or "girl."

At first Tug seemed merely amused by the presence of the black-and-white newcomer, but as the weeks went on, Tug seemed to welcome her company, as well as the added watchfulness she brought to their night camps as Will explored his new domain. Tug was accustomed to acting as sentinel for Will—all Ranger horses were trained that way. The dog assumed a complementary role in the task and her sense of smell was even keener than Tug's. The two animals, linked by their loyalty to their young master, rapidly developed a mutual liking and a working understanding of each other's skills.

It was three weeks after Will arrived at Seacliff that events contrived to bring matters to a head—at least as far as the unsatisfactory training of the Baron's forces was concerned. Will was leaning on his longbow, watching the Battleschool apprentices practicing sword drills one afternoon. Wrapped in his cloak and cowl, he stood in the shadows of a small grove of trees beside the drill ground, virtually invisible so long as he didn't move. The dog, who had already grown to understand the need for stillness and concealment, lay in the long grass beside him, her nose on her front paws. Her only movements were an occasional twitch of the ears or a flick of the eyes to check that Will didn't have some visual signal for her.

He frowned as he watched the apprentices and their swordmaster. Their moves were technically correct. But there was a lack of urgency, a lack of interest to their work that concerned him. The drill was a drill and nothing more. They didn't seem to see beyond it to the reality that it represented. His old friend Horace, now a knight at the King's court at Araluen, had made all these moves during countless drill sessions as an apprentice. But he had done them with passion, and with the understanding that the ability to produce these moves smoothly, without thought or conscious volition, could be the difference between life and death in battle. Horace's instinctive, seamless precision had saved Will's life on at least one occasion during the battle at Hallasholm.

Will frowned. In just over a week he would have to submit his first monthly report on the state of affairs at Seacliff to Ranger headquarters. He could see that it was going to have to be a negative one.

He heard the voice before the man came into view. Then, a few seconds later, he saw a burly figure break from the trees below the castle, running and shouting, waving his hand to attract attention. The words were indistinguishable as yet, but the note of alarm was obvious in the voice and in the man's body language.

The dog sensed it too. A low growl sounded in her throat and she rose to a half crouch, instantly alert.

"Still," Will warned her, and she froze obediently. The clash of practice weapons on the drill field died away as more people became aware of the shouting, running figure.

And now Will could hear the words he was calling out.

"Sea wolves! Sea wolves!"

It was a word that had chilled the blood of Araluens for centuries past. Sea wolves were the Skandian raiders, who sailed from their snow-covered, pine-forested northern land to raid the pleasant, peaceful coastal centers of Araluen, Gallica and half a dozen other countries. Fearful in their huge, horned helmets and wreaking terrible destruction with their massive battleaxes, the Skandians and their wolfships were the stuff of nightmares.

Yet not here. Not for the past four years, since Erak Starfollower, newly elected as Oberjarl of the Skandians, had put his name to a treaty with Araluen. The strict letter of the treaty had forbidden any organized, massed attack on the Kingdom of Araluen by the Skandians. Yet, effectively, it had put an end to individual raiding as well. While Erak couldn't actually forbid his captains to raid, it was known that he definitely disapproved of it, feeling a debt of honor to the small group of Araluens who had saved his country from the Temujai invasion. And when Erak didn't approve of something, that was usually enough to ensure that it didn't happen.

The shouting man was close to the practice field now, staggering and breathless. By his dress he was a farmer.

"Skandians," he panted. "Sea . . . wolves ... at Bitteroot Creek... Skandians ..."

Exhausted, he sagged against the drill field fence, his chest and shoulders heaving with exertion. Sir Norris was crossing the field quickly to intercept him.

"What's that?" he asked. "Skandians? Here?"

There was a note of concerned disbelief in his tone. For all the tack of urgency in the training of his men, Will knew Norris was a Professional. He may have grown careless and lax in the years of peace that Seacliff had enjoyed, but now, faced with a real threat, he was experienced enough to realize that he was in trouble. His men were not up to the threat posed by a real enemy.

The farmer was pointing back the way he had come, nodding his head to confirm the truth of what he had said.

"Skandians," he repeated. "I saw them where Bitteroot Creek flows into the sea. Hundreds of them!" he added, and this time there was a buzz of concern from the apprentices and knights who had gathered around him.

"Silence!" Norris snapped. Will, approaching unseen, spoke directly to the farmer.

"How many wolfships? Did you see them?"

The farmer turned to face him, a wary look crossing his face as he realized he was talking to a Ranger.

"One," he said. "Huge it was, with a huge wolf's head on the prow! I saw it plain as day."

Again there was a mutter of fear and speculation from those around him. Norris turned angrily and the sound died away. Will met the Battlemaster's eye.

"One ship," he said. "That'll be forty men at most."

Norris nodded agreement. "Closer to thirty if they leave a guard on board," he said.

Not that this made the situation too much better. Thirty Skandians on the loose on Seacliff Island would be a virtually unstoppable force. The ill-trained, unfit men-at-arms and out-of-practice knights who constituted the defense force at Norris's disposal would offer little opposition to the wild pirates, and Norris knew it. The Battlemaster cursed his own laziness, realizing that he was to blame for this situation. It was his responsibility to do something—yet he had another responsibility as well, and that was for the lives of the men he led. Taking them into battle against a hardened, battle-ready band of Skandians would be tantamount to taking them to their deaths.

Yet it was his duty. Will sensed the knight's twin predicaments—practical and moral.

"You're badly outnumbered," he said. The nominal force of men-at-arms was twenty-five. But at short notice, Norris would be lucky to raise twenty—along with three or four of his knights at best. As for the apprentices, Will shuddered at the thought of opposing a force of determined Skandian axmen with the sloppy group he had been watching.

Norris hesitated. He lived a privileged life, as did all noblemen. But the privilege was earned and paid for at times like these. Now, when he was needed, he was unready, unable to protect the people who depended on him.

"There's no point in leading your men to their deaths," Will said quietly, so that only the Battlemaster heard him. Norris's hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of the sword at his side.

"We must do something ..." he said uncertainly.

Will interrupted him calmly. "And we shall," he told the older man. "Get the villagers inside the walls, with as much as they can carry. Drive the animals out into the fields. Scatter them so the Skandians have to hunt them down if they want them. Get your men armed and ready. And ask Master Rollo if he could rustle up something quick in the way of a banquet."

Norris wasn't sure if he was hearing correctly. "A banquet?" he asked, totally confused.

Will nodded. "A banquet. Nothing too special. I'm sure he can put something together for us. In the meantime, I'll go and have a word with these Skandians."

The Battlemaster's eyes widened as he looked at the calm young face before him.

"Have a word with them?" he repeated, a little louder than he had intended. "How do you think you can stop them from attacking us by talking to them?"

Will shrugged. "I thought I'd ask them not to," he said. "And then, I'll invite them to dinner."

Bitteroot Creek ran into the ocean on the eastern coast of the island. It was a sheltered spot, with plenty of overhanging trees growing right down to the water's edge to provide concealment—even for a craft as large as a wolfship. The water was deep right up to the bank and it made an ideal landing place for raiders. Will was cantering Tug down the winding path through the forest toward the creek when he heard the sound of galloping hooves behind him.

He turned in his saddle and checked the horse with a touch of his heel as he recognized Sir Norris galloping after him on his battlehorse. The Battlemaster was fully armed and armored now and the steel-shod hooves of his massive gray left a cloud of dust hanging behind them. The dog, who had been loping silently to one side of the track, keeping pace with Tug, dropped on her stomach as the Ranger horse came to a halt, and watched the approaching horse and rider with her head cocked curiously to one side.

Norris reined in beside Will. The battlehorse was at least four bands taller than Tug and horse and rider towered above them. Will inclined his head in greeting.

"Sir Norris," he said. "What brings you here?"

Norris hesitated. Will had a good idea what he was about to say. After a few seconds' hesitation, Norris answered him.

"I can't let you do this on your own, Ranger," he said, the note of bitter self-reproach evident in his voice. "It's my fault that we're unprepared. I've let things go soft and I know it. Now I can't leave it to you to pull my chestnuts out of the fire for me. I'll stand with you."

Will nodded thoughtfully. It had taken courage to say that, and just as much courage to make the decision to accompany him to face the Skandians. He felt a new surge of respect for the Battlemaster. Perhaps if this turned out all right, it might prove to be a blessing he thought. The arrival of a raiding wolfship had certainly rammed home the lesson that Seacliff Fief was underprepared. And it did so far better than any criticism that Will might have voiced.

"I appreciate your offer," he told the knight. "But it might be better if I did this alone."

He saw the color rising in the other man's face and he quickly held up a hand to calm his anger. "It's not that I doubt your courage or your ability," he added. "Quite the opposite, in fact. But I think I have a better chance of settling this on my own."

"You surely can't plan to fight them alone?" Norris asked.

Will shook his head, a little smile touching his lips. "I don't plan to fight them at all," he said. "But your presence, in full armor and mounted on that huge horse of yours, mightn't give me a choice. Think about it," he went on before Norris could interrupt. "At the first sight of you, obviously ready for battle, the Skandians are likely to attack without further thought."

Norris chewed his bottom lip. What Will was saying made sense. Then the young Ranger continued.

"On the other hand, if they see me alone, they might be willing to talk. We Rangers tend to have an unsettling effect on people. They 're never quite sure what we might be up to," he added, the smile widening. Norris had to admit that was true. Yet he was reluctant to leave the young man to face odds of thirty to one, armed only with a bow. Will saw the hesitation and continued, his voice crisper now as he realized that time was running short.

"Besides, if things go wrong, I can always outrun them on Tug here—and pick a few of them off as I go. Please, Sir Norris, it's best my way." He glanced down the track, looking for the first sign of the Skandians, knowing they would be coming this way as there was no other path up from the beach. Abruptly, Norris made his decision. On his light, agile horse, the Ranger could take to the shelter of the forest if need be, or simply outrun the Skandians back to the castle. The sea wolves rarely used bows or other missiles.