Now, of course, it hung behind the door of their room upstairs. Horace was armed with only a dagger.
The knight had noticed the involuntary movement as well. He smiled now, his lips curling in a cruel arc. And he moved a pace closer to the muscular young apprentice. He took stock of the young man now.
Wide shoulders, slim at the waist and obviously well muscled. And he moved well, with a natural grace and balance that was the mark of an expert warrior.
But the face was young and absolutely without guile. This was not an opponent who had fought men to the death repeatedly. This was not a warrior who had learned the darker skills in the unforgiving school of mortal combat. The boy had barely begun to shave. He was undoubtedly a trained fighter, and one to be respected.
But not feared.
Having made his assessment, the older man moved a pace closer, yet again.
"I am Deparnieux," he said. Obviously, he expected the name to mean something. Horace merely shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.
"Good for you," he replied. And those black brows contracted once more.
"I am no roadside yokel for you to defeat by trickery and knavish behavior. You will not catch me unprepared with your cowardly tactics, as you have so many of my compatriots."
He paused to see if the insulting words were having the desired effect. Horace, however, was canny enough not to take exception. He shrugged once more.
"I'll definitely bear that in mind," he replied mildly.
One more pace and the heavily built knight was within arm's reach.
His face suffused with rage at Horace's answer, and the boy's refusal to be insulted.
"I am warlord of this province!" he shouted. "A warrior who has despatched more foreign interlopers, more Araluen cowards, than any other knight in this land. Ask them if this is not so!" And he swept an arm around at the people sitting tensely at tables around the fire.
For a moment, there was no reply, then he turned his fierce gaze on them, daring them to disagree with him.
As one, their eyes dropped and they mumbled a grudging acknowledgment of his claim. Then his gaze came back to challenge Horace once more. The boy returned it impassively, but a shade of red was beginning to color his cheeks.
"As I said," he replied carefully, "I will bear it in mind."
Deparnieux's eyes glittered at the boy. "And I call you a coward and a thief who has killed Gallic warriors by subterfuge and deceit and stolen their armor and horses and belongings!" he concluded, his voice rising to a crescendo.
There was a long silence in the room. Finally, Horace replied.
"I think you are mistaken," he said, in the same mild tone he had maintained throughout the confrontation. There was a collective intake of breath throughout the room. And now Deparnieux reared back in fury.
"You say I am a liar?" he demanded.
Horace shook his head. "Not at all. I say you are mistaken.
Somebody has apparently misinformed you."
Deparnieux spread his hands and addressed the room at large.
"You have heard this! He calls me a liar to my face! This is insupportable!"
And, just as he had planned, in the same movement with which he had spread his hands, he had plucked one of his leather gauntlets from where it had been secured under his belt, and now, before anyone in the room could react, had drawn it back to slap it across Horace's face in a challenge that could not be ignored.
Feeling a sense of exultation, he began the forward sweep of his hand to bring the glove swiping across the boy's face.
Only to have it plucked from his grip by an invisible hand, and hurled across the room, where it came to a quivering halt, skewered to one of the upright oak beams that supported the ceiling.
21
S O THEY WERE TO BE SEPARATED AFTER ALL, W ILL THOUGHT. Evanlyn was led away, stumbling as she turned to look back over her shoulder at him, a stricken expression on her face. He forced a grin of encouragement and waved to her, making the gesture casual and lighthearted, as if they would be seeing each other shortly.
His attempt at raising her spirits was cut short by a solid backhander to his head. He staggered a few feet, his ears ringing.
"Get moving, slave!" snarled Tirak, the Skandian supervisor of the yard. "We'll see how much you have to smile about."
The answer to that was precious little, Will soon discovered.
Of all the Skandians' captives, yard slaves had the hardest, most unpleasant assignment. House slaves-those who worked in the kitchens and dining rooms-at least had the comfort of working, and sleeping, in a warm area. They might fall into their blankets exhausted at the end of a day, but the blankets were warm.
Yard slaves, on the other hand, were required to look after all the arduous, unpleasant outdoor tasks that needed doing-cutting firewood, clearing snow from the paths, emptying the privies and disposing of the result, feeding and watering the animals, cleaning stables. They were all jobs that had to be done in the bitter cold.
And when their exertions finally raised a sweat, the slaves were left in damp clothing that froze on them once their tasks were completed, leaching the heat from their bodies.
They slept in a drafty, dilapidated old barn that did little to keep out the cold. Each slave was given one thin blanket-a totally inadequate covering when the night temperatures fell below the freezing point. They supplemented the covering with any old rags or sacks they could lay hands on. They stole them, begged them. And often, they fought over them. In his first three days, Will saw two slaves battered to the point of death in fights over ragged pieces of sacking.
Being a yard slave was more than uncomfortable, he realized. It was downright dangerous.
The system they worked under added to the danger. Tirak was nominally in charge of the yard, but he delegated that authority to a small, corrupt gang known as the Committee. These were half a dozen long-term slaves who hunted as a pack and held the power of life or death over their companions. In return for their authority and some extra comforts such as food and blankets, they maintained the brutal discipline of the yard and organized the work roster, assigning tasks to the other slaves. Those who pandered to them and obeyed them were given the easiest tasks. Those who resisted them found themselves carrying out the wettest, coldest, most dangerous jobs. Tirak ignored their excesses. He simply didn't care about the slaves in his charge.
They were expendable as far as he was concerned and his life was much simpler if he used the Committee to maintain order. If they killed or crippled the occasional rebel, it was a small price to pay.
It was inevitable that Will, being the person he was, would clash with the Committee. It happened on his third day in the yard. He was returning from a firewood detail, dragging a heavily laden sled through the thin snow. His clothes were damp with sweat and from the melting snow and he knew that as soon as the exertion stopped, he would be shivering with cold. The marginal rations that they were fed would do little to restore his body heat and, with each day, he could feel his strength and resilience fading a little further. Bent almost double, he dragged the sled into the yard, heaving it to a stop beside the kitchen, where house slaves would unload it, carrying the split logs in to the warmth of the massive cooking ranges. His head spun a little as he straightened up, then, from behind one of the kitchen outhouses, he heard a voice cursing, while another whimpered in pain.
Curious, he left the sled and went to see the cause of the commotion. A thin, ragged boy was huddled on the ground while an older, larger youth flayed at him with a length of knotted rope.