To Halt's surprise, the black-clad knight turned his horse's head to the north and they began their march.
"May I ask where you are taking us?" he said.
Deparnieux bowed from the saddle with mock courtesy.
"We are heading for my castle at Montsombre," he told them, "where you will remain as my guests for a short while."
Halt nodded, digesting that piece of information. Then he asked further: "And why might we be doing that?"
The black knight smiled at him. "Because you interest me," he said. "You travel with a knight and you carry a yeoman's weapons. But you're no simple retainer, are you?"
Halt said nothing this time, merely shrugging. Deparnieux, eyeing him shrewdly, nodded as if confirming his own thought.
"No. You are not. You're the leader here, not the follower. And your clothing interests me. This cloak of yours:" He leaned across from his saddle and fingered the folds of Halt's dappled Ranger cloak.
"I've never seen one quite like it."
He paused, waiting to see if Halt would comment this time. When he didn't, Deparnieux didn't seem too surprised. He continued, "And you're an expert archer. No, you're more than that. I don't know any archer who could have pulled off that shot you made last night."
This time, Halt made a small gesture of self-deprecation. "It wasn't such a great shot," he replied. "I was aiming for your throat."
Deparnieux's laugh rang out loud and long.
"Oh, I think not, my friend. I think your arrow went straight where you aimed it." And he laughed again. Halt noticed that the merriment, loud as it was, didn't reach his eyes. "So," Deparnieux said, "I decided that such an unusual fish might deserve more study.
You may be useful to me, my friend. After all, who knows what other skills and abilities may lie hidden under that unusual cloak of yours?"
Horace watched the two men. The Gallic knight seemed to have lost all interest in him and he wasn't unhappy about that fact. In spite of the light, bantering words between the two men, he could sense the deadly serious undertones of the conversation. The whole thing was getting beyond him and he was content to follow Halt's lead and see where this turn of events took them.
"I doubt I'll be of any use to you," Halt replied evenly to the warlord's last statement.
Horace wondered if Deparnieux read the underlying message there: that Halt had no intention of using his skills in his captor's service.
It seemed that he had, for the black knight regarded the short figure riding beside him for a moment, then replied, "Well, we'll see about that. For the meantime, let me offer you my hospitality until your young friend's arm has healed." He looked around to smile at Horace, including him in the conversation for the first time. "After all, these are not safe roads to ride if you're not fully fit."
They made camp that night in a small clearing close to the road.
Deparnieux posted sentries, but Halt noticed that the number assigned to watch inward exceeded those who were tasked with guarding the camp from attack. Deparnieux must feel relatively safe within these lands, Halt thought. Significantly, as they settled for the night, their captor demanded that their weapons be surrendered for safekeeping.
With no real alternative, the two Araluens were forced to comply.
At least the warlord made no further pretense of cordiality, choosing instead to eat and sleep alone in the pavilion-made from black canvas, of course-that his men pitched for him.
Halt found himself facing something of a quandary. If he were traveling alone, it would be a matter of the utmost simplicity for him to just melt away into the night, retrieving his weapons as he went.
But Horace was totally unskilled in the Ranger arts of unseen movement and evasion and there was no possibility that Halt could spirit him away as well. He had no doubt that, if he were to disappear alone, Horace would not survive very long. So Halt contented himself with waiting and seeing what might transpire. At least they were heading north, which was the direction they wanted to follow.
In addition, he had learned in the tavern the night before that the high passes between Teutlandt, the neighboring land to the north, and Skandia above it would be blocked by snows at this time of the year. So they might as well find quarters in which to spend the next month or two. He guessed that Chateau Montsombre would fit that bill as well as any other. Halt had no doubt that Deparnieux had some inkling of his real occupation. Obviously, he hoped to enlist him in his battle against neighboring warlords. For the moment, he mused, they were safe enough, and heading in the right direction.
When the time came, he might have to ring a few changes. But that time wasn't yet.
The following day, they came to the warlord's castle. After his initial display of goodwill, Deparnieux had decided not to return their weapons in the morning and Halt felt strangely naked without the comforting, familiar weight of the knives at his belt and the two dozen arrows slung over his shoulder.
Chateau Montsombre reared above the surrounding forest on a plateau reached by a narrow, winding path. As they climbed higher and higher up the path, the ground fell away on either side in a sheer slope. The path itself was barely wide enough for four men traveling abreast. It was a width that allowed reasonable access to friendly forces, but prevented any invader from approaching in large numbers.
It was a grim reminder of the state of affairs in Gallica, where neighboring warlords battled constantly for supremacy and the possibility of attack was ever present.
The castle itself was squat and powerful, with thick walls and heavy towers at each of the four corners. It had none of the soaring grace of Redmont or Castle Araluen. Rather, it was a dark, brooding and forbidding structure, built for war and for no other reason. Halt had told Horace that the word Montsombre translated to mean "dark mountain." It seemed an appropriate name for the thick-walled building at the end of the winding, tortuous pathway.
The name became even more meaningful as they climbed higher. There were poles lining the side of the road, with strange, square structures hanging from them. As they drew closer, Horace could make out, to his horror, that the structures were iron cages, only an arm span wide, containing the remains of what used to be men. They hung high above the roadway, swaying gently in the wind that keened around the upper reaches of the path. Some had obviously been there for many months. The figures inside were dried-out husks, blackened and shriveled by their long exposure, and festooned in fluttering rags of rotting cloth. But others were newer and the men inside were recognizable. The cages were constructed from iron bars arranged in squares, leaving room for ravens and crows to enter and tear at the men's flesh. The eyes of most of the bodies had been plucked out by the birds.
He glanced, sickened, at Halt's grim face. Deparnieux saw the movement and smiled at him, delighted with the impression his roadside horrors were having on the boy.
"Just the occasional criminal," he said easily. "They've all been tried and convicted, of course. I insist on a strict rule of law in Montsombre."