Satisfied that he had done all he could, Erak slipped back ashore and retraced his steps to the Great Hall. As he went, he noticed with satisfaction that the heavy snow had already obliterated the tracks he had made earlier. By morning, there would be no sign that anyone had passed this way. The missing boat and the cut painter would be the only clues as to where the escaped slaves had gone.
The going was harder as the pathway through the forest grew steeper. Evanlyn's breath came in ragged gasps, and hung on the frigid air in great clouds of steam. The slight wind that had stirred the pines earlier had died away as the snow began to fall. Her throat and mouth were dry and there was an unpleasant, brassy taste in her mouth.
She'd tried to ease her thirst several times with handfuls of snow, but the relief was short-lived. The intense cold of the snow undid any benefit that she might have gotten from the small amount of water that trickled down her throat as the snow melted.
She glanced behind her. The pony was trudging doggedly in her tracks, head down and seemingly unaffected by the cold. Will was a huddled shape on the pony's back, wrapped deep in the folds of the sheepskin vest. He moaned softly and continuously.
She paused for a moment, breathing raggedly, taking in huge gulps of the freezing air. It bit almost painfully at the back of her throat. The muscles in the backs of her thighs and calves were aching and trembling from the effort of driving on through the thick snow, but she knew she had to keep going as long as she could. She had no idea how far she had traveled from the Lodge at Hallasholm, but she suspected it was not far enough. If Erak's attempt to lay a false trail was unsuccessful, she had no doubt that a party of able-bodied Skandians could cover the ground she and Will had traveled in less than an hour. Erak's instructions were to get as far up the mountain as possible before dawn came. Then they must get off the pathway and into the cover of the thick trees, where she and Will could hide for the day.
She looked up at the narrow gap through the trees above her. The thick overcast hid any sign of the moon or stars. She had no idea how late it was or how soon the dawn might come.
Miserably, with every muscle in her legs protesting, she started upward again, the pony trailing stolidly behind her. For a moment, she considered climbing up onto the saddle behind Will and riding double.
Then she dismissed the notion. It was only a small pony, and while he might carry one person and their packs uncomplainingly, a double load in these conditions would quickly tire him. Knowing how much depended on the shaggy little beast, she reluctantly decided that it was best for her to continue on foot. If she exhausted the pony, it could well be a death sentence for Will. She'd never keep him moving, exhausted and weakened as he was.
She trudged on, lifting each foot clear of the snow, planting it down, slipping slightly as it crunched through the ever-thickening ground cover, compacting it until she had a firm footing once more.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Mouth drier than ever.
Breath still clouding on the air and hanging in the still night behind her, briefly marking where she had passed. Unthinkingly, she began to count the paces as she took them. There was no reason to it. She wasn't consciously trying to measure distance. It was an instinctive reaction to the constant, repetitive rhythm she had established. She reached two hundred and started again. Reached it again and started from one once more. Then, after several more times, she realized that she had no idea how many times she had reached that two hundred mark and she stopped counting. Within twenty steps, she became aware that she was counting again. She shrugged. This time, she decided, she'd count to four hundred before starting back at one again. Anything for a little variety, she thought with grim humor.
The thick flakes of snow continued falling, brushing her face and matting her hair pure white. Her face was growing numb and she rubbed it vigorously with the back of her hand, realized the hand was numb as well and stopped to look through the pack once more.
She'd seen gloves in there when she'd found the vest for Will. She located them again, thick wool gauntlets, with a thumb piece and a single space for the rest of her fingers. She pulled them onto her freezing hands, swinging her arms, slapping her hands against her ribs and up under her armpits to stimulate the circulation. After a few minutes of this, she felt a brief tingle of returning sensation and began walking again.
The pony had stopped when she did. Now, patiently, it moved off again in her footprints.
She reached four hundred and started back at one.
28
H ALT LOOKED AROUND THE LARGE CHAMBERS THEY HAD BEEN shown to.
"Well," he said, "it's not much, but it's home."
In fact, he wasn't being quite fair with his statement. They were high in the central tower of Chateau Montsombre, the tower Deparnieux told them he kept exclusively for his own use-and that of his guests, he added sardonically. The room they were in was a large one and quite comfortably furnished. There was a table and chairs that would do quite well for eating meals, as well as two comfortable-looking wooden armchairs arranged on either side of the large fireplace. Doors led off either side to two smaller sleeping chambers and there was even a small bathing room with a tin tub and a washstand. There were a couple of halfway decent hangings on the stone walls and a serviceable rug covering a large part of the floor. There was a small terrace and a window, which afforded a view of the winding path they had followed to reach the castle and the forest lands below. The window was unglazed, with wooden shutters on the inside to provide relief from the wind and weather.
The door was the only jarring note in the scheme of things. There was no door handle on the inside. Their quarters might be comfortable enough. But they were prisoners for all that, Halt knew.
Horace dumped his pack on the floor and dropped gratefully into one of the wooden armchairs by the fire. There was a draft coming through the window, even though it was still only midafternoon. It would be cold and drafty at night, he thought. But then, most castle chambers were. This one was no better or worse than the average.
"Halt," he said, "I've been wondering why Abelard and Tug didn't warn us about the ambush. Aren't they trained to sense things like that?"
Halt nodded slowly. "The same thought occurred to me," he said.
"And I assume it had something to do with your string of conquests."
The boy looked at him, not understanding, and he elaborated. "We had half a dozen battlehorses tramping along behind us, laden down with bits of armor that clanked and rattled like a tinker's cart. My guess is that all the noise they were making masked any sound Deparnieux's men might have made."
Horace frowned. He hadn't thought of that. "But couldn't they scent them?" he asked.
"If the wind were in the right direction, yes. But it was blowing from us to them, if you remember." He regarded Horace, who was looking vaguely disappointed at the horses' inability to overcome such minor difficulties. "Sometimes," Halt continued, "we tend to expect a little too much of Ranger horses. After all, they are only human." The faintest trace of a smile touched his mouth as he said that, but Horace didn't notice. He merely nodded and moved on to his next question.