His men, hearing the commotion, had begun to gather around. There was something about the cloaked, hooded figure that worried them too. Gundar noticed that they took care to stay well behind him, looking to him for a lead.
The figure stood, and Gundar involuntarily took a half pace back. Then, angry with himself, he stepped forward a full pace. His voice was firm when he spoke.
"If you're a ghost," he said, "we mean you no disrespect. And if you're not a ghost, tell me who you are – or you soon will be one."
The creature laughed gently. "Well said, Gundar Hardstriker, well said indeed."
Gundar felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The tone was friendly enough, but somehow this… thing… knew his name. That could only mean some kind of supernatural power was at work here.
The figure reached up and shoved back the cowl of his cloak. "Oh, come on, Gundar, don't you recognize me?" he said cheerfully.
Memory stirred. This was no raddled, haggard ghost, certainly. It was a young face, with a shock of tousled brown hair above deep brown eyes and a wide grin. A familiar face. And in a rush, Gundar remembered where he had seen that strange, shifting pattern in a cloak before.
"Will Treaty!" he cried in surprise. "Is that really you?"
"None other," Will replied and stepped forward, holding out his hand in the universal gesture of peace and welcome. Gundar seized it and shook it hard – not the least because he was relieved to find that he wasn't facing some supernatural denizen of the forest. Behind him, he heard his crew exclaiming loudly at this new development. He guessed they were feeling the same sense of relief. Will looked around them and smiled.
"I see some familiar faces here," he said. One or two of the Skandians called out greetings to him. He studied them and then frowned slightly.
"I don't see Ulf Oakbender," he said to Gundar. Ulf had fought in the battle against the Eastern Riders, and he had been the first to recognize Will at Seacliff Island. They had sat together at that famous banquet, talking about the battle. Will saw a moment of pain cross Gundar's face.
"He was murdered by that snake Buttle," he said.
Will's smile faded. "I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good man."
There was a moment of silence between them as they remembered a fallen comrade. Then Gundar gestured to the campsite behind them.
"Won't you join us?" he said."We have stringy salt beef and some indifferent ale, courtesy of a very generous island to the south."
Will grinned at the jibe and followed as Gundar led his way to the small encampment. As they passed through the members of the crew, a few reached out and shook Will's hand.
The sight of a familiar face, and that face belonging to a Ranger, let them begin to hope that there might be a way out of their present situation after all.
Will sat on a log by one of the fires, underneath a shelter formed by the wolfship's big, square mainsail.
"So, Will Treaty," said Gundar, "what brings you here?"
Will looked around the circle of bearded, craggy faces that surrounded him. He smiled at them.
"I'm looking for fighting men," he said."I plan to sack a castle, and I hear you people are rather good at that."
2
The battlehorse was a well-formed bay. It's hoofbeats were muffled by the thick carpet of snow on the ground as its rider guided it carefully along the narrow track beside a stream. There was no telling when that thick, soft snow might conceal a patch of slippery ice, which could send them sliding helplessly down the steep bank into the water. The stream itself moved sluggishly, nearly choked with slushy ice, fighting a losing battle against the cold that tried to freeze it over completely. The rider looked at the water and shivered a little. If he went into that wearing a heavy chain-mail shirt and burdened by his weapons, he would have little chance of survival. Even if he didn't drown, the searing cold would be sure to kill him.
It was obvious from his horse and his equipment that he was a warrior. He carried a three-meter ash lance, its butt couched in a socket on his right stirrup. A long sword hung at his left-hand side, and a conical helmet was slung over the saddle bow. The cowl of his chain-mail shirt was pushed back. He had discovered some days previously that in this snow-covered land, there was nothing more uncomfortable than freezing cold chain mail against the skin. Consequently, he now had a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck inside the armor and a fur cap pulled well down on his head. Interestingly, for it was not a normal part of a knight's weaponry, there was a longbow in a leather case slung beside his horse's withers.
But perhaps the most significant part of his equipment was his shield. It was a simple round buckler, slung behind him. Placed that way, it would provide protection against arrows or other missiles fired from behind, yet he could shrug it around into position on his left arm in a matter of seconds. The shield was painted white, and in its center was a blue outline of a clenched fist, the universal symbol in Araluen of a free lance – a knight with no current master, looking for employment.
As the track veered away from the stream and widened out, the rider relaxed a little. He leaned forward and patted his horse gently on the side of the neck.
"Well done, Kicker," Horace said quietly. The horse tossed its head in acknowledgment. He and the rider were old companions. They had depended on each other through several hard campaigns. It was that fact that now led the horse to prick its ears up in warning. Battlehorses were trained to regard any stranger as a potential enemy.
And now there were five strangers visible, riding slowly toward them.
"Company," Horace said. On this lonely ride, he had fallen into the habit of talking to the horse. Naturally, the horse made no reply. Horace glanced around, looking to see if there were any favorable defensive positions close by. He too was trained to regard strangers as potential enemies. But at this point, the tree line was well back from the road on either side, with only low gorse bushes growing between the road and forest. He shrugged. He would have preferred somewhere he could put a solid tree to his back. But there was nothing available, and he had learned years ago not to waste time complaining about things that couldn't be changed.
He checked the horse with slight pressure from his knees, and shrugged the shield around onto his left arm. The small movement was an indication that, despite his youth, he was more than familiar with the tools of his trade.
For he was young. His face was open and guileless, strong-jawed, clean-shaven and handsome. The eyes were a brilliant blue. There was a thin scar, high on the right cheek – where an Arridi tribesman's belt dagger had opened it more than a year previously. The scar, being relatively new, was still livid. As years passed, it would whiten and become less prominent. His nose was also slightly crooked, the result of an accident when an overeager warrior apprentice had refused to accept that a training bout was over. The student had struck one more time with his wooden sword. He had several weeks of punishment details to think over his mistake.
Far from detracting from his looks, the crooked nose gave the young man a certain swashbuckling air. There were quite a few young ladies of the kingdom who felt it enhanced his appearance, rather than the opposite.
Horace nudged Kicker once more, and the horse moved so that he was turned forty-five degrees to the oncoming riders, presenting the shield on his arm to them, both for protection and identification. He kept the lance upright. To level it would be an unnecessarily provocative gesture.
He studied the five men approaching him. Four of them were obviously men-at-arms. They carried swords and shields but no lances, the sign of a knight. And they all wore surcoats emblazoned with the same symbol, an ornate gold key on a quartered blue-and-white field. That meant they were all employed by the same lord, and Horace recognized the livery as belonging to Macindaw.