Sorcerer of the North (29 page)

Will decided not to point out that those last two statements seemed strangely at odds with each other. He slid the flask into his waistband in the middle of his back. It would be secure there, he thought.

"Moon's almost set." Malcolm pointed out. Will nodded.

"I'll be off then."

But he didn't move immediately. He spent a few minutes studying the landscape and absorbing the natural rhythms of the night. Then he simply melted away into the darkness.

Will paused in the deep shadow at the base of the wall. This was where he would climb, in the angle between wall and tower. Neither the tower sentry nor the guards on the wall above could see him here. The only possible danger was from the other tower sentry, thirty meters away. But the man was still hunched over the wall, staring fixedly out into the night.

He explored the wall's surface with his hands, discarding his gloves and tucking them through his belt to do so. The stonework, which appeared smooth and sleek from a distance, was actually rough and uneven, with plenty of cracks, crevices and protrusions to provide hand- and footholds for a climber of Will's experience. In addition, the right angle formed by the wall and the tower would give extra purchase if he needed it. He smiled. He would have been able to climb this wall by the time he was eleven years old.

He had a long rope coiled around his shoulders under his cloak, but that was intended to help Alyss down, not for him to climb up. With the sentries on duty, he could hardly risk throwing a rope up to catch between the crenellations at the top of the wall. Flexing his fingers, he reached high above his head, found two secure handholds in the cold stone and hauled himself upward.

He moved slowly and smoothly up the wall. At times, he had to move to the left or right of his original starting position as he sought the best purchase. His fingers ached with the strain and the cold but they were hardened and strengthened by years of practice.

As he neared the top of his climb, he heard the sentry's approaching footsteps and paused, hanging like a giant spider on the wall, fingers and toes aching with the strain. The sentry stopped at the end of his beat and stamped his feet once or twice. Then he moved off again, heading back the way he had come. Will waited a few more seconds, then swarmed up and over the battlements. Moving like a shadow in a night full of shadows, he crossed the walkway and slipped quietly down the stairs leading to the courtyard below.

He paused at the base of the stairs. There were no sentries here but there was always the chance that someone might emerge from one of the doors leading into the keep or the gate tower. He studied the situation for long minutes. The open space leading to the keep tower was well lit by burning torches set into the walls. He would be better served by walking directly, without any attempt at concealment. A figure seen walking toward the door would be less likely to raise suspicion than someone who was obviously skulking. He threw back the cowl on his cloak, took a soft, feathered cap from underneath his tunic, straightened it and placed it on his head. Then, walking confidently and without any attempt at concealment, he walked to the stairs leading to the keep's main door.

As he reached the stairs, he slid smartly to his left and merged into the shadows formed by the stairway itself. He discarded the cap and pulled the cowl up over his head once more. Crouched by the stairs, he surveyed the walls opposite to see if anyone had noticed him. But the sentries' attention was focused outward, not inward, and there were no casual observers around.

Satisfied that he had gone unseen, he moved around the base of the tower to a point midway between two of the flaring torches. At the extreme edge of the light cast by each, the lighting was uncertain and shifting. He took a deep breath, felt to make sure that Malcolm's leather-clad flask was securely and safely stowed in the small of his back, and began to climb once more.

As he had expected, the keep tower was built from the same rough stone as the wall and there were plenty of foot- and handholds for him. He climbed steadily. Even with his excellent head for heights, he avoided the temptation to look down. You never knew when vertigo might seize you. The outer wall had been a mere eight meters high. This tower was over three times that height, soaring up to thirty meters above ground level. As he rose higher, the wind picked up, whistling around him, attempting to pluck him from his precarious handholds.

Three out of four, he repeated to himself—the old dictum he had practiced when climbing since he was a boy. It meant that he never moved a hand or a foot to a new vantage point unless the other three were securely positioned. There were several lit windows in his path and he skirted around them. He was tempted to look in but he realized this could be a fatal error. If an inhabitant just happened to be looking at the window, the sight of a strange face peering in would be sure to raise the alarm.

The wind grew stronger the higher he went, making the freezing air even colder. His hands were growing numb, which worried him. He needed feeling in his hands to seek out only the most secure cracks and protrusions in the stone. If he couldn't feel them properly, there was always the chance that he'd seize hold of a loose stone and have it give way when he transferred his weight to it. Mentally, he shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now and he was already three-quarters of the way up the tower anyway. He glanced out to one side, where the snow-covered land lay far below. Several kilometers away, he could see the dark mass of Grimsdell Wood itself, the tops of the trees dusted with white here snow had collected. If he'd been climbing for the sheer fun of it, he might have stopped to admire the superb vista. He smiled sadly. It had been a long time since he had climbed solely for the fun of it.

He glanced up and saw that the narrow ledge around the top of the tower was only a few meters away. He covered the distance and reached up carefully. One never knew what might be found on ledges. Some castle designers liked to set iron spikes in them to discourage climbers.

There were no spikes, but he frowned as he touched the freezing surface. Ice, he thought. Rainwater had collected on the ledge and frozen as the temperature dropped. That would make it tricky. Most climbers would have reached eagerly for the ledge, transferring all their weight to their hands as they did so. With slippery ice all over the ledge, that could be fatal. Will kept some weight on his feet as he searched for a clear spot to grip. His toes curled with the effort and he could feel the beginnings of a cramp in the arch of his left foot. He found a clear spot with his right hand and heaved himself a little higher, his left foot searching for a new foothold. Three out of four, he repeated. He moved his left hand to the ledge, sliding it back and forth till he found a spot clear of ice. Then his right foot came up and he was able to haul himself up to the ledge, turning carefully to sit upon it, his back pressed to the wall behind him. As he leaned back, a little more forcefully than he'd intended, he was aware of something pressing into the small of his back. His heart leapt to his mouth as he remembered the flask of acid. Encumbered as he was by his cloak, if it broke now, there was no way he could get rid of it in time. He leaned a little away from the wall and counted seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. A full minute went by and there was no burning sensation of acid eating into his flesh. He heaved a sigh of relief.

"Now where's Alyss?" he asked himself.

As he had done when climbing the outer wall, he had zigzagged up the wall from his original start point, searching for the best handholds. He looked to his right now and saw that the window he assumed to mark Alyss's cell was some three meters away. He shuffled sideways along the ledge to it, his legs dangling over the drop. He frowned as he moved toward the window. There was a lot of ice on the narrow ledge and that was going to make it difficult for him to stand and turn around to look in the window.

At least, he thought, he'd have the bars to give him a secure handhold. He stopped moving when the window was on his right, the bottom sill a little above the height of his head. He reached up with his right hand, felt along the sill, then found one of the iron bars.

If the room was occupied by someone other than Alyss, he thought, this could be dangerous. His hand would be in full sight of anyone looking at the window, and as he turned and stood he would be totally exposed as well. He would have to commit himself before he could check the room's occupant. But, given the icy state of the ledge, he had no alternative.

He swiveled to the right on his buttocks, bringing his left foot up onto the ledge. His weight was supported almost fully by his right hand now and since there had been no outcry from the room, he assumed that whoever was in there wasn't looking at the window. The footing on the ledge was definitely unstable, he decided, as he put more weight on his left leg, slowly turning to his right and straightening the bent knee to lift him higher.

His heart leapt as he felt the foot begin to slip sideways in the ice, and he turned more quickly, throwing up his left arm to get a good grip on another bar in the window. He was just in time. His left foot slid out over the edge of the icy ledge and he found himself hanging by his two hands. With a soft groan of effort, he heaved himself upward. His right foot found the ledge and took some of the strain—not too much, as he didn't trust the footing.

He blessed the years spent practicing with his bow and the development of his arm and back muscles that had resulted. Now his left foot was back on the ledge and took a little of his weight as well.

Slowly, his eyes came level with the bottom windowsill and he could see into the room, to where Alyss sat, slumped at a rough table, her back to the window, her head in her hands.

Eighty kilometers to the south, an armored knight was riding into the biting north wind.

The sun had long since sunk below the horizon and darkness had flooded quickly over the land. Any sensible person would have stopped to camp and shelter from the wind-driven sleet and snow long ago. Yet the knight continued to force his way northward.

His surcoat was white and his shield was marked with a blue fist, the symbol of a free lance—a knight looking for employment wherever he could find it. The knight's equipment was standard—a heavy lance was couched in a receptacle on his right stirrup and a long cavalry sword could be seen beneath his cloak. Only the shield was unusual. In an age where most knights preferred kite-shaped shields, this one was a round buckler.

The battlehorse beneath him danced a few steps sideways, trying to edge away from the bitter wind and the stinging sleet that it carried. Gently, he urged it back onto its northern course.

"Just a little farther, Kicker," he said, the words coming thick and slurred from his half-frozen lips.

The horse was right, he thought. It was madness to continue traveling in this weather. But he knew there was a small hamlet a few kilometers farther along the road, and the protection of a barn's walls would be more comfortable than any shelter he could rig among the trees. He half regretted that he hadn't stopped in the late afternoon, when he'd ridden through a village with a comfortable-looking inn. That would be a nice place to be right now, he thought.

Then he thought of his friends and the possible danger they were in and he didn't begrudge his decision to keep forging on through the dark cold night.

Although he doubted if Kicker agreed. He tried to grin at the thought but his lips were too stiff and ice-rimmed now.

He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, feeling an icy runnel of water slide down his back, and thought back to his meeting with Halt and Crowley, a few days previously.

"So you want me to go to Macindaw?" he'd said thoughtfully. "What do you think I can do that Will and Alyss can't?"

They were in Crowley's office in one of the soaring towers of Castle Araluen. It was a small room but comfortably furnished and kept warm by an open fire in one corner. Halt and Crowley exchanged glances and the Ranger Commandant gestured for Halt to answer.

"We'd feel better if Will and Alyss had a little more force at their disposal," Halt said.

Horace smiled. "I'm just one man."

Halt regarded him keenly. "You're a lot more than that, Horace," he said. "I've seen you at work, remember? I'd feel reassured to know that you're covering Will's back. And we need to send someone they'll both recognize and trust."

Horace grinned at the prospect. "It'll be nice to see them again," he said. Life at Castle Araluen in winter tended to become a little boring. The idea of being sent on a solo mission like this had definite appeal. He and Alyss had been friends since childhood and he hadn't seen Will, his best friend, in several months.

Halt stood and paced to the window, looking out over the gray winter landscape that surrounded the castle. This far south, there was no snow but the cold bare trees had a desolate look to them that matched his mood.

"It's the uncertainty that's worrying us, Horace," he said. "By now we should have had a routine message from Alyss's man. Or a reply to the pigeon we sent yesterday. After all, they didn't have to wait for the bird to recover. He had another half dozen ready to send."

"Of course, a hawk might have taken the pigeon we sent," Crowley put in. "That does happen."

Halt showed a flash of annoyance and Horace sensed that the two old friends had already been through this conversation—possibly more than once.

"I
know
that, Crowley!" he said crisply. He looked at Horace again. "It may all be nothing. Crowley may be right. But I don't want to take chances. I'd like to know that you're on your way. If we hear from them in the meantime, we can always send a messenger to recall you."

Horace regarded the small gray-haired Ranger with some warmth. Halt was more worried than he might otherwise have been because it was Will who was up there in the snow-covered northern fief, Horace realized. No matter how many years passed, a part of Halt would always see Will as his young apprentice. He moved toward the Ranger.