Free Icebound Land by John Flanagan Page A

snorted.
    Halt reached forward and patted his horse’s neck gently.
    “Good boys,” he said softly to the two stocky little horses, and their ears twitched in recognition of his words. To any observer, the cloaked rider was merely quietening his mount—a perfectly normal turn of events. In fact, his senses were heightened and his mind was racing. He spoke again, one word.
    “Where?”
    Abelard’s head angled slightly to the left, pointing toward a copse of trees closer to the road than the rest, some fifty meters further on. Halt glanced quickly over his shoulder and noted that Tug, trotting quietly behind him, was looking in the same direction. Both horses had sensed the presence of strangers, or perhaps a stranger, in the trees. Now Halt spoke again.
    “Release.”
    And the two horses, knowing that their warning had been taken and the direction noted, turned their heads back from the direction they had indicated. It was this sort of specialized skill that gave Rangers their uncanny capacity for survival and for anticipating trouble.
    Still apparently totally unaware of the presence of anyone in the trees, Halt rode forward at the same relaxed pace. He smiled grimly to himself as he considered the fact that the horses could only tell him that someone was there. They could not foretell that person’s intentions, or whether or not he was an enemy.
    That would be supernatural power indeed, he thought to himself.
    He was forty meters from the trees now. There were half a dozen of them—bushy and surrounded by heavy undergrowth. They afforded perfect cover for an ambush. Or, he reasoned, for someone who simply wanted shelter from the soft rain that had fallen for the past ten hours or so. From beneath the cowl of his hood, shaded and invisible to any observer, Halt’s eyes darted and searched the thick cover. Abelard, closer now to the potential danger, let go a deep-throated grumbling sound. It was barely audible, and was felt by his rider more as a rumbling vibration in his horse’s barrel chest than anything else. Halt nudged him with one knee.
    “I know,” he said softly, knowing the shadow of his cowl would hide any movement of his lips.
    This was close enough, he decided. His bow gave him the advantage as long as he stayed at a distance. He tweaked the reins gently and Abelard halted, Tug taking one more pace before he too came to a stop.
    With an easy, fluid motion, Halt reached for an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to the string of his bow. He made no attempt to draw the bow. Years of constant practice made him capable of drawing, aiming, firing and hitting in the blink of an eye.
    “I’d like to see you in the open,” he called, in a carrying voice. There was a moment’s hesitation, then a heavyset mounted figure spurred forward from the trees, coming to a halt on clear ground at the verge of the road.
    A warrior, Halt saw, noting the dull gleam of chain mail at his arms and around his neck. He wore a cloak as well, to keep the rain off. A simple, conical steel helmet was slung to his saddlebow and a round, unblazoned buckler was slung at his back. Halt could see no sign of a sword or other weapon, but he reasoned that any such would most likely be worn on the man’s left side, the side farthest away from him. It was safe to assume that the rider would be carrying a weapon of some kind. After all, there was no point in wearing half armor and going weaponless.
    There was something familiar about the figure, however. A moment more and Halt recognized the rider. He relaxed, replacing the arrow in his quiver with the same smooth, practiced movement.
    He urged Abelard forward and rode to greet the other rider.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked, already having a pretty good idea what the answer was going to be.
    “I’m coming with you,” said Horace, confirming what Halt had suspected. “You’re going to find Will and I want to join you.”
    “I see,” Halt said, drawing rein as he came