A Mankind Witch (17 page)

"Whatever it is, it wants us to run. Hold them, Juzef. Rein in here," yelled Manfred, before joining into the psalm.

Another terrible rumbling bellow came down the valley. But now it sounded less terrible, somehow, above the echoing psalm. The knights stood like a spiky steel wall against the thing that was stumping down the hillside toward them. It was hard to make out what it was, except that it was large and shadowy and surrounded by roiling mist.

"Troll. Or a troll-wife," said Ottar, breaking off his singing in the attempt to light a candle. The wind was no help. Neither was the horse that nearly knocked him over. A squire grabbed that one's bridle. So far someone had taken control of the loose horses, at least.

"You need to set up wards?" asked one of the two Ritters that Szpak had detailed to guard the monks and nuns. "We can use fires." He pointed. There'd been a small landslip here and a snag of dead broken pine was just to the left of them.

"Yes," said Uriel. "Do it." Three squires hastily scrambled off their horses and gathered dry pine, which they put at cardinal points indicated by the monks. "It is a sending of fear."

"And whatever it is wants us scared and running. Or it is herding us down there," said Erik, decisively. "We stand right here. Look. It hasn't actually advanced. It's just trying to frighten us."

The fires were hastily kindled. And the knights stood, the flames reflecting on the bright steel, making a line between the fires they dared the gray menace up the hill slope to attack.

It didn't. The shriek came again. As did a growl. "There are at least two of them—the one we can see up there, and up the right-hand slope the other. It sounds worse. Do we charge it, Ritter?" asked Proctor Szpak.

Uriel answered him. "No. We've raised a ward around us. If they could attack us they would. We will attempt certain spells of banishment now. Even if that fails, the creatures do not like the daylight. We merely need to wait for morning."

"Could be a long, cold wait, especially if the snow comes on."

"It won't. The wind is turning," said Erik, feeling it against his face through the visor. There was a comparative warmth to it. Even a tang of salt.

"Well, we've got lots of firewood," said Manfred.

As he said this an angry flurry of wind and snowflakes ripped at the fires. It sent sparks and twigs flying. It did not damp the fires. Instead they flared brighter. The Servants of the Trinity began chanting in unison. Bell-like voices seemed to be joining them as if from a great distance. The wind died back.

Uriel wiped his forehead. He was sweating despite the chill—it would freeze tonight. "Weather magic. Powerful and treacherous stuff. I hope we have defeated it."

Within the hour it had settled into a siege situation. The grooms and squires had picketed the horses and gathered fuel from the pine snags. The knights had divided up into three patrols, walking their horses along the short perimeter of the fire-warded area.

They prepared themselves for a long, sleepless night.

They were quite correct about that.

Finally, as the sky began to pale, the bellowing and shrieking let up.

They moved out at dawn. There was no sign of the monsters now. Erik and one of the others rode up-slope to have a look. He returned a few minutes later, looking puzzled. "Prints the size of ploughshares. Big bare feet. And a lot of bear-sign. Recent at a guess. Six, seven bears at the least. Odd. I thought bears were solitary creatures?"

Brother Ottar looked wary. "There are tales told of
björnhednar
. Shape shifters, like the
ulfhednar
—the wolf-men."

"Well, perhaps that's what happened to our escort," said Manfred. He yawned. They were all tired. "Erik, I was talking to Brother Ottar here while you went looking at bear prints. He says if we go back a few miles and take that trail off to the west we should come out at one of the lakes. We should be able to hire a couple of boats to carry us. The nuns at least."

Erik nodded. "If we have to ride hard they're going to fall off."

"Sister Mercy doesn't even have to ride hard to do that," observed Brother Uriel, grimly. "The woman hasn't been in a saddle before, Ritter. Sister Mary rode as a child. But Sister Mercy is extremely stiff today. It'll be all she can do to ride at all."

"We've got little choice about it then. Lake Holme it is."

"This king of theirs may not be best pleased about us making our own route."

"Then he should send us an escort that doesn't run away," said Manfred. "I have his safe-conduct here." He tapped his stomach.

"You ate it?" said Szpak with a grin.

"Not yet. It's in an oilskin pouch next to my skin, along with various other documents. But if we don't get some breakfast soon I'll be tempted."

"I was going to ask why you ate alone," said the Pole.

Fortunately, they found a farm shortly after taking the western trail. And once the franklin had been convinced that the outlanders hadn't come to kill him and loot his homestead, he was happy to sell them great rings of flattbrød—round flat biscuits made of pea-flour, barley, and coarse oatmeal—smoked salmon and some weak ale. And with more reluctance, some oats for the horses. There was a lot of winter ahead and he had stock to bring through it.

"It burns us," snarled her son. "It burns worse than that one-eye accursed arm-ring did, Mother. You should have warned me."

She stared at him with cold green eyes. "You'd better get used to it. We'll have to fight more Christian mages and the Knights of the Holy Trinity if we're to have our way. It didn't kill you, did it?" The troll-wife looked exhausted. Having her spells broken had been draining and uncomfortable for her, too. She just hoped that it had hit that cursed elf-get as hard. Hatred as bitter as bile surged in her throat. Well, she'd be rid of the half-breed Alfar soon. It would die. She would no longer be able to draw on it then, but at least it wouldn't be here to gall her.

As usual her son wilted under her gaze. Physically he was even stronger than she was. But he still bowed before her, most of the time. She planned to keep it that way. He dropped his eyes. "So what do we do now, Mother?" he muttered.

"Leave it to me. It will take me a day or two to gather the snow clouds in again. They cannot be at Kingshall in less than three days. I have further spells of hiding and spells of binding to weave."

"Curse their cold iron. I want to kill them. I want to drink their blood."

"And so you shall, son. As soon as I have Chernobog's victim secure. As soon as
Joulu
is over."

Cair made sure that he was in a good position to observe the arrival of the delegation from the Holy Roman Empire. Firstly, it was quite amusing. They'd never guess who the ragged thrall watching them was. Secondly, there was a small chance that he could engineer their presence into an opportunity to get away and, indeed, to get Signy away. But he knew her well enough by now to know that she'd never leave willingly. The princess had been brought up in a trap called "duty" and was her own jailer.

He did not have to fake gaping when the knights rode up in neat order, with two monks riding in their midst, and a pair of nuns in a horse-borne litter. The two elderly women looked more than a little sick. Even in the late-afternoon light with the heavy cloud hanging low, the knights' spiky steel armor was almost dazzling. They advanced in neat and disciplined formation—very different from Vortenbras's hearthmen. The Norse were big men, as a rule. These were also big men, on huge horses, in formation. The potential for martial prowess might be what made the rest of the Norse stare. But for Cair it was different. He'd worked out who the bulky, barrel-chested man leading the column was.

Manfred of Brittany. Such a prize! If he had a hostage like that, the Empire would pay Cair Aidin a very high price for his release. Then the humor of it struck him. He was a slave, at least for now. But he still thought like a corsair captain.

Erik looked at the Norse crowd. Typically, he searched for danger, for the unusual. For the threat. It was what a good bodyguard did, and in many ways Erik Hakkonsen had been raised and bred to be the very best. One of the gawping crowd made him pause. He was plainly a thrall—but not like the other open-mouthed slaves staring at them. For starters he was of Mediterranean origin, olive skinned and dark eyed. Most of the ragged thralls were blond or brown haired. Blue eyes were the norm here, too. But slaves could come from anywhere. It was not his appearance that made the man stand out to Erik. It was his posture. That made Erik's reflexes prickle into readiness.

And while the others gazed in awe at the column—this man had been laughing. He'd plainly seen heavy cavalry trooping before. And something about them struck him as funny. That was odd. And, despite the fact that the man was in rags, and not obviously armed, Erik perceived him as dangerous. He mentally marked him down to be watched. The Norse might be scrupulously honorable about the truce oath, but that didn't stop someone else wanting Manfred dead.

It was plain that word had gone ahead—but not far ahead. The Norse kinglet showed signs, to the watchful, of hasty preparation to meet his guests, just as they were escorted into the hall. The Norseman was big. One of the biggest men Erik had ever seen—nearing seven foot tall at a guess, broad chested, with long white-blond braided hair and a beard. He looked as if he could cheerfully have murdered them. Still, he was polite on receiving Manfred's credentials and the letter from the Emperor. Everything was wittered through a translator. Erik decided that it would be unnecessary to point out that his native Iceland had been principally settled by Norsemen, and that Manfred had suffered through some instruction in the language—not so different from the Frankish of the Empire. Manfred had a positive gift for languages. His pursuit of loose women and strong drink had led to his grasping the Italian dialect far more easily than Erik. Doubtless, if there were Norse temptations of the same sort he'd move from rusty to fluent in record time. But for now, they let the interpreter witter. It gave one time to think.

"Vortenbras King he says you are welcome. He apologies for the difficulties."

"Tell the king it was not serious. We are honored to be here, to try and assist you in recovering from your terrible loss," said Manfred, lying with equal facility. Francesca would have been proud of him.

A steward was called and servants led the knights to their quarters.

"Koboldwerk country," said Erik once they were alone. "I'd keep you in full armor if I could. But you will even sleep in a mailshirt."

"They have a treaty with us, don't they?" said Manfred. "Not that I'd trust that big bruiser on the throne too far."

"Exactly," said Erik, grimly. "Even among honorable people it only takes one oath breaker."

"He didn't seem exactly thrilled with the idea that we had come to help him find this arm-ring. What did they call it—
draupnir
?"

"That's it. Dripper." Erik grimaced. "Understandable, them feeling that way, I suppose. Our even trying is something of an affront to the local priests."

"Especially," said Manfred, fishing in a saddlebag and pulling out a heavy golden arm-ring, "as we're going to succeed."

Erik looked at the engraved carved ring, and raised his eyes to heaven. "Francesca, I detect your hand."

Manfred nodded. "She had it made in Copenhagen. It's a good copy of the original—and how many people look that closely at this sort of thing? Now we just have to arrange to find it somewhere. She advised a good layer of mud and a little battering."

Erik shook his head. "My advice, which I doubt you'll listen to, is toss it into a swamp or the gaderobe. As soon as possible. Francesca is a genius at politics—but I wish she'd stay out of physical meddling. She should have talked to the nuns about this scheme."

"Francesca's never been terribly good with nuns, unlike you," said Manfred, grinning. "The old ducks are both all weak-kneed at that manly, clean-cut appearance of yours, and are ready to tell you all sorts of things. We all have our weak points. Francesca's is nuns. The nuns' weak point is you. But this is a good copy, Erik. Good enough to fool an expert goldsmith."

Erik took it and examined it closely. "What it isn't, is a magical object. The real
Draupnir
would be busy killing me right now. I would be unable to let go of it, I would be in mortal agony, and the only way to lessen the pain would be to take it back toward the temple
Vé
. Manfred, everyone knows that. Everyone would know this item was a fake. And then we'd be in real trouble, treaty or no."

"Oh," said Manfred, pulling a face. "Well, I suppose we'd better find the real thing then." He paused. "So how did it get stolen, eh? Some fire tongs? Or a good thick leather glove?"

Erik shook his head again. "You should do your homework, Manfred. It would appear
draupnir
can't be dealt with quite that easily. No, either the thief is dead, which is the theory I favor, because all the guards were killed, or it was magically transported."

"So we're looking for a dead body. And pretty close by if the pain is that intense. You wouldn't think it would be that hard. You'd think the locals could cope."

"Brother Uriel and I were working out how it could have been done. The thief could have been under compulsion of some sort—no one would steal it without that. When they died, the next bearer could have been standing by. It would leave a trail of dead bodies."

Manfred shuddered. "You two are a pair of ghouls. Now we've got to find a trail of weeks-old dead bodies, probably buried, or sunk into one of these lakes, if the thief-master has thought all this out, and planned it that well."

"Possibly," agreed Erik. "And I am sure the locals will have tried every form of augury and magic at their command to find the arm-ring. Obviously someone has hidden it well. So what we thought we'd try is pointing to the thief instead. One of the nuns is good at that."

"Sister Mercy," said Manfred pulling a face.