A Mankind Witch (23 page)

Reluctantly, the small goblin produced it from under his skins. Edged forward and gave it to his master, and scurried back. The goblin king looked at it intently and then tossed it from hand to hand. "Too light," he agreed regretfully.

"And a bit harder than real gold."

"Smells wrong, too," said the king, passing the coin in front of his cavernous nostrils. "A pity. You make this?" asked the king, passing the coin to his courtiers. It circulated among them, being carefully examined before being reverently returned to the king.

"No," admitted Cair. "But I could, if I had the tools."

The king smiled gleefully. "Thallbru. A good thrall, this. Too good for the mines. I will pay you for him." He tossed the electrum coin at the little goblin. "Gold!"

"But it's not gold!" protested the little sniveler.

"Haw, haw, haw. Teach you to steal from me, Glibflint."

So Cair found himself spending the next several hours displaying the properties of aqua regia, and talking about wire-drawing and refining. And counterfeiting. He was a thrall, again. But he gathered that being spared the mines was a good thing. He got food, for starters. Gruel, a lump of sour bread, and, as he was already very much in favor, a nice piece of rat.

Juzef Szpak was no quitter. Manfred and Erik, not to mention a dozen Norse huntsmen and hearthmen, their King Vortenbras, and their dogs were up there. The mist hadn't lifted, but with calling and care, and a bunch of picket lines fetched up from the bottom, he had all the knights bar one back together again. Now he was organizing and planning another sortie, despite the Norse warriors telling him that it was foolishness.

He'd got hold of a local shepherd, and discovered that they could go around the narrow pass on horseback. With the well-bribed shepherd as a guide they could even do it in reasonable safety . . . It was just as well he'd got them down, as he had just finished organizing a hunt for the missing knight when snow and a good few rocks came cascading down the gully.

Szpak didn't wait. He and his twenty-five remaining Ritters and Brother Uriel (Brother Ottar being too exhausted in Szpak's opinion) set off with the shepherd to find their way up onto the vidda, and then down into the pass from above. That part of it was rideable, apparently. And as they rode higher, the mist lifted around them and they arrived at the top under the cloud rather than in it.

Near dusk, pushing their horses through hock-deep snow, they found the terrified hunters, hearthmen, and King Vortenbras near the top of the pass, forted up in a cave with what was left of the dog pack. Several of them had been injured, including Vortenbras. In broken Frankish they explained that they'd been set upon by the grendel in the mist.

Now Juzef Szpak knew real fear. He and his men hastened down the gully. He wished that they'd taken the time to redon armor. But he'd judged time to be of the essence. He did not want to lead his men against some monster, just in their mail-shirts. He'd lose some. But he wanted even less to have to explain to the Abbot-General, and possibly to the Emperor himself, that they'd lost Manfred of Brittany and his bodyguard.

Besides, he liked both of them.

Finding a torn body was a shock. But it proved to be a Norseman. They pressed on, but all they found was a big slide of fresh snow near the top of the steep part of the gully, and Norse warriors and Brother Ottar coming up from below.

"We found Von Strethen," said Ottar, grimly. "He missed the trail."

The Norsemen were examining the new snow slip. One of them called and the knights hurried over. The warrior pointed to huge prints, claw tipped. And from a dead bush nearby, Juzef recovered a torn piece of cloak. The distinctive red cloak Manfred of Brittany had been wearing.

Juzef Szpak sighed. "Back up to that cave. We'll be sleeping there tonight, horses and all. We need to find at least the prince's remains."

It was not a pleasant thought. But that evening, bivouacking in extremely uncomfortable circumstances, the two monks made things worse. "It is possible," said Ottar, "using that scrap of cloth, to divine some clues as to the prince's whereabouts."

"And if he is alive or dead," said Brother Uriel, grimly. "Although we will need Sister Mercy for directional divining.

Juzef took a deep breath. "Brothers. He's dead."

"It's not that easy to kill Manfred of Brittany and Erik Hakkonsen," said Uriel stiffly. "I was with them in Venice. They should have been killed several times there."

Juzef Szpak dug out the fragment of cloth.

He wanted very much for them to be alive.

But a part of his thoughts said,
That means "captive."
Captives of something that had been kept at bay by the name of Christ.

And indeed, that fear was realized.

"Our prayers have been answered," said Brother Ottar. "Thank God."

"Now we can just pray for his safety," said Brother Uriel, whose mind obviously worked in much the same way as Juzef's had.

"Well?" she said. It was snowing, but to a troll-wife that was rather pleasant.

"Well, what?" he growled sulkily. "One of them cut me. Cut me to the bone with iron that burned."

"But are they trapped? I arranged for someone to come and lead them to the cave. I see the avalanche spell has been triggered."

"Oh, so that was your doing, Mother?" His yellow eyes narrowed. "That thrall?"

"It was my doing, yes. Neat, if I say so myself. Even if the queen had to endure the indignity of being locked into the feed store."

He snorted. "That's a joke. And the thrall nearly killed two of the boys. Pieces of them have lignified."

She shrugged. "They'll recover. Or we'll breed more. I've lost a
björnhednar
, and entrapping them is a harder task. I have word from home. The
Alfarblot
is safe in the fortress."

He growled savagely. "One day I will spill the blood from that thing. They should all be killed."

"One day. But for now her blood is worth more in her body than out."

"Soon," he grumbled. "It had better be soon, Mother."

Erik's biggest single problem in those first hours was not knowing what had been done with Manfred. Their captors had dealt with their struggles by the simple expedient of carrying them and thrusting them into narrow fissures in the rock. It was impossible to fight effectively against the small attackers when you simply couldn't move. He'd been stripped. They'd simply cut off his garments, and then had attached heavy iron manacles to his ankles. Mother-naked, he was dragged out—an abrasive experience. There was light now, dim and white, held in some kind of pole lantern. Erik had had his first good look at his captors as they slapped manacles onto his arms.

They were not a prepossessing sight. They'd been described to him in his childhood. The pointed heads of kobolds were less amusing when you were their prisoner. "To the lead pits with him. There is good work in this one," said a slightly larger kobold—one with a whip thrust into a chain belt. It was a small whip, as he was a small creature. But, as Erik could shortly testify, it stung on bare flesh. He was taken down spiral ramps and cross-tunnels, and then down in a winched wicker cage—into a black hole. They changed winches twice on the way, before he got unloaded at a cross-tunnel.

The work they set him to—in a tunnel too low for him to walk upright—was backbreaking. He carried lumps of ore, heavy chunks hewed from a vein by small mattock-wielding, glum-looking kobolds. The manacles were a hindrance. He was the only human slave in this section, but by the kobolds' comments, other mines had more. They spoke in an oddly archaic Norse which he'd struggled a bit to follow, but was getting used to. By what they said, the kobolds were resentful about only getting one slave. This they took out on Erik. There was no rest, nor food or drink until the kobolds called it a day. Then Erik was chained to the wall and left there. Alone and in the dark. He was left with a bowl of what could have been soup. Perhaps.

Erik was exhausted enough to sleep. It was warmer down here, but it was still no place to be stark naked. He awoke chilled to the bone, and still in total darkness. One thing was certain. He would die quickly down here. Nothing else—not a way out, or how to start to look for Manfred—was clear at all.

Erik knew that he could ill afford to wait too long before trying to escape. He'd be too weak soon. Mind you, even if he managed somehow to find Manfred and escape to the surface, there was still the matter of clothing. The Norwegian winter would kill them even faster than the kobolds would. He resolved to give it one more day before trying his hand at strangling a kobold with his manacle chains. He spent the time until the kobold mine crew arrived trying to loosen the wall staple he was chained to.

Two weeks of this, thought Cair, and he could take over this place. It had rapidly become clear to him that the kobolds were lousy metallurgists—in fact, lousy metal workers. They bought most of their metal artifacts, despite the fact that they mined most of the ores. Lead appeared to be one of the few things they did smelt. They made no attempt to purify it or to separate out other metals, as Cair knew was possible from visiting the Atlas mines. "The dwarves do that. Clever about that kind of thing," said one of his jailers. "Not good miners like us." As far as Cair had been able to establish that, too, was probably wishful thinking. The kobold workings he'd seen up to now were far from advanced. But he did some fishing around, praising their cleverness and their mines. He trawled for information as to why he should be busy showing them how to make gold-leaf—as a precursor to counterfeit coins—if they normally bought their goods with raw materials. He told them he needed to know so that he could make the right things for them. He struck gold of a different sort.

It was tribute. "For the cursed troll-folk. We wouldn't give the dwarves a fake coin! Daren't! Never! They're too tricky themselves. But, curse her for forever, Bakrauf insists on being paid in Midgarder gold. We find some. Hoards buried. We can smell gold, we can," said the kobold proudly. "We sometimes take some from the Midgarder miners we catch. But they have very little."

"I will need some of the coins to make molds from. The coin will be undamaged and can still be used afterwards. We just need to make dies. You understand dies? You have clay? Beeswax? Let me show you."

"Wax? You will make gold out of wax and clay?" asked the kobold incredulously.

"Not quite. Get me the wax and the clay and I will show you." A kobold was sent scurrying. "Now first we make an impression in this clay of the coin—both faces. The coin comes out. See, there is the inverse of the pattern. Now I will need to stick these together carefully. Melt the beeswax for me."

Cair noted that it was not just humans who did what you told them to, if you told them what to do confidently enough. He also knew that it became a habit. He was determined to establish that pattern. When the first lead coin was cool he took it aside. While muttering and making "magical" passes he took a piece of hammered gold leaf and put a section of it around the rim. Gently, he folded it over the edges and rubbed it until it conformed with the shape. Then he laid a piece of gold leaf over the face and, using a leather mallet and a piece of cloth, gently made it conform to the face of the coin, working it until the join lines disappeared. The coin now appeared gold, except for the lead back-face.

Later the king himself came to inspect and marvel at the lead coin produced by the lost wax method. "Ingenious! We have tried carving the things from gold, but it is very slow."

Even a master of negotiations like Cair had trouble keeping a straight face. He bowed respectfully. "Allow me to show you this, Highness. This is my art. My magic. I make the lead appear to be gold." He produced a lead coin onto which the gold leaf had been affixed.

When he showed it to the kobold royalty, he knew he had them. Had them by the shorthairs.

The kinglet capered in glee. "Hee, hee, hee. Bakrauf. Hee, hee, hee, we will cheat you nicely. Excellent slave! How many of these can you make a day? Ten? Ten or you'll feel the whip. More and you can dine on rat every day!"

Cair bowed again. "I can do many of these at once, Highness. At least twenty! Well, if I can have the tools, certain magical ingredients, and some more space. And some more workmen. One big strong man, at least."

The kobold king nodded imperiously. "See that he gets them. With luck they won't turn the coins over."

"Oh, I will do both sides. I was just showing you how it was done, Highness." Cair did not explain that he was making sure that the king did not think it was real transformation. It wasn't going to last or fool many people for long. Gold leaf was too fragile and too thin.

The king beamed. "Excellent!" He turned to one of his bodyguards. "Find me Thallbru. Tell him he has given me a prince among slaves. I will reward him, after all. And see that the slave gets whatever he needs."

Cair had assumed that, if he was still alive, he would get Manfred of Brittany when he asked for a large slave. Other than Vortenbras, there weren't many larger men in Norway. The thought had amused him. Besides, he thought that when they escaped, Manfred of Brittany could be more than a little useful. The knights were still a force to be reckoned with in the world of light and air he longed for.

However, while he was waiting for the arrival of the new slave, conversation with one of his jailers changed his plans.

The guard turned the lead coin over, marveling at it. "Paying tribute is bad enough, but those cursed bear-servants of Bakrauf use our tunnels to go out and into Midgard. Sooner or later trouble will follow. We hate them. We hate them worse than poison."

After a while Cair unearthed the fact that the previous day a bunch of the troll-queen's
björnhednar
had carried a prisoner through the kobolds' halls heading for her place.

Inside Cair's mind a sequence of possible events were worked out. The possibility of mere escape to the upper world receded. He'd never believed in trolls. But strange creatures, like these kobolds, had been discovered by explorers. He'd seen the skin of a giraffe, which was something else he'd never have believed if someone had just told him about it. There was nothing magical about them, any more than anything unknown or not understood was magical.