A Mankind Witch (26 page)

"One of the effects of confining you in a rowan cage is that it will affect my magics, too, little half-blood." The last word was clearly an insult. "You see me now without my glamour. Be afraid."

In spite of her circumstances, as she stood on her pallet in the cage, Signy wasn't. It seemed as if she'd spent her life afraid, as if something dark had been stalking her, hanging in the shadows. Now, in a cage, in troll-realms, she was somehow not terrified. It was too late for fear now. "What do you want with me?" There was a haunting familiarity about the troll-wife.

"Your power. Your magic."

"I haven't got any. All I ever do is stop charms working. Every time. Without fail. I don't believe I could make milk go sour if I tried for a week—a week outdoors in summer," said Signy, calmly awaiting her fate.

The troll-wife snorted. "And it never struck you that that was magic, powerful magic? You
Alfarblot
are naturally stupid. Vanir blood mixes badly with human."

But Signy had been proofed against slights and insults by her stepmother. She simply judged distances. She still had her sleeve knife. The bears had not searched her, or robbed her—not that she had much for them to steal. She had her silver bracelets . . . But they'd have had to break those off. She'd been given them when she was a child. She'd grown, but they hadn't. They were charms of protection. If she ever needed them, it was now. "I'm not Alfar. My stepmother used to mock me saying I was
Svartalfar
. It's not true. I am of the house of Telemark. My bloodlines—"

"Your bloodlines are well known to me, Signy. Your ancestors dallied with Alfar not once, but twice. Your mother's mother was
Alfarblot
, and also your father's great-great-grandfather. In you the bloodlines have combined."

The troll-wife knew who she was, at any rate. The throw, aimed as it was through the bars, was not her best. Her best would have put the knife through the evil monster's left eye. The knife hit the troll-wife between the eyes instead.

She might as well have flung a river pebble. She was even more accurate with those, and would have done just as much harm.

The knife clattered to the flagstones.

The troll-wife rubbed the spot between her eyes thoughtfully. "I had forgotten about the knife for Hjorda," she said. "Well, no matter. We'll take care of him in another manner."

The troll-wife stood up. "Leave her without food and water for a day," she said to the troll at the door as she left. "She is too full of herself, yet. And see that she is hauled up again."

The troll bobbed his acknowledgment.

Signy's cage was pulled up again, and her knife remained, a small piece of silver, on the floor of the dim hall.

She was left alone again to ponder how this troll-wife knew so much about her, and about what she'd intended to do to Hjorda. She also wished that she hadn't thrown her knife. It was well known that a troll head was as hard as stone. And besides, she wasn't as good at throwing knives as she should be. It was an unladylike pastime she'd not been able to practice nearly enough. If she'd kept the knife she could have cut through the bars. The only other metal she had were her bracelets.

They hadn't protected her too well yet. But perhaps they had a sharp edge that she could rub away at the wood with. It looked as if she'd have plenty of time to do that.

Erik had, logically enough, cleared the debris and small rocks from his lying-down spot. When his day's labor was done and he'd been herded along to be chained, he'd gone docilely. They left him with his bowl of gruel. There'd been no more mysterious bits of bread or parchment, but Erik was being docile for good reason. The staple was coming loose. He sat down. Someone had put fragments of rock in his lying place . . .

It was odd rock. Too light. It felt like plaster.

Erik's mystery visitor had been around again. And inside the fake piece of rock was a key and a piece of rolled parchment. After he'd used the key, it occurred to him there might be other "rocks." He felt around, and sure enough there were. But they also contained keys and rolls of parchment, which he could not read in the dark.

Well, at least he knew in which direction to go: away from the pit face. Cautiously, knowing that the mine kobolds could see, hear, and smell better than any human, Erik felt his way along the tunnel until he saw a hint of light. Then he proceeded with even more caution. It was something of a wasted effort. All there was was a solitary glowing globe, set on a rock-shelf. The guard was fast asleep beneath it.

* * * j

Cair was busy with his last-minute preparations to leave, which was to say he was sitting idle, thinking. He didn't leave things to the last minute.

Then it became obvious that his plans for a quiet departure during that sleep period weren't going to work as well as he'd planned.

He was herded before the kobold king, again. Orm was standing in the background, smirking.

It would have taken a slower man than Cair Aidin not to figure out that his laborer had sold out their escape plan. "This thrall tells me you planned to escape tonight."

Cair managed to look shocked. "Why? I will be free in two days at the most, anyway. Is the water in your mines not drying away?"

The king managed in turn to lie quite well. "Urr. Yes. But this one tells me that you planned to escape with the job unfinished."

Cair drew himself up. "Me? If I was planning to escape, I would have gold coin with me. Search me, and search him." Cair had no coins, gold or otherwise, or anything more incriminating than a key, knotted into his hair. Orm probably had lead coated with gold in his cheeks or in his newly acquired loincloth.

"You are too slick with that tongue, thrall," said the king grimly. "Search him." Cair stood calmly watching as Orm's gloat turned to apprehension. It was his turn next. "They're just with me for safekeeping. To stop him stealing them," groveled the Norseman, when the kobolds produced shiny coin after shiny coin.

"A likely story," said Cair.

The kobold king rubbed his jaw. "Nonetheless, I cannot take a chance. Strip them both. Send this one," he pointed to Orm, "back to the mines. He's a thief, if not a liar." He turned to Cair. "Strip him, and keep him under lock and key."

"Until my work is done," said Cair loftily. "That is our agreement."

"Er. Just so. Until his work is done."

Cair waited until things were settled before pulling out quite a lot of his hair. Every lock that the kobolds owned was the same. In a spirit of neatness, he locked the cell behind him and tied the key into his hair again. Clothing and various other items were stashed in a "magical" display nearby, and he knew where the guards at the various levels were. With regret he had to abandon his old pouch, but he'd extracted most of the valuable bits from it for his new one. He even had his "wand" with its amber eye. With a rope, a bundle of clothes, food, and a good dagger, he set off down. He didn't even have to deal with any kobolds en route.

Erik's victim lay trussed and gagged with his own clothing. And unconscious. Each of the little scrolls of parchment was the same—a map of sorts with the word Manfred and no clue as to whom his mysterious helper could be. Erik wished he'd been a little more generous with clothing or weapons. He now had a kobold pike, which might do nicely as a misericord, and a kobold light. And a map showing him the way—hopefully—to Manfred. Erik wondered briefly if it was some kind of trap. But why? He could hardly be in worse trouble. And he had an oath to try and honor.

Erik walked on. At length he came to the hole—and Prince Manfred of Brittany.

"What took you so long?" asked Manfred in a harsh whisper, with a crooked grin imperfectly hiding his relief. "And how in hell did you get those kobolds to cooperate?"

Erik felt that his knees had gone weak enough at the sight of the boy, without getting any more sentimentality into the situation. "I've got a key," he whispered back. "I'll need to find a decent rope."

"I've already got the key you sent. Just find something thicker than this string they're using on their windlasses."

That could be a problem. There was an ample supply of ore, a fair number of rocks, a few buckets tied to the cord they used. And no rope. Even all the windlass cords together would not support his weight. Erik knew too well that Manfred had a lot of weight to support.

"I am sorry I was delayed," said a voice from the shadows. Erik whirled, the small sticker at the ready.

The thrall stepped into the light, a coil of rope in his hand. "My former associate betrayed me and it took me some extra time to get here." He tossed a bundle at Erik. "Here. Clothes. Your weapons are hidden farther along our way. I'll set up the rope."

Erik could only gape.

"Get them on," said the bronze-skinned thrall, untying the coil. "We're going to have to move fast."

"We left you for dead," said Erik, fumbling with the bundle. They weren't his clothes, but a miner's leather breeches and a rustic's jerkin. He didn't care.

"It's a mistake others have made," said the thrall, wryly, tossing the rope down as Erik pulled on the clothes. "Boots were something more of a problem. I've got his, but not yours, I'm afraid. They're with the stash."

Erik shook his head. "I'll need some explanations, once we're out of here." The man spoke fluent Frankish, with a hint of an Aquitaine accent.

The thrall shrugged. "Very well. I suggest that you tell your prince to stop trying to climb the rope. He'll get tired and fall, or slip. Rather let him tie himself on. We'll make use of those windlasses."

Erik did.

"Don't whisper. The sound carries farther," said the thrall, rigging the windlass with professionalism.

Erik felt a fresh bubble of unease. Who was this fellow? Erik knew that, too, from Vinland stalking days. He just hadn't thought it through right now. Instinct said to whisper.

They hauled. "Should have left him to get lighter for a few more days," grunted the thrall.

"Be glad he's not in armor," puffed Erik, as Manfred caught the top edge of the hole and, with a scrabble, pulled himself up.

He blinked at the thrall. Tensed. "He's a traitor, Erik. He's with these underground-grub kobolds. Get him."

"I also provided the rope, and the keys," said the thrall calmly. "And I have your clothes. I have been as much of a prisoner as you were."

"I don't trust him much," said Erik, "but someone provided us with keys."

"I assumed it was you," said Manfred, looking uncertain.

Erik shook his head. "I've been chained in a tunnel."

"We can discuss it later," said the thrall. "We need to move now. We have a long way to go."

Manfred nodded. "Let's put it off. For now. Which way do we go to get out of this place?"

The thrall pointed, and they left, the rope slowly falling back down into the dry pit. Some other prisoner might be glad of it.

By the time that they arrived at the swords and the boots, and Manfred's koboldwerk jacket, Erik was sure that they'd never find their way out of this rabbit warren without the fellow, anyway. He seemed to know it well enough. And he was well prepared. He even had water and more of the coarse, sour rye bread stashed.

Cair had to admit that he'd had worse crews. They were tough, and silent, especially the bodyguard. He noted quietly to himself that if the corsairs ever became Manfred of Brittany's personal problem, he might have to cry off raiding the Holy Roman Empire's vessels. He might just be better off killing the man in case he did become Emperor. But first things first. They had to get out of here. "We have something of a problem here." They were at a vertical shaft. "We will need to get up there. And there are guards at the top." Cables hung down to deeper pits. "I had thought we could go up with loads of ore, but the ore baskets aren't moving now. And when they start, the kobolds will be awake and about."

"How far is it to the top?" asked Erik thoughtfully.

Cair checked his map. "About forty cubits. It was the closest I could get us with no guard points."

"A good map, that," said Manfred, looking over his shoulder. "How did you come by it?"

"I made it."

"Where do we get out?" asked Erik, looking at it.

"At the moment it is more a case of 'how do we get out?'" said Cair, unwilling to admit that he didn't know. He hated doing that.

"Erik will sort that out," said Manfred, looking at his bodyguard.

Cair saw that he was busy taking off the boots Cair had stolen for him. "They're a bit loose," Erik said, apologetically.

He took his knife between his teeth and with no further ado tested the cables, selected one, and set off up it like a Barbary ape.

There was a brief shriek from above, and a basket came down. "Noisy," said Manfred. "He's losing his touch. Or missing that hatchet of his." They scrambled into the wicker basket, carrying Erik's boots.

At the top they discovered that Erik had been lucky to get them that far. He had some seven kobolds prisoner. Several more were never going to cause any more trouble. A glance told Cair just what he did not want to see. They weren't all guards. Some were miners. "They're coming on shift."

"And one got away," said Erik, grimly.

Cair handed him his boots. "Send these prisoners down and then cut the cables. Or kill them. It is time for us to run."

They sent the baskets down and ran. And fought. And ran again. With light on their side, the three of them could hold off the kobolds. But the rock-gnomes poured out of crevices and cracks, pursuing them, trying to block them off.

"How much farther?" panted Manfred, leaning against the wall.

"Close now," said Cair.

Erik peered back down the tunnel. For the moment they'd outpaced the kobolds. He looked ahead. "Got to be blocked, or have a final guard post or something."

"Not here," Cair shook his head. "Not this exit. They're too afraid of trolls."

Manfred laughed. "And that's supposed to be better, is it? Come on. I swear I can feel air movement."