A Mankind Witch (32 page)

After he'd hidden his loot in the hay at the stables, he stole back to the thrall quarters and slept. Even the fleas couldn't keep him awake. He had a sleep debt of at least a month by now, and it didn't look like he'd be catching up on it anytime soon.

The next day the thralls were abuzz with the story of the night capture. It got somewhat distorted in the process, with the two being anything from warriors from Oslo to Alfar spies. Cair, established as a power in thrall-land by the fact that he'd apparently beaten up Gunnlaug, was treated to a sneak view by one of the thralls whose work took him down to the dungeons. The warder-troll and the head torturer allowed the thralls to look from the stair, through the stone bars, even if they were not allowed into the dungeon. One got quite a good view from the open door. Cair joined in the mocking cheerfully, but kept back. He didn't need to be betrayed by the Franks.

It was another day's work for Cair. Lugging dung, looking for dirty pink saltpeter crystals in it. Cleaning passages. Noting things. Finding the opportunity to grind charcoal and saltpeter. And to curse because his weighting was so imprecise when it came to quantities. Filling bottles. Making fuses was another problem, as lighting them was going to be. The lamps would do while they were in the hill. But outside would be more difficult. He'd yet to find a flint and steel, boots, or weapons. But if he located the bear warriors' chambers, they would give generously, if unwillingly. They owed Signy, and he personally had no objections to collecting from their dead bodies.

Something else happened that day that pleased Cair no end. A column of some fifty trolls, with the troll queen stumping along ahead of them, left in what Cair had decided was midmorning.

"So where are they going, and why are the
björnhednar
not going with them?" He asked Helgi, the stable-thrall, casually. Thralls inevitably knew everything—albeit in a somewhat distorted fashion.

Helgi grinned evilly. "They're off to the kobold mines. I hear that the kobolds pulled a fast one on them. Gave them a lot of fake gold coins in exchange for some hostages. Bakrauf was spitting nails about it."

Cair had to shovel dung hastily to stop himself rolling on the floor laughing. There was a certain justice to it all.

"So why don't the
björnhednar
go, too? Then we could have time off," he said lazily once his shoulders had stopped shaking.

"Huh. Most of the time they leave their horses here anyway. Horses don't like bears much. Now that she's bespelled them, the
björnhednar
smell wrong. They sew that skin onto their living flesh, you know. They scream something horrible," said Helgi, ghoulishly. "The way they treat us you wouldn't think that they were slaves, too. But no rest for us. She only takes them with her and him, to Midgard. And horses aren't much use in the mines—there are too many narrow holes. Anyway, the place is a lot easier without her around. The
björnhednar
drink and dice and leave us alone when she's away."

A little later Cair asked once again with studied casualness, "Does anyone ever escape from this place?"

Helgi snorted, obviously not fooled one bit. "Forget the thought, friend. Where would you go? It's not too bad here in the stables. If you had to work in the foundries, maybe. But everywhere out there is worse. And it'll be winter soon. When the freezing mists come, nothing lives out there."

Bit by bit Cair established that Helgi and most of the thralls were born here, in captivity. Once, long ago, they'd come from a Norway that sounded primitive even compared to the Norway Cair had considered as such. Their seasons appeared a little different, too. Winter had its teeth into Telemark. Well, sheltered valleys existed.

Later he made an excuse to find out where the
björnhednar's
chambers were.

"There are plots against your safety," said Vortenbras. "Rumors that people of your faith were involved in the theft of the arm-ring abound. It is being said that my accursed half-sister was one of your faith."

Szpak stared at the kinglet, "We would of course point her out as the thief if that was the case," he said dryly. The language of the Götar tribes was not so different that the two of them could not converse.

"Logic does not enter into these things," said Vortenbras dismissively.

Szpak continued to stare unblinkingly. He'd noticed that Vortenbras seemed to have trouble looking people in the eye. And right now he felt that the handful of knights trapped here needed every bit of help that they could get. "You have a treaty to abide by and a letter to the Holy Roman Empire guaranteeing us safe conduct."

"Safe conduct to Kingshall," said Vortenbras. "Not liberty to roam my lands. And stop worrying, outlander. If, as you say, your prince lives, then he will be being held for ransom. Doubtless Sverre's men work," he said, angrily. "We could have saved a great deal of effort and time had the Emperor sent me a force to deal with him, instead of an envoy that I must waste my men to protect. You and your men must remain in your quarters."

Juzef Szpak did not offer details of why he was so certain that Manfred was imprisoned. The fact that the monks had used the shield of privacy to scry for the prince, and had located him, too, finding him in a cell . . . somewhere, was not one he'd gladly share with the gigantic man. Manfred's keepers had moved him, as far as the scryers could tell. But wherever he was being kept was very, very distant, and surrounded by dark magics. Juzef had decided that the greatest danger to his knights, and the holy clerics, was this man. Manfred had trusted him. And Manfred was now a captive.

"On the plus side," said Manfred, looking out through the stone bars at the latest group of thralls that had come to jeer. "At least we're in the same cell, this time. It is warmer and we still have clothes."

"On the negative side that troll-hag knew exactly who we were, and seemed to have a hand in this whole lot," said Erik sitting up slowly. The paralysis had left their arms first and was gradually fading from their legs. It still left them feeling as weak as half-drowned cats.

"True enough," said Manfred easing back to lean against the damp stone wall. "But then it has been obvious that there is more to this than a piece of theft and an accident with an avalanche." He ducked sideways. An apple core narrowly missed. "Why are these thralls taking it out on us? Some of them look as human as you or I."

Erik shrugged. "We're different. We're worse off than they are, and they dare not take out those that really oppress them."

"Uh-huh," said Manfred, "So what do we do now, Erik? Whatever turning you into one of her
björnhednar
means, it doesn't sound too good."

"It means that she will sew me into a bearskin, or rather sew a bearskin onto me."

"Well, it would be warm. I gather it isn't just a fur coat, Erik."

"No, it is actually stitched into the flesh and bound there, from what I recall about the stories of
ulfhednar
. There is more binding to it than mere stitches though. And you're the one she actually wanted, Manfred. You, or rather your role in the Holy Roman Empire, are bait."

"Now I know how the worm on a hook feels," said Manfred. "I'm not bait, Erik. If need be you will kill me."

It was said with perfect seriousness. Erik knew that Manfred had grown, grown a great deal. "
Linn gu Linn
," he said calmly. "And we're not dead yet."

Signy had cut through—but for a sliver—two bars now. It hadn't been easy. She hated to touch the wood, and she didn't dare to leave shavings on the ground. Her dress was now shorter than decency would allow. You could see her calves. She was desperately unsure of what was happening out there. Had her thrall been caught? The idea made her both afraid for herself, and unhappy. She'd never known any human that loyal before. It frightened her a little, too. He had accompanied two knights to find her, all this way and in such danger. How could she explain she wasn't prepared to go with them? Well, he was her thrall. She could just order him to take her away—if he was still free himself. Otherwise, well, loyalty called for loyalty. She would have to see if she could free him. The idea frightened her nearly as much as the idea of jumping down did. It was easily twenty feet to the stone flags.

Just then the door creaked open. Hastily she slipped the knife back into its sheath. She had to put her own hand over her mouth to stifle a glad cry. Cair was still free, and smiling. His teeth were very white in that dark face. He swung the heavy stone door closed behind him. "Good evening, Princess. I'm just stopping by to let you know that I'm getting some labor to let that cage down. I don't think I can lower you safely myself. I need to go and free a couple of prisoners. Then we'll have to break you out of there."

"I've cut through two of the bars."

He beamed. "Better and better. I will just go and fetch your replacement." He stepped out of the door again, but returned barely moments later with something over his arm. "Thrall's gear. I'm afraid we have to disguise you, milady. I've a rope here for you to haul it up on. Where is the hole?"

"I just have to kick them out." She kicked the bars, and he dropped his bundle and caught the falling bar. And dropped it with an air of surprise. "That burned."

"It does." She kicked the second one. He let it fall. "A lot of noise around, still," he said, moving over to the door, steel appearing suddenly in his hand.

No one came, and he came back to under her cage. He kicked the broken bars into a dark corner, and then expertly tossed a rope up through the hole. "There's a plait of straw, a pillow, and more clothes here. If you could . . . um . . . dress it in your clothes and leave it on the pallet. Anyone just looking in will assume you're there. I will . . . just go and organize a last few things."

Signy was grateful that having slatternly servants had meant that she'd learned to dress and undress herself. When Cair returned—cautiously and not looking up—she had to giggle. He was a thrall, of course. But sometimes he treated her as if she was his woman, not his owner. Of course there were scandalous stories of highborn women and elderly husbands . . . but she was a noble. Not like that at all. Was she?

"May I look up?" he asked cautiously

"You can. Can you tell me how I am to get down now?"

"Um. You'll have to jump. I could catch you, Princess."

She had to squeeze through the gap, touching the horrid wood. She had barely the strength to push through and fall.

Shaken and pale, she found herself in his strong arms.

After a while she said: "You can put me down now, Cair."

He did, hastily. And bowed. "Can we proceed, Princess? You are very pale."

He looked rather flushed.

"Stoop your shoulders a bit more, Princess. Pretend that your stepmother has been sarcastic again." Instantly Cair regretted saying that. Firstly because she looked as if she'd just been whipped, and secondly because somehow her stepmother's head was in a jar next door. Still. They had a lot to do, and little time to do it in. The hilltop had been lowered, and the thralls and trolls were heading for food. Exits would be better guarded later in their rest period—he was not really sure if it was night. He had to press on with speed now, and no one would take her for a princess in that ragged skirt and top and that posture . . . The braided hair would not pass. A piece of folded cloth made a ragged head-kerchief for her.

"Now. At the cells, I will organize the diversion. You will have to go and free the two Franks, while the warder is out of the way. All three of you will have to be out of there, and up the stairwell beyond very quickly. As soon as the warder is in, lock the door. Here is my skeleton key. Most of the trolls and thralls will be at the dining hall. We should have a clear run up the outer passages. The packs are stashed in the stables, hidden in the hay. In case something goes wrong and I cannot join you, here is a diagram showing the way. Head away from the river, as Bakrauf and the kobold raiders will come that way. If something else goes wrong before you can get out—leave the Franks. Let the trolls hunt them, while you mingle with the thralls. You have my key. You can get free."

She looked at him with big eyes. She said nothing, just nodded.

"Let's go."

Head bowed, trying to look even smaller and more unimportant than she felt, Signy walked out of the troll queen's throne chamber and down into the troll hill. Here she was—"Signy you can't do anything right," "Signy you are so clumsy you can't be trusted with anything"—with a skeleton key. His only key. A map which she couldn't read. Instructions she was terrified of having to follow. And it wasn't "Signy you can't succeed at anything." The thrall simply assumed that she would. It was a frightening and somehow uplifting belief. The little hard core of honor that was the essence of Signy Siglunddottir was determined to do it. She kept a wary watch while he set the trap rope. At his gesture she moved past the door toward noisome cells, and waited, willing herself to be invisible.

"The mockers have eased off, and so has that damned paralysis," commented Manfred.

"Which does give us a nice uninterrupted view of the torture chamber," said Erik. "I think, Manfred, that we should take the first opportunity possible to get out of here. You stand in sight at the back. I'll stand here in the shadow next to the door. If someone comes close enough I should be able to pull them close and get at their throats. We'll see if we can get the doors opened."

There was a scream from outside. "Quickly, warder, quick help!"

A moment later someone was at the door. Fumbling with it. Erik snatched and grabbed . . . a thin arm.

He was confronted by a furious face . . . he recognized.

"You idiot Frank! You've made me drop the key into the grating!" hissed Signy in perfect Frankish. "Let go. I've got to try and get it back! Cair is relying on me."

An astonished Erik watched as she ran into the torture chamber, siezed a pair of tongs intended for another, nastier purpose and with a "Thor guide me," knelt out of sight by the door. There was a tearing sound. A few moments later, she was fiddling with the door again. It swung open. "Run. Follow me," she said, dropping the torturer's tongs with a clang. It was a miracle that such a little thing could have lifted them, let alone levered open a grating with them.