A Mankind Witch (12 page)

There was the sound of cheering outside. One of the old man's sons went to look. He came back, smiling. "They have him. Bound onto a horse like a sack of grain. The people are pelting him with dung."

Manfred smiled, too. "I think we can leave now. May God watch over you."

The old man stood, too, with an ease that betrayed that he was less old than he pretended to be. Well, age lent respect. "I think His hand was over us today," he said quietly. "I was less than sure of Him before this."

Signy had got up and dressed herself—as usual, in the dark. Most noblewomen would have failed utterly at this, not being accustomed to dressing themselves, let alone in the dark. At least the years of having the worst, most sluttish serving-thralls had taught her this much. The shabby riding habit, unlike the formal dresses, was something she could get into by herself, with no complicated lacings or hidden buttons. Before she had always laid it ready for herself—another unheard of deed—but lately Gudrun did, such had been the effects of Cair on her staff. The serving women supposed to attend to her were never awake when she got up, but it was not something they would ever admit to Albruna, so it was not a problem. Albruna didn't mind if it looked as if Signy had dressed by guess. Signy didn't mind either, as long as she got out of the hall before anyone was likely to be looking for her. She could ride—and as long as she was back in time to break the fast with the household, no one, or at least no one important, was the wiser.

Today, however, she was greeted by soft rain when she stepped past the sleeping guard on the doorway. It was too gentle to make much sound on the thatch. She would never have time to ride and to get dry and changed before the household was up. She went to the stables anyway. It was—as long as you were prepared to skirt buildings and stick under the eaves—possible to do it and stay nearly dry, anyway. It was early, and only the bake-house thralls were up to see her. Of course she had two dogs at her heel, but she'd long ago taught them to remain quiet. Dogs always seemed to understand what she wanted, even better than the horses did.

As she reached the stable door, someone screamed. And screamed again. And then a third time—a drawn-out shriek of pure terror.

If she'd thought about it, Signy would have run away. But she just reacted, and ran toward the screams. They were coming from the direction of the temple
Vé
. And just short of the grove, the thrall-girl ran headlong into her. They both fell down, the thrall still clinging to her. Panting and gasping "Blood . . . blood . . ."

Three guards came blundering through the rain from the hall.

They checked when they saw Signy trying to sit up in the mud with the thrall-girl clinging to her like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

"Princess . . . ?" panted one, still hauling at his leather trousers. "What is it?"

"I don't know. She came out of the
Vé
," said Signy, prying the girl off her. She stood up, brushing ineffectually at the mud. "Stop clinging to my legs, thrall. What's wrong? And stop saying 'blood.'"

But that was all the woman seemed to be capable of saying. She did however point inward, toward the Odinshof.

"We'd better go and look," said the burly guard in leather trousers, tugging his blond moustache.

The woman shook her head and began crawling away. The three men looked doubtful, but leather-pants was made of stern stuff. He began to advance cautiously through the darkness under the dripping trees toward the high gable set against the rock. The others—including Signy—followed.

At the door of the temple they found just what the thrall-girl had been screaming about.

Blood.

There were body parts, too. The two guards had not just been killed, they had been dismembered.

Signy had always wanted to be a battle-maiden. Right now, all she wanted to do was join the thrall-girl.

The great doors to the Odinshof stood half open. And now others from the hall were pressing behind them . . . Including King Vortenbras. He thrust his way forward and pushed the doors wide.

Peering around him, Signy saw little in the dimness. On the far side the fire still burned, sullenly. The solid mass of the altar slab was visible, dark and oblong. She could just make out the bowl and the
hlauttein
twig standing on it.

And that was all.

The broad gold arm-ring that always rested in the center of the stone was missing.

The holiest relic, the oath-ring, was gone.

"Bring torches. And call out my hearthmen," commanded Vortenbras. "And keep back, all of you. We'll want no muddling of the trail for the dogs."

Signy found herself excluded, too. She went back to the hall, and made her way back to her rooms to wash off the mud, and to dress in what the queen would declare was a more appropriate style. It might have been more appropriate if she'd had the queen's cleavage and the puffed sleeves had exposed less of her arms. The jonquil shade made her look sallow, she knew. But even here the story followed her, with a terrified-looking Gudrun nervously whispering that the temple had been destroyed and that they would all be consumed by the wrath of the gods.

"The temple is still there," said Signy. "Now help me with this lacing." She heard the sounds of Vortenbras and his men, and the clatter of horses and the baying of the dogs out there. She wished, very much, that she had some reason to go and join them. Vortenbras's crew might fight well with their mouths but they couldn't hunt like she could.

By late afternoon they were back.

But the arm-ring was not. The trail had led up, inland toward the high vidda. And there the dogs had lost it. They'd cast about, hunting hither and thither. But the dogs had been reluctant even to follow the scent in the first place, and had kept returning to the hunters.

By then Signy had pieced together the whole story. The thrall-girl had gone sneaking into the
Vé
to bribe one of the guards to let her steal a little bit of ash from the holy fire. It was known to be a powerful fertility charm. She'd found the guard dead and had fled, shrieking her lungs out.

Even without the evidence of the dismembered guards, it was plain that what Vortenbras and his men had hunted was not human. Only a grendel could have done what this beast had done. Whispered rumor hinted that this was the sheep and shepherd killer of Rodale, come down to mock its hunters. Or that it was a creature of the hag of Ironwood, she who was supposed to guard access to Sverre's northern kingdom of Altmark.

Signy was present when the elderly high priest of Odin came to confer with Vortenbras. "Whatever took the arm-ring, King," the elderly priest declared shakily, "must have no voice, or, with the curses on the arm-ring, we could have followed it by the screaming, once the arm-ring left the
waerds
of the
Vé
. And it must be immortal to carry the weight of years on the
draupnir
.

"I thought the arm-ring gave protection to the wearer," said the queen mother with the kind of finality that tolerated not questioning.

The old priest nodded weakly. "It would grant powers to the wearer, yes, O Queen. You cannot be killed. But the power of the arm-ring costs the wearer dearly. A year of life for each hour the power made you whole," He blinked his rheumy eyes. "Any mortal who stole it would be dead by now. And the arm-ring must either rest against the altar stone or against flesh. Otherwise legend says that the
draupnir
will return magically."

That was all very well.

In the meanwhile, the kingdom of Telemark was in ferment. In less than two months the midwinter solstice would be here. And amid the feasting and sacrifice, oaths would be sworn and renewed on the ring.

If there was a ring to swear on.

There was panic among certain houses where old feuds would be fanned to flames again. There was widespread fear in the homes of small franklins whose landholdings were attested by oaths sworn on the
draupnir
.

There was genuine terror in a modest estate a mile from Kingshall, where Count Tirpizr resided. He was a lowly emissary of the Emperor, in a dead-end job among the Norse in a petty kingdom in the wilderness. He had one responsibility: to swear the truce oath, on the Emperor's behalf, every Yule. He'd never been much of a success at court, which was why he'd been posted here. And now it appeared that he might just fail here, too. His guards were already inspecting his possessions. Because, if there was no truce between the Empire and Telemark—as of that moment he, personally, was going to be short a head, without ever returning to Mainz to face the Emperor or the states general's fury.

Sheer fright forced him into effective action. He could not just leave—that would never be permitted. But, in case of emergencies, there was a trader in furs and fine liquors who would carry a message. And by nightfall a message was heading south, along with a considerable amount of gold.

Because the Empire would never have entrusted a man as spectacularly inefficient as Count Tirpizr with anything much, his message was only one of five, one of which was only going as far as Copenhagen.

As it happened, any new information that came to the Danish king also arrived with Francesca de Cherveuse, unofficially. Her letter to the Emperor reached Mainz a full day before the next message. Count Tirpizr's message never actually managed to leave Telemark. The fur trader was also in the employ of several others, and he foresaw, quite logically, that Tirpizr was not going to be paying him a retainer for much longer.

The Holy Roman Emperor Charles Fredrik was Guardian of the Church, Bulwark of the Faith, absolute lord and defender of millions of souls, from the Spanish marches to the pagan frontier of the Baltic. He was also a man who needed either a far larger desk, or, somehow, less papers, scrolls, books, and letters on this one. He sighed. Tapped the new pile of papers Baron Hans Trolliger had just handed him. "What significance do you attach to these reports, Hans?"

The baron considered his answer carefully. He'd almost had a very short career at the court by assuming, wrongly, that the Emperor would want a yes-man. Only the accident of losing his temper in his first week had revealed the folly of taking this course with the Emperor. It had taught him an invaluable lesson. Once, in a wistful mood some years ago, the Emperor explained: his Icelandic mentor from the Clann Harald, Hakkon, had taught him—with a beating to make sure that the lesson was absorbed—that the truly powerful have no need for flattery. Lesser princes wish to be agreed with and praised to bolster their own fragile position. Real power does not need that.

So Trolliger spoke his mind. As honestly and fairly as possible—because the Emperor would tolerate nothing else. "They worry me, to be honest, Your Highness. We've trouble enough on the eastern flank. The Venetian affair was designed to flank us on the south. This mess with the Danes and the Knights of the Holy Trinity leaves us weak on the whole northern flank. Telemark has become rich with silver mining in the last few years. Strategically it sits in a potentially difficult position, able to raid the west coast of the Empire, and bottle up the Baltic trade. But I don't know how much reliance we can place on the reports. And just how relevant is this item? Surely an oath is an oath?"

"You would swear an oath upon the Bible, would you not, Hans?" asked the Emperor, steepling his fingers.

Trolliger nodded. "Yes, or on the cross, or some sacred relic. But I am not a pagan."

"Indeed?" Charles Fredrik smiled wryly. "That was not the impression Bishop Leofric gave me of you, after your last meeting with him."

Baron Trolliger snorted. "That fool would have burned half of Saxony under us, Your Highness. His theology is weaker than his grasp on reality. And he has no grasp at all of the latter. It's a local custom and it means a great deal to the people there. They believe in it . . . Oh. I see."

"Yes, Hans. The Norse pagans believe that the oath is binding because it is sworn on something
they
believe in. And besides, if Brother Eneko Lopez is to be believed—and the Grand Metropolitan holds him to be one of the greatest students of ecclesiastical magic and the magic of the foes of the church—then venerated pagan items do acquire power. Just as the idols they worship may become more than wood or stone."

"That cannot be true in this case," said Hans Trolliger stubbornly. "If the thing possessed half the powers that this pagan priest claims it does, it could never have been stolen in the first place. I mean, I dare say the locals believe it but . . ."

"But no local would steal it." The emperor sighed. "That leaves a lot of nonlocal enemies, Hans. People who would love to do us ill. I suspect the hand of our old enemy in this. But then I suspect Jagellion of anything that reeks of treachery."

Hans Trolliger nodded, slowly. "But can we rely on these reports? They have not been confirmed yet."

The Emperor picked up a piece of parchment from the chaos of his desk. "I rely on this one, Hans. Not only is it reported to someone else's spies, but this woman has a nose for trouble. This is from Francesca de Cherveuse. The lady whose breasts made you so . . . uneasy." The emperor chucked at Trolliger's discomfort. It set him coughing. When he'd stopped, he continued. "What she's sent me is a confidential report about this incident, as sent to Harald of Jutland. The Danes watch the Norse more closely than we do, for obvious reasons. Harald will be sending us a frantic squall for intervention within the day, I would guess. They'll bear the brunt of this treaty being broken."

"So what do we do, my Emperor?" He knew that the Emperor's health was failing, and that the last thing his master wanted was a war to leave his heir. "We can send troops north to act as a deterrent . . ."

The Emperor shook his head, firmly. "We'll send someone to find the damned thing. Or at the very least find out who stole it. If it is a magical item, we have priests who can track such things. If . . . as I suspect, this is my adversary Jagellion, being revealed may not rebuild this truce, but it should at least improve matters. And I'll send a high-powered and hopefully frightening delegation to Telemark." He rubbed his bony hands. "Manfred should have finished in Skåne by now. I'll send him and a hundred knights. Merely to escort the Servants of the Holy Trinity, of course. Not to let the locals know we can still flatten them with our cavalry," he said, with a laugh that turned into a coughing fit again. He drank some cordial from a flask on the table. That worried Trolliger, too. The Emperor drank too much of that stuff.