A Mankind Witch (16 page)

It's a historical relic but a fast one," said Erik, looking at the ship provided for them by the King of Telemark.

"It's got no castle worth speaking of," Manfred said, looking at the vessel.

"I've always suspected those of making a ship top-heavy—especially if you're also going to put cannon up there."

Manfred looked thoughtfully at the typical Baltic vessel docked farther down the quayside. "I suppose that's why they make the beam so broad. Like a plump tart."

Erik decided to ignore the last part of that statement. "Well, they can carry a lot more cargo like that."

"Just like a plump tart. And can go down just as easily," said Manfred.

"You're impossible!" said Erik. "Let's go and see if arranging space for the horses will sort your mind out."

Manfred grinned. "Unlikely. I don't feel that way about horses, although I worry about you at times. I've been wondering if a girl with horsey face might appeal . . ." He ducked hastily.

"Being with Francesca again has made you far too light-hearted," grumbled Erik.

"Well, you can be satisfied that I'll be grumpy like you, shortly," said Manfred. "And it is coming on to rain again. Just the thing for a sea trip to Norway. Hello. There is Szpak. He's been drilling those poor bastards day and night since we left Lödöse. I wonder what has caused him to leave off?"

The Polish proctor had indeed come riding down the quay. "Half the town is looking for you, Prince Manfred."

"I deny it utterly," said Manfred cheerfully. "I have an alibi for last night. And for this morning."

The Ritter looked at him with an innocent round face. "Oh. Well, it must have been someone else then. A pity. Those sixteen beautiful young women will be terribly upset, after thinking they'd found their dream man."

Erik shook his head. "You're as bad as he is, Juzef. Next thing you'll be plying him with liquor." The proctor was quick thinking, anyway.

"Well, as it happens I have some schnapps from home," said the proctor.

Manfred beamed. "Lead on! It's just what I need for a nice rainy winter sea voyage with some elderly nuns for female companionship. What's it made of?"

Szpak lifted his chin and said cheerfully, "Cabbages."

"Cabbages?" said Manfred incredulously. "You can't brew anything from cabbages."

Juzef Szpak said in a deadpan voice, "You're not insulting my family brew, are you?" Erik caught the wink as Manfred looked down, slightly abashed. Szpak's sense of humor had been apparent before, but never quite so obviously.

"Uh. no. I have just never had cabbage schnapps before," said Manfred.

Szpak shook his head sympathetically. "The first time is always the best." After a pause he admitted, "Very few people try it a second time. I'll give you some when you get through with meeting the holy monks and nuns. They wish to gather us all to pray."

"I'll probably be grateful even for cabbage liquor after that."

"I'll show you the way. They're at the Chapel of St. Charles." Szpak alighted from his horse and walked with them.

"How goes it with the plans for the horses?" asked Erik.

Szpak grimaced. "Since I managed to get through to that Danish idiot that sending the horses to Danish-held Oslo would be a poor idea, things have gone better. But Francesca promised that it would all be organized in the next hour. She's a remarkable woman, that. She knows everybody."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "You too, eh."

Szpak blushed.

In Telemark, the royal compound at Kingshall was in a ferment. The Court of Telemark pretended, as courts do everywhere, that they were above any comparisons. But it had leaked out that they were expecting an Imperial delegation. Not merely Count Tirpzr but some high Imperial lordling sent directly by Emperor Charles Fredrik. And a group—rumor had it—of Christian clerics! Telemark stood on its dignity. But it also stood on its mettle. Both the royal house and the temples were prickly about this. The halls were scrubbed and dusted from the rooftree to the floor. New rushes for the floors could not be had in winter, of course. But hangings were washed, and house karls and thralls rushed about, scouring and polishing, harried by Queen Albruna herself at times, at her most waspish. Early on, Vortenbras had stamped out in disgust. He'd ridden off with some of his men in search of some sport, rather than deal with the chaos. Signy wished dearly that she could have done the same. Some measure of calm had returned to Kingshall when the queen retired with a headache. But it was near midday by then, and Signy felt as if she—and not just the wall hangings—had been wrung out.

The terrible beast pointed with a razor-sharp talon. He pointed to the crude map he'd scored onto the rock. "Look, Mother. If we take this adit, we can ambush them about dusk. They'll be tired. The bonders' huts will just be in sight below them in the valley—the column will be strung out. I'll cut him loose from the crowd, and between us we can chivvy him down into the kobold lands. Let the little snivelers take the blame."

The plan was typical of him. Direct and without subtlety. But it might just serve. And it would serve her ideas, too. She didn't want the prince dead, for her own reasons and to please Chernobog. She just wanted him "disappeared." She nodded. "He's a big man. The kobolds are always short of labor."

He scratched his coarse white fur. "Kill their slaves quick enough, though. He won't last long."

"Long enough for our purposes," she said with a grim humor. "If there's trouble, let those maggots take the blame and the pain. When the fuss dies down we can go and fetch him." Troll-wife and troll-son had no doubts of their ability to do this. Conquest of kobold lands would be an easy thing. The only reason that she had not done so before was that the little squits hid in every narrow little crevice and crack when the trolls went rampaging. You could conquer easily enough. But holding the galleries might be another matter entirely. The rat warren was not worth it. "I will send Hati and Járnhauss with you. The snow spells require a great deal of power and even after stealing from the Alfar girl, it tires me. Here. Take this." She handed him a rune-carved bone. The workmanship was stunning, Dwarfish by the looks of it, but neither the troll-wife or her son cared much for the beauty of the thing. "Break it, crush it into pieces, cast the fragments at them and call on my true name. Snow will follow."

He nodded his heavily muscled head. "Good. That will keep his escort there. Heavy snow, Mother. Snow to keep them sitting in a huddle of flea-full bonders' huts until after
Joulu
. Sitting waiting for slaughter, a long way from that accursed arm-ring of Odin. Let them see if they can find it there!"

She swung one of her heavy gray fists at him, catching him on the ear. He was twice her size, but she never let him forget that she was the ruler. "Fool. Never speak the name. Never. He sees far, does One-eye. And mentioning his name draws his attention."

He growled but said nothing. Just looked sullen.

She got to her feet. "Come. Needs must that we go, if we wish to get there before dusk."

"I've seen better harbors," said Manfred, surveying the ships pulled up on the shingle. "Actually, I've seen better fishing harbors."

"The rate Telemark is expanding, it'll soon have all of those, too. And other deepwater ports. Stavager and Áslo. Besides, Skien is a good port, apparently. Why they chose to land us here is anyone's guess."

"To make things awkward for us," said Erik. "The Emperor is sending the knights to remind them what heavy cavalry looks like, and they're reminding us how difficult landing them can be. It's a game of sorts." He pointed to the cluster of old men who had come to escort them. "Every one of them is crippled, Manfred. You can bet they're mere lowly franklins, too, by their gear. Vortenbras is toying with you. He's saying that this delegation isn't worth guarding. Learn, Manfred. I wish Francesca was here to teach you all of this. She's much better at these sorts of games than I'll ever be."

"A game that got my gear wet," said Manfred, grumpily. "And now, doubtless, the guides will take us by the most roundabout route, involving half a dozen river crossings, and lots of forest and steep mountainside."

"Doubtless," agreed Erik. "Places where heavy cavalry are going to struggle."

"Humph. Next time my uncle wants a pawn to push around, I'm going to suggest he send you without me, Erik. Well, let's put on a good show for them anyway."

"Szpak is doing that," said Erik, pointing to where the new senior proctor was putting his "boys" through some drill while they waited for the rest of their gear to be unloaded. "That man will go far, I think."

Manfred nodded. "Good instructor. Do they really distill cabbage liquor in Gdansk? Or was he having me on?

Erik shrugged. "The stuff smelled as if it might be true." He cast a glance at the sky. The heavy cloud looked leaden enough to suggest that only providence could be holding it up in the sky. Snow was coming, or he knew nothing of northern weather. "And I hope they get that kit on the packhorses quickly or we'll need more than even that vile stuff to warm us."

"Why in heaven's name couldn't the Empire's problems take place in sunny Syracuse?" said Manfred. "It's all very well for you. You've got ice in your veins anyway. But there is a lot of me to keep warm, and I've had my skin stick to cold armor before."

"Don't want to be a pawn. Want to be somewhere warm," said Erik, tightening a cinch. "We are full of complaints today. Francesca will still be in Copenhagen when we get back, you know."

Manfred snorted and turned to yell at a couple of porters carrying the canvas-stitched gear bales up the beach. "Move it! We want to be there before this Christmas, not the next one."

Within the hour they were saddled up and riding out. Manfred threatened with snow was a powerful force.

The country they rode through was heavily forested—stands of mixed oak, ash, and elm. Once they left the coast there was little sign of habitation. The trail was rough and underused. Erik was pretty sure that they were indeed being taken by a back route. Brother Ottar quietly confirmed their suspicions. This was the most roundabout way possible, turning a fifteen-league journey into something far longer. The maps he had peered at in Copenhagen had indicated that going by water would be considerably faster. But a few days should still see them at Kingshall—so long as the snow held off that long. Or the wittering old nun-ducks didn't drop dead. Both of the monks could ride—Uriel, like he'd been born in a saddle, and Ottar with grimly determined competence. Perhaps the two nuns were great magic-workers, and scholars. What neither was, was a rider. Sister Mary could almost stay in the sidesaddle without clinging to the pommel. At a walk. And Sister Mercy was worse. She clung unashamedly. And neither was really of an age to do the journey on foot, either.

They were obliged to proceed at a walk. And to stop to allow the nuns to rest.

And, while their Norse escort had certainly not forced the pace at first, as the afternoon wore on, they began to show signs of impatience and downright worry.

The night was definitely drawing in when they reached a notch leading downward into a valley. "There are houses down there," explained one of the guides—the only one who spoke fluent Frankish. "It is too cold to go farther. Besides, there is a grendel . . . it has killed many beasts and some people," he said looking nervously around at the rocks.

"A grendel . . . ?"

As he said it there was a terrible quavering shriek from up-slope. The elderly Norse escort gave a shriek of his own and shoved his spurs into his horse. Their escort seemed to have one idea only—to see how fast they could get out of there. These Franks could either escort themselves or follow.

"Hold!" bellowed Szpak to several of his knights whose mounts seemed to think that this was a great idea. "Form up. Take station around the prince, the holy nuns, the grooms, and the packhorses. I'll have the hide off any man that panics. Believe me, I am more dangerous than anything you'll find on this hillside."

As if to counter this assertion, a deep, terrible roar came echoing down the valley. It was low pitched enough to spook the horses, and seemingly even to make the rock quiver.

Szpak jigged savagely at his horse's bit. "Prince Manfred. You will remain in the middle of the group," he snapped. "Out lances, Ritters. Except Sonderberg and Von Duren. You draw your swords, gentlemen. Stick with Hakkonsen, the prince and the brothers and sisters. We'll continue at a walk."

Erik could feel the hairs on the nape of his neck rising, as the quavering shriek began again. Something huge and dark was stumping down the slope toward them, wreathed in mist. And Erik knew fear. It was like cold tide surging around them. Horses' eyes rolled. Even with the iron control the knights exercised over their steeds, one of them was going to bolt.

Brother Uriel dropped off his horse. Erik managed to lean forward and snag the bridle as the animal started to run. "Here. Up!" he yelled at the monk.

Instead Uriel was helping Sister Mercy dismount.

"Stay in the saddle!" bellowed Manfred.

Instead Uriel helped the nun down. She fell into his male embrace—probably for the first time ever. But she was already rummaging in a small bag. And singing. It was, unless Erik was mistaken, the twenty-third psalm.

"Damnation." Erik let go of Uriel's horse. A part of his mind said that Uriel was a good horseman. He hadn't fallen off his steed. He'd dismounted deliberately. That didn't stop him trying to reach the frail little old nun—as Uriel was helping the other one down, and Ottar was falling off. Erik decided he'd have her over the crupper. She could haul her skirts up or cling like a sack of meal . . . 

The little nun ducked under his hand. It was not so much a case of evading him as scrawling something hastily on the earth. And now Brother Uriel had found her hand. "Sing," he yelled up at the knights. "We are being bespelled."