A Mankind Witch (30 page)

Gunnlaug said nothing—wisely. But his eyes widened in shock as he finally got the measure of the man he had tried to bully. "Don't think it is worth it, thrall," said Cair, grimly. "I've friends who would find out, and find you. I've used my magic to tell them already." Cair had been rubbing his amber with the lambswool. He reached out with the makeshift "wand" and was rewarded by a spark, as it touched the thrall.

The man yelped and edged away from Cair. Superstition! He muttered something. It sounded like dokkalfar—"dark elf." And by the looks of it the troll thrall was even more afraid of them than he was of his masters. He plainly thought Cair a spy. Well, he was right, even if he was wrong about whose spy. Cair reached out and pulled out a hair from the thrall's head, as Gunnlaug backed up against the wall. He beckoned. Reluctantly Gunnlaug came forward. Cair licked his finger—and placed it on the man's nose—and stuck the hair there.

Cair muttered a suitable malediction in Latin. "If you betray me . . . that will become a strangling snake and choke the life out of you. If not . . . we'll free you."

The fellow whimpered. But after that he was very, very cooperative, if a little cross-eyed from trying to see his own nose.

Cair was tired. It had been a long, tough day—but he'd had more food and more rest than either Erik or Manfred had had. Having a birch broom to lean on helped. So he was awake when the
björnhednar
carried their mistress down from the small portal in her litter. He kept his head down and swept. It would seem all men looked alike to trolls. But Cair was certain those "bears" were men, too.

His heart raced. He supposed that it wasn't such a remote chance—how many other places were there in this bleak area, after all?

Somewhere in this troll anthill, they had her. And sooner or later, he'd find that place.

The cleaners always do.

Signy watched from her cage high above them as Bakrauf and her assistants marked out the fresh patterns on the floor of the troll queen's throne chamber. Something about the shape that they traced made her feel very ill. She hated watching, but she felt a terrible compulsion to do so. To see what evil was being done. Runes that seemed to crawl with an inner nastiness were painstakingly painted. But she had no idea what they meant. Seven small fires were lit. They burned green and orange, and the smoke rising from them was nauseating.

Small, soft, live things in wicker cages were placed on the flames. They screamed.

Signy had to block her ears and screamed, too. But, horrified, she watched as a dark form coalesced in the midpoint between the flames. It was simply an area of darkness, of shadows where there should be none. Bakrauf was speaking to it. Signy unblocked her ears. She dreaded what she might hear, but not knowing was worse. Besides, putting her fingers in her ears hadn't seemed to help. The shadow's voice was as insidious and unstoppable as poison. It knew that she was there. And, somehow, it was taking pleasure in her discomfort.

"And where is the blood-drinker tonight?"

"My son is keeping control over the other side of the task. The weather magics spells need to be constantly refreshed. You promised to assist, Jagellion. I need more."

"You have power sitting in the cage. Spill its blood and you will have plenty," said the thing of shadow, knowing she was watching. Knowing she could hear. "She has all the properties of a good sacrifice. Give her to that blood-drinker of yours to defile and kill on the stones."

"If I have to I will. But that is valuable coin. I do not spend it easily. You promised me that you would send snow."

"It has a long way to come. But by morning the winds will be over Telemark."

"Good. I fear that stopping the hunt for your prize is entirely dependent on it. The monks and nuns and knights still quest magically. We've tried to prevent them. You said they were corruptible. You were wrong."

"Every man or woman has their price, Bakrauf. You just need to offer the right price."

She snorted angrily. "I'll trade you, Jagellion. Manfred of Brittany for the prices. Or more snow."

"You told me he was in kobold hands."

"I am about to visit a little vengeance on them. They tried to cheat me. I will fetch him hence."

"Be careful you don't overreach yourself."

By the time the summoning was over, and the shadowy thing had gone back whence it came, only the emptiness of her stomach stopped Signy from being sick. She retched dryly. And sleep was a long time coming, and haunted by nightmares.

Somehow, at the end of the nightmare her stable-thrall was there, rocking her gently as one might rock a child.

After a while her mind registered that the rocking was real. As was the voice.

She looked over the edge of her pallet.

Someone was using the long pole to rock the cage.

And was calling her softly.

She shook her head, unbelievingly. It had to still be part of her dream. She was dreaming she was awake, that was it.

There was no other way that her stable-thrall could be standing beaming up at her.

He grinned, in his usual slightly lopsided fashion. "Strange birds these trolls keep in their cages, Princess Signy."

"I wish you were real," she said, feeling the tears well up.

"I'm as real as I ever was, Princess," he said, calmly, but with a rather foolish smile on his face. "We've come to rescue you."

She gaped at him. Shook her head. "Me?" she said incredulously. "Who sent you?"

Cair smiled. "In a strange way, your stepmother. Before I locked her in the feed store. I'm afraid I stole two of Vortenbras's horses for the job. And I have two of the Frankish knights along as well. An escort for you."

She looked at him, somewhere between hysterical laughter and tears. "You have to be quite mad."

Cair nodded. "Yes. I think so, too. Here is your knife, by the way." He thrust it into the pole and passed it up. "I found it lying next to the wall there."

She took it eagerly . . . and then paused. "You may need it. I give you permission to carry steel. You are a loyal thrall."

He looked sardonically at her. "Why, thank you, Princess. You keep it for me for now. The locals might not appreciate your authority. I must go—the guard will be back along this passage soon, and the trolls will be up and about, too. I need to organize a few things before we leave. Is there anything I can bring you? Food? Water?"

She smiled tremulously. She had a feeling that he'd been offended by her offering him her knife. Didn't he understand what a privilege it was? What an honor? "You have given me the best thing anyone could. You've given me hope again. Food and water would be wonderful, but be very careful. You are as precious as Korvar."

He waved a casual hand. "I will do my humble best. He's a valuable horse."

That made her laugh. It sounded odd echoing in the huge, gloomy chamber. "I don't think you can be humble, Cair. Go before someone comes."

He winked. "I'll bring food and water. And I'll work on humble."

He slipped away out of the door, leaving her to a solitude that was not quite so lonely. He was the oddest thrall . . . To have persuaded the Frankish knights to let him come along. She wondered if Cair had realized that they wanted her because they believed she was a witch who they would torture and burn. She felt the comforting haft of her knife, clipped back in its sleeve sheath. Well, they'd not take her alive. And if the troll-queen followed the advice of the thing of shadows and darkness, she at least would have a blade to sink into the belly of the blood-drinker.

Actually, she could also use it a lot more effectively than the silver bracelets on the bars. She hugged herself. It was odd to think that someone, not a dog or a horse, valued her enough to come into a troll hill, unarmed, looking for her. He really was as precious as Korvar. She could give a human no greater compliment.

* * *j

Cair swept aimlessly. His mind was a ferment. First, relief that she was, it appeared, both alive and unhurt. Secondly, at her reaction. Seeing her, smiling down at him, it had been all holiday with his wits. Cair was finally prepared to admit to himself that he—he of all people—was hopelessly in love with the girl-child. And to her he was a loyal thrall, to be trusted enough to carry steel. Not even quite human. To be cherished, yes, as she did her horse. And yet, when he made her laugh in that dark place—it was all right. He would be her thrall, if he could make her happy.

His perambulations had brought him to a familiar scent. Horse dung. He went in. There were eight horses, rough-coated stubby steeds, not the fine Barbary stallions he had in his own stable, but solid creatures, bred to take the abuse of the climate and the locals. There was work to do. So he made himself busy. A little later another thrall came in, looking around guiltily. He nearly dropped the tankard he had with him when he saw Cair. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Brushing this horse," said Cair, in his best imitation of the halfwit Thjalfi.

"I mean here. In the stables."

"I was sent to work here," said Cair. "I know horses. I was a horse-thrall."

"Oh. They never tell me anything. Want some small-beer?"

Cair did indeed. And he also wanted some food and a way of carrying drink. As he took a pull from the tankard, he spared a thought for Prince Manfred and Erik Hakkonsen. They'd be hungry and cold, no doubt. Well, they had water, and some clothes. And he had small-beer, a princess to rescue, and horses to steal. Besides, he had to find a way out and a way to stop pursuit. And while he was about it, he needed to steal some other footware, and some food. He smiled wryly. A thrall's work was never done. He handed the tankard back and went on with his work . . . just in time. A man came into the stable. A man Cair recognized—one of Vortenbras's crowd of bodyguards. And he wore a bearskin cloak.

The man clouted the other thrall on principle and wandered into the tack room. He emerged with a bridle and tossed it to Cair, who had hastily rubbed dirt onto his face and straw into his hair. Cair cringed and looked down. "The buckle needs fixing. Take it down to the workshops. And you, stop nursing your head and saddle my horse. I'm going to ride out."

Cair scurried out as fast as his legs could carry him. The man had given him an odd look, but said no more. The greatest secret of disguise is to be doing what someone should be doing, but no one wants to.

Erik and Manfred lay on the skyline, watching the troll hill. They spotted the rider, but not where he actually emerged from the hill. "Well, he was right about one thing. Horseflesh," said Erik

"I could eat it, let alone ride it," said Manfred. It had not been the warmest bed for sleeping rough, but compared to the kobold pit, it had been restful. It had never actually gotten dark, and it was still almost half lit. Well, trolls didn't like sunlight so their realm would be like this, according to Erik. But Manfred felt rested enough to face trolls or kobolds or any other Norse creature. Food was another matter. Eric had spotted hare tracks—there was game, albeit sparse, here. But to catch it might be another matter. Eric had been biding his watching time trying to make a snare, when they caught sight of the rider.

"He's coming this way. Do you think it might be the sailor?"

"He rides badly enough to be one."

But as the rider drew closer they could see that he had blond, braided locks, typical of a Norseman.

"Are we going to try and take him?"

"Not unless we have to."

"If he comes too much closer, we'll have to." Manfred paused. "Do you think the sailor might have given us away?"

"And they sent one horseman to capture us? Not likely. Unless the knights' reputation really is slipping."

Manfred grinned. "We're a long way from the chapter houses of Prussia. Maybe he's a messenger from the so-called sailor, coming to invite us to break our fast. A nice sirloin of beef, some kidneys, ham, mushrooms, and fresh bread . . ."

"He must have heard your stomach rumble, because he's sheering off," said Erik. There was some relief in his voice. There was nowhere to easily ambush the man, and a man on a horse had some marked advantages, regardless of who you were.

They watched the rider make his way to the top of the next hill. He began riding back down.

"Exercise," said Erik. "Well, let's see where he goes in." But they were disappointed because the hilltop began to rise on its pillars, slowly and with much rumbling. A great surge of smoke and steam billowed out from under the rim. The rider rode around to what was obviously the front gate of the troll city.

They'd obviously arrived at closing time the day before, because they were able to watch the denizens of the hill come out and go about various tasks, hauling water and driftwood, pulling nets in channels. There was no sign of Cair.

It was a long day, and as Erik pointed out, it revealed the weakness of their position—they couldn't retreat while the troll hill was open, without crossing the river or exposing themselves higher up the hill.

"The question is, Erik, whether we want to get away," said Manfred, seriously.

"You mean in case Cair comes looking for us? I suspect he's been caught, Manfred. And I'm a little wary about relying on the man. He has a habit of coming out of a sewage pit smelling of roses. I don't trust people like that. He looks out for one person. Himself. He'll use us as long as we are convenient."

"That's not what I meant. Our sailor from Lesbos might not be convinced about where we are, but I am certain that we're not anywhere where following the river to the sea and looking for a boat will get us back to the Empire. The only way back might be the way we came. Or where do you think we should go? Which direction? Erik, we can't live forever on a few trout, and maybe, if we're lucky, a hare."

Erik was silent for a while. "I hadn't thought of it like that," he admitted. "If we really are somewhere else . . . and my Icelander kin believe there are definately other places, then we need to look for the known ways back. But this could just be a valley somewhere in Norway. Most of it is still wild in the hinterland."