A Mankind Witch (10 page)

Soon the troll-wife was on her throne, its posts carved with dreadful bears and the runes of binding. She sat and waited, preparing herself, repairing herself. Sometimes sunlight was inevitable. Troll-folk of lesser magical skill could not have protected themselves against it. Normally she'd have drawn on the strength of the half-aflar in the Odin rites, but somehow this had been denied to her this time, despite her charms and the thrall bracelets. That was worrying. So was the situation. So she waited. Her son would come when he had killed and eaten. Together they would have to try a working. She'd considered raising the draug from the peat again, but had decided to go deeper. Further.

At length her son shambled in. There was still blood on his muzzle.

Bakrauf could see through the mask of humanity that Chernobog had assumed. Grand Duke Jagellion had been overmastered by the Black Brain long since. For a human to attempt to control such a one was rank folly. In the longer term, she and the other creatures of the wider dimensions played for greater stakes than mere geographical control over pieces of the human world. But there were resources and power to seize. And there were the supernatural forces that opposed them both to be dealt with. One day they would struggle for supremacy. Here in her own place, the troll-wife feared not even Chernobog. In the wider world it might be different, and in his realm he could destroy her instantly. But for now they would cooperate. She and her son had designs on the north parts. It suited Jagellion to have a threat to the north of the Holy Roman Empire. The Svear were ripe for amalgamation. The Danes and the Imperial Knights in Skåne could never hold them, if they and the Norse unified. Besides, the Danes and the Empire were at each other's throats at the moment. The Norse and Svear could exploit that. Denmark, too, had people who yearned for the old ways and the old days. They could harry the Baltic, and the Empire's west coast was virtually naked. A new Viking age could be born.

Jagellion would not oppose this—although his own territories would abut theirs, if they succeeded. And his magician and aide-de-camp, Count Mindaug, was almost too expert in western and northern magics for his master's good . . . if his master had merely been Grand Duke Jagellion of Lithuania.

Mindaug might . . . or might not be aware that his master had been absorbed by the demon. But when Bakrauf explained her problem to him, he did understand that at least, no matter what he knew about his master. He explained: "The constrained dead cannot lie, lady. But they do not always speak the whole truth. The '
draupnir
' you speak of is more than just an arm-ring. Such items become the repository of generations of sympathetic magic. In a way it is the embodiment of the place itself. Forget trying to break the oath. You would have to shatter the very rock apart before that could work."

"And if I destroyed it?" she asked venomously.

"That would work, of course," said Mindaug. "But it would probably be easier to destroy the land itself. On the other hand, such symbols are usually protected, but they have geographical limitations. Remove them from their places of power and you may as well have destroyed them."

She shook her head. "The arm-ring cannot be removed from the temple
waerds
. There is a curse on it, powerful enough to affect even nonhumans such as my son and I. We tried. We used our tool-creatures, and they, too, failed. I thought that if I could bring it here, I could deal with it."

Mindaug bared his sharpened teeth. Looked thoughtful. "If you could desecrate it in some way . . ."

"How? My son and I are not able to tolerate something that could hurt such a thing . . ." Bakrauf paused. "I suppose we could get others to do it. Powerful Christian mages. And of course the oath must be renewed with the winter solstice."

Jagellion, who had sat silent through the consultation, rubbed a hand across the place where his eyes would have been, spoke now for the first time. "The simplest would be to avoid the oath renewal—if you can. The arm-ring may compel such a thing, just as it placed under ill fortune your earlier plans."

Bakrauf's son growled. It was a terrible sound.

The morning brought a rider from Lödöse to the dining hall. One who had come in the night, now, when nights were an ill time to be riding. Erik noted the new arrival in the dining hall when they had stopped to break their fast—after a good two hours' weapons drill.

"Who's he?" asked Erik, as the Polish Ritter came to join them.

Szpak looked. He raised his solid bar of eyebrow. "Nothing passes you by, Ritter. He came from Lödöse late last night, and sat closeted with the abbot and the proctor-general. He was once a knight with the order. He has family interests in Copenhagen, I believe."

Erik smiled wryly. "Noticing things is a bodyguard's job. My father started training me up for that when I was about five, Juzef. And I might say that nothing seems to pass you by, either."

The Polish proctor shrugged. "Secrets in a monastic order are few and far between, Erik."

"He's got all the hallmarks of a bearer of news," said Erik, suspiciously. "There is something afoot, Manfred. Word out of Denmark about what you're actually here to do, at a guess. I think we need to gather your escort. Now. They're not locals."

Manfred looked at his half-finished platter. "You're getting worse than Sachs at seeing evil under every cobble." He was never at his best before breakfast, and Erik had been using him as a training model since before dawn.

The call to arms came just after breakfast.

"At least they had the decency to let us fill our bellies first," said Manfred quietly to Erik as they stood in the courtyard, listening to the abbot, along with all the other men under arms in the chapter house.

"Very considerate. Such reports of raiders always come in at times designed to fit in with normal routine," said Erik sardonically.

"Hmm. I suppose we'd better offer to ride along," said Manfred, thoughtfully.

"Breakfast improved your temper, anyway," said Erik. "Volunteering to ride out, yet."

"Well, it isn't actually raining, at the moment," said Manfred, looking at the sky. "And it is easier than being used as a demonstration dummy by you."

But there was absolutely no need for them to volunteer. The proctor-general of Skåne was generous enough to volunteer them for the mission. "I have requested that the abbot make a space for you in the troop that rides out," he said. "You will be in no danger, but I wish you to see firsthand what sort of atrocities these pagans practice."

"They have committed some atrocity?" asked Erik. There had been, well, a note of surprise in the hushed comments among the knights in the courtyard. It was late for such raids—mostly these were aimed at reprovisioning at the enemy's expense. Once the grain had been gathered in, but while cattle were still on the hoof, was the preferred time. It was a lot easier to drive off beef on the hoof than in a salt cask. Martinmas slaughterings were well behind them now. Things normally settled down for winter.

"Atrocities are always committed," said the proctor-general.

From what Erik knew of raiders anywhere that was probably true enough.

Erik and Manfred mounted up and rode out with the column, with Mecklen and three of his companions unobtrusively behind. Erik noted, to his surprise, that the Polish proctor of instruction, Juzef Szpak, had also ridden along. He found a reason, a little later, to ask him why.

Szpak looked faintly embarrassed. "I . . . told the abbot that I wanted to go on watching you. He told me it was no longer necessary. So I leaned on one of the young fellows who was among my better—if more troublesome—squires last year to feel sick and give up his place to me."

Erik looked at him with narrowed eyes. "So, your abbot told you it was no longer necessary—but you decided to go on a long ride in the cold anyway. Why?"

Szpak looked awkward, and mumbled "Because I don't trust him. The Svear don't raid at this time of year. He handpicked the knights himself. He doesn't usually do that—one of the proctors does. They're a mixture of a few of the worst Prussians and a lot of green youngsters. I owe it to my boys to watch over this lot. There is something going on."

"I had decided that, too," said Erik, grimly.

But for the rest of that day nothing happened. They spent the night in a heavily fortified border manor and were in the saddle at first light heading toward a smoke plume. A smoke plume to the northwest in—according to their worried host—a stable area. One where there had not been trouble for over a year. Szpak confirmed this. It was not an area where he'd even been.

A man on a hard-ridden horse met them en route. It was Ritter Von Naid—once a confrere with the order himself.

Raiders had struck one of his estates the previous night.

"I had a lucky escape," explained Von Naid. "It's a small estate, near the border. I was there yesterday. I had a problem with the accounts and I took my steward and my strongbox back to Narnholm—my main estate—with several of my servitors from the border estate to help me guard it. This morning a servant came with the news that the place had been sacked. Several of my people are dead, and goods and livestock have been looted. My men have gone to see if they can find the culprits' trail."

Fifteen sheep slaughtered!" Vortenbras seemed to take it as a personal affront. The fact that the terrified karl had also reported the death of his shepherd seemed irrelevant. The royal party had been on a hunt close enough for the man to accost them. Only naked fear could have made him interrupt royal personages in the pursuit of pleasure. But from what he described to his overlord, he had reason for that fear. "Yes. Their throats torn out. The monster drained the blood out of them for his ale!"

"Sounds like a rabid wolf to me," said one of the nobles, dismissively.

"Lord. No wolf can break down a good oak door. No wolf tears just the liver out of a man," said the karl obstinately, fear lending him the courage to gainsay his betters.

"We'll ride up and have a look," said Vortenbras. "We can hunt wolf as easily as deer."

Signy, well back in the mass of riders, said nothing. She'd heard stories like this before—horror stories. But the other incidents had always happened in far corners of the kingdom. This little valley was virtually on their doorstep.

It was a beautiful little spot. Sheltered and quiet. The last autumn leaves still clung to the apple trees beside the stone hut.

The door was made of coarsely rived oak, probably made right here on the holding. Each of the planks were at least one hand thick. Something had smashed it in as if it were no more than parchment.

One of the huntsmen examined the dead sheep. "Its throat has been slashed, Your Highness, not bitten out."

"A man did this?" asked Signy, looking at it. "A man with a knife, perhaps?"

The huntsman looked doubtful. "Maybe. But why at least four times?"

Vortenbras and two of his personal guard and several noblemen had by now dismounted and gone into the hut to look. They found something that both the killer and the karl had missed: a child fearfully peering up from the root cellar. The little boy was not six years old and plainly far gone into terror. But he was able to tell Signy in a low, sobbing whisper about the thing. The monster. "It was big. So big it nearly didn't fit in the house. And white, with claws and teeth . . ." He started sobbing uncontrollably. Signy wished desperately that someone who had some experience of children was there to help her. Then the karl who had brought them word picked the little urchin up. Hugged him. "I've a son of my own, lady," he said, gruffly. "He needs to be held right now. This boy lost his mother a few years back. His father was all he had. I'll see to him."

They found the claw-footed tracks—each print at least two hands wide, with the claws cutting like spikes into the turf. That was easy enough. They set the dogs to it. But the dogs kept flying from the scent and coming back to seek the company of the horses and hunters. "Dogs don't like it," commented one of the huntsmen, nervously rubbing a hammer amulet at his throat.

They weren't the only ones.

The trail ended at a sheer rock wall. They rode around it to try and find where the creature had gone, but failed.

It was a subdued and frightened group of hunters that returned to the stable that evening. But other than to offer a sacrifice, there was nothing further that could be done. Vortenbras and his men scoured the countryside for several more days, and Signy had her solitary rides constrained.

It also brought her, finally, to the private conversation she'd been seeking with her brother. "Why? Father raised us to hate Hjorda. Rogaland are our enemies. Why must you agree to my marrying the pig? Couldn't you find another midden to give me to? Father would be furious with you."

"Don't meddle in affairs of state, Signy," he growled, looking somewhat discomforted—as he always did, when she mentioned their father.

"This
is
my affair," said Signy, bitterly. "Or do you forget that I am going to be married to that creature?"

Vortenbras growled, "You don't seem to understand what sort of difficulty Telemark is in right now, little sister." He always called her "little sister" when he wanted to emphasize his superiority.

"No, I don't," snapped Signy, anger beginning to override her fear of her brother, "Because you never tell me what is going on. Father always told us about everything. You treat me as if I was some stupid serving wench. Well I'm not . . ."

"You behave like one. If you would keep out of the stables, and behave like a princess, I might be more inclined to trust you. The truth is Hjorda has us in a very awkward position, Signy. He has sworn pacts with a number of the coastal jarls. For reasons of honor, they will not attack him. Not without some overwhelmingly good reason. Either honor must be satisfied and he must die, as our father desired, or else we need him as our ally."