A Mankind Witch, page 35
"I want him alive," bellowed Vortenbras, holding a spear to Signy's side.
That suited Cair down to the ground. People who had to try and keep you alive were a lot easier to kill.
"You can maim him. I don't mind if he loses limbs. But keep him alive."
* * *
Manfred let his arms go slack as if he was going to stop struggling. Then he wrenched them free, just as Vortenbras yelled, "I want him alive." Damn. If they only sought to capture the gallant idiot, Manfred had no excuse to break his oath.
Then when Vortenbras said the second part he knew that he was right.
"Prince Manfred! Our oath!"
"The hell with it. My honor!" roared Manfred.
And then . . . there was the sound of sharp trumpets shattering the air.
It was Signy. Who would have thought that a human throat could have produced such a sound?
* * *
Signy screamed. It was a sound of pure fury and anguish. How could Vortenbras? Hel take her half-brother. If Cair died in this battle, fighting for her, then they could die together as was right and fitting. Odin would never deny a fighter like that a place in Valhalla.
Instead, Vortenbras had decided that her man—and there was no denying it now: he was her man—must be maimed, so they could not even be together in Valhalla.
She shouted into the sudden silence as the crowd turned to stare at her, using the words that King Vikar had used, centuries back. "If I am guilty of anything, let Odin's will fall as it may. Otherwise, I will exercise my will."
And abruptly the air was full of birdsong and warmth . . .
And the strong tree that was bent to hang her as an offering, shrank and became a sapling. The stout rope became frail calf-gut, and the spear Vortenbras thrust furiously at her turned into a weak reed and snapped.
Signy stepped free. Weapons fell from several hands.
And then Erik struggled out of the temple, his arms still tight around the troll-wife. Bakrauf had half burst out of Queen Albruna's gown, exposing a row of white, sowlike teats to the crowd.
A collective hiss of horror went up from the warriors.
"The troll-wife," said Erik in the silence. "Bakrauf. The source of all these troubles."
"Sorcerer! What have you done to my mother?" bellowed Vortenbras.
Erik looked him straight in the eye. "Queen Albruna is dead. Her head lies pickled in a jar in the troll-wife's castle," he said. "This one has taken on a seeming of her." He grunted as Bakrauf struggled in his arms. "She is a mistress of glamour. We need chains to hold her. Cold iron. Fetch them."
"Let me help," said Szpak calmly. "The arms of armored men will do. Von Gersinger, Alendorff. Take her. One in front and one behind. Hold her tight."
"Better put your visors down, Ritters. She bites," said Erik. Both of his eyes had already begun to swell.
Signy walked forward and took Cair by the arm and led him forward, a broken poleaxe in his hand and a strange metal bird on his shoulder.
"It's that thrall!" exclaimed Vortenbras. "A thrall that has taken edged steel! Attacked his betters! He'll do for the blood-eagle."
Signy looked coolly at her half-brother. "He has every right to take up steel, Vortenbras. He was my thrall. My property, and I have freed him, as is my right. You will have to look elsewhere for victims."
Cair's showy firework chose this moment to go off and shower them in sparkling yellow stars.
Signy held tightly to Cair. But she did not choose to run or even retreat.
The metal bird on Cair's shoulder whistled, took off, and flew above them.
No one else stood their ground—except for Vortenbras. "Get up," he snarled at his men. And such was the sheer force of his personality, or his hold on them, that they listened. Warriors got to their feet, looking sheepish, looking scared, but still looking to Vortenbras.
"I still rule," Vortenbras said coolly. "Understand and remember this. The kings of Telemark cannot be removed except by death. I have decided. Hjorda is dead and you, Signy, are an impediment. You will be sacrificed to Odin. A fitting royal sacrifice to cleanse this temple of the heathen Christian filth trespassing in it. I will kill you with my own hands if need be. And this time your witchcraft will not stop me." He looked at the knights. "The arm-ring of Odin is missing. The truce-oath will not be renewed." He looked hard at them, daring any accusation, any back-answer.
Cair had an answer. He threw the broken poleaxe like a javelin. It hit Vortenbras on his unprotected throat.
And Vortenbras did not die. He pulled the blade out and snapped the remnant of the shaft off, dropping it at his feet.
The blood stopped flowing and the cut healed as they watched.
Vortenbras spat blood . . . and laughed. "You cannot kill me. But I can and will kill you, thrall."
Cair's reply was to pick up a piece of the axe shaft.
* * *
Manfred found his arm being tugged furiously by the two nuns. "We need you," said Sister Mary.
"Now," said Sister Mary, tugging harder.
He shook his head. "Not now. I need to kill Vortenbras."
Sister Mercy snorted. "You can kill him fifty times over. He has the arm-ring. The magic of the thing will simply mend him."
Sister Mary explained. "We need to get him to take the arm-ring off. The only way to do that is to use your strength on one of the bautarstein which mark the weard of the arm-ring." The birdlike little nun looked at her companion. "We cannot do it."
Manfred drew a deep breath. Think. Do not react without thinking. Erik had said it a thousand times. "I'm sorry. Show me what you need done."
The mossy rock had been imbedded in the soil a long time, but it was no match for Manfred in this mood. Clutching it like some stone baby, Manfred ran back through the crowd, thrusting them aside.
"Place it so that he is outside the weards," clucked a panting sister from his wake.
Manfred didn't run into the hearthmen and drop it. He simply threw it from there. Fortunately for them nobody was hit by it.
As it touched the ground, Vortenbras, the Viking ideal . . . screamed like a woman in labor. He dropped his sword and clawed at his arm, tearing the rich cloth, yanking at the thick golden arm-ring that was revealed. The Norse kinglet pulled it off, shrieking.
It lay there, gleaming in the torchlight.
"Now we know, indeed, who stole the arm-ring," said Brother Ottar, speaking Norse, his voice strong in the silence.
Vortenbras shrugged. Standing back from it, he retrieved his sword. "I cannot avoid the treaty between Telemark and the Holy Roman Empire," he said. He turned on Signy—and the crowd. "But nothing else changes. The kings of Telemark are kings by blood, and cannot be removed except by death."
"Yet they must face challenge by the jarls. Trial by battle," said Signy. She turned to the nobles of Telemark. "Who will remove this king for us?"
Vortenbras laughed. "Who here will dare to meet me?" He held up his sword. "I am the foremost warrior in all Norseland. Face me, if you dare."
Not one of the Norse uttered a word. "I will," said Manfred.
"Or I will," said Erik. "I am a better swordsman."
"But your eyes are half-swollen shut," said Manfred cheerfully. "Comes of kissing troll-wives." He'd pay for that later, but it was worth it.
"I'll do it," said Szpak.
The old priest had come forward, nervously. He reached for the arm-ring, but it burned him. Still, it rolled against the waerd stone. Manfred wondered if this was the thing heading itself back to the altar stone. Wringing his burned hand, the priest said feebly. "You can't, outlanders. You are truce-sworn."
"I'll do it," said Cair cheerfully as the metal bird landed gently on his shoulder. "I'm not sworn to any truce. And I owe you for this brand, Vortenbras, and for the mistreatment you have given the princess."
Vortenbras looked down at the corsair. "You may not be a thrall but you are not noble. Not a landholder," sneered Vortenbras. "I almost wish you were. I would enjoy killing you, for all that you are undersized."
"Before these witnesses, I gift you my mother's holdings, Cair Aidin," said Signy loudly.
Manfred saw how Vortenbras's eyes widened. "Cair Aidin?" he said, staring. "You? The corsair? The Lynx of the Pillars of Hercules? You? Here? Do you know my agents have tried to contact you, or your brother Aruj, to suggest an alliance? North and south we could harry the seaways."
Cair laughed, calm and seemingly amused. "I'd sooner bed a viper," he said, dismissively.
"And I would ally with no man who would let himself be made into a thrall," sneered Vortenbras.
Cair grinned, white teeth bright in his dark face. "Ah, but I am a freeman now, Vortenbras. A landed freeman of your own country. I have the right to my sword. But it was lost at sea. I'll need another blade to fight you with."
Vortenbras snorted. "You can have any blade in the kingdom. It will do you no good. I'm going to hamstring you and make you into a thrall again. Your death will be slow and obscene."
"Very well." Cair turned to Erik. "Do you have a rapier? Not a broadsword. A proper rapier."
Erik nodded. "Yes. A Ferranese blade from the hands of one of De Viacastan's journeymen. You can have the use of it with my blessing. In fact, you can have it. Fair payment for services rendered."
Cair nodded. "Fair payment indeed, Erik. I thank you. Have someone fetch it for me, please."
He turned to Signy.
"I ask one boon, Princess. Can I borrow the knife you gave to me as my main gauche?"
She nodded. Drew the blade very carefully from her sleeve sheath. "Here. You are a free man, Cair. A nobleman of Telemark. Use it well." Only Manfred was standing close enough to hear her say, "I will join you cleanly my beloved. I will be beside you in Valhalla." She plainly did not believe anyone could defeat Vortenbras. It was also clear that none of the Norse did, either.
He bowed. "Thank you, Princess. I am honored." He took the metal bird from his shoulder. "I gift you my bird in return. I suppose the dwarves said that I must make it, not that they could have it."
Cair turned to Manfred. "I understand the honor the princess does to me . . . now. Nonetheless . . . you have an oath."
Manfred grinned. He had had enough lessons from Erik—and the two of them from the Venetian armsmaster, Giuliano Dell'Arta—to know that size wasn't everything. Speed and skill were. "I'm not going to need to honor it, Cair. But I would."
Cair smiled, and felt the balance and weight of the knife, holding it up.
Vortenbras snorted his disdain at the knife. He drew his huge two-handed sword. Well, it would have been a two-handed sword for any other man. He looked at his half-sister "I'm not an old dotard like Hjorda, Signy. Maybe that would have killed him. Not me."
Signy smiled at him, showing her teeth like a vixen defending her cubs. "You hoped for that end for me, Vortenbras. You and that thing I called mother. You called me Svartalfarblod and called me a seid-witch. Why are you not afraid that I will bring my magic down on you now?"
Vortenbras snorted. "You're too soft. Besides, I have my own powers."
A panting man arrived with the rapier, and a commander of the guard from the perimeter.
"We hear a large number of dogs out in the mist, King Vortenbras," said the commander.
"Deal with it," snarled Vortenbras. "The problem you were supposed to avert is here already." He pointed at Signy. "And find the men who let the Joulu log through and kill them."
"You'd better wait until the issue of kingship is decided before you do anything rash," said Manfred to the commander, whose eyes opened wide, plainly recognizing the speaker. "But you can pass the word on to your men that the arm-ring has been found."
"Who asked you to speak?" snapped Vortenbras, looking furiously at Manfred. The veneer of polite court manners was peeled away.
"I don't need your permission, kinglet," said Manfred, trying to make Vortenbras angry. In a fight, an angry man was less cautious. It might offset the advantages of reach and weight that Vortenbras had. He had not forgetten that the corsair had almost bested Erik with a homemade knife. But Vortenbras was presumably skilled, too. "We found it on the thief and murderer's arm." He pointed at the culprit as the commander gaped.
"Are you ready?" said Cair calmly, inspecting the rapier, trying its balance.
"You might as well wait for the death," said Vortenbras to the guard commander, but the man had already scurried away.
As Cair raised his blade in salute, the cloud tore open and the light of a full moon spilled down on them. Vortenbras wasted no time in such niceties as a salute. He simply swung. It was the kind of blow that could have severed a spine—if it had hit. It did not.
Cair had moved. And lunged and slashed in.
"First blood to the outlander!" exclaimed a coastal landholder.
"He is not an outlander," said Signy. "He is Jarl Cair of Telemark. He is now of our land. He is mine," she said fiercely, as the two circled. "I will bury him with honor. I will climb onto his pyre with him."
"I hope that's planned for the far future, Princess Signy," said Erik comfortingly, as the fighters whirled and sought advantage. "He's got the edge on Vortenbras, you know, Princess. See, Manfred. That's the Lozza double riposte."
Looking at Signy, Manfred realized that she'd expected Cair to die, and die quickly. He saw how the blood was draining from her cheeks, and she bit her knuckles as she realized that, as much of a legend as Vortenbras might be, there was always someone as deadly. Before, she'd had a grim certainty. Now she knew the terror of hope. Cair's metal bird moved on her shoulder, half-opening its iron wings. She petted it instinctively.
* * *
Fear.
Cair realized that something was very wrong. He felt fear. Bowel-melting terror, in fact. His mouth was dry. He prickled with cold sweat.
This was . . . wrong. He'd never been afraid in a fight before. Before it started, yes. That was perfectly normal. But once combat was joined it melted away from him. Now . . . he was terrified, terrified enough to make his sword tip waver.
As he circled, looking for an opening—and wishing he could turn and run—a part of his mind said, If you can make metal birds fly, if Signy can make gardens blossom and trees shrink, this bastard can also use magic against you. He can make you afraid. And with that, he began chanting to himself in Latin. He used the only words that would come to him. And in the background he heard the monks and knights singing, echoing somehow the silent words his lips were forming " . . . I shall fear no evil, thou art with me . . ."
Like the ebbing tide, the fear receded. Vortenbras swung wildly at him again. There was no skill in the big Norseman's stroke. Just brute force. Now, facing him coolly, Cair sidestepped it with ease. A few moments back it might have killed him. But without the fear to aid him, Vortenbras was no swordsman. Now Cair knew with a clear certainty: fear was the key. If Vortenbras was able to turn his foes' bowels to water then he didn't need skill. No wonder the Norse were terrified of him. He made them scared, magically. Somehow he created fear until rationality drained away from his foes and panic set in. And panicked men were easy to kill.
Well, now that Cair had worked it out, it was Vortenbras's turn to feel terror. Cair knew that there was no point in prolonging the agony. Lunging and twisting, he slashed the Norse king across the wrist, severing tendons. Vortenbras dropped the sword.
As Cair came in for the coup de grâce, Vortenbras threw himself sideways and, with a squeal, grabbed the arm-ring. Vortenbras was now back inside the waerd line with it, and began to heal.
With a desperate lunge, Cair knocked the arm-ring out of Vortenbras's hand again. It rolled back next to the waerd stone again.
"Pick it up, Cair," screamed Signy. "Don't let him take it again . . ." and her voice trailed off.
Cair did so, snatching it up and pushing it onto his arm. Inexorably, he advanced on Vortenbras. "It ends here," he said grimly. "I am not afraid, Vortenbras. You've failed. You are going to die."
But what had shocked Signy into silence was that her half-brother's image had gone hazy, and was shifting, changing. Clothing split and tore and icy mist hissed off the white-furred beast that now stood before Cair. It stood at least fifteen foot high. One paw hung limp, but something this size did not need both. It also had a mouth full of long white teeth—a mouth now open in a roar.
"Grendel!" said a shocked voice in the sudden silence after that roar.
Mouth open, the grendel charged down on Cair.
Cair used to entertain himself on shipboard by throwing knives at a target. He seldom missed.
He put Signy's arsenic-laden dagger right into the back of the Vortenbras-grendel's throat. And, as the grendel caught him, he rammed Erik's sword home into its belly, up into its heart. Hard.
The last thing he heard was Signy screaming.
Chapter 46
In search of warmth.
Kingshall, Telemark
The Norse captain looked at the dogsleds, and the bombards . . . and the woman who was beckoning to him. He decided that reason might be the better part of valor—his troops had largely deserted him, running to watch the fight at the temple.
"Good evening." She smiled dazzlingly at him from her nest of furs. "We've come about this missing arm-ring . . ." she said in passable Norse.
"Oh. It's been found, milady," said the Norseman, relieved.
"Excellent!" Francesca buried her second spare copy deeper into the furs. She gave the Norseman the benefit of her best smile. "Then, if you could be so kind as to direct us to some place where we can get warm, and inform Prince Manfred of Brittany that Francesca is here. Emperor Charles Fredrik has been worried about him."
The smile nearly robbed the warrior of speech, which, in Francesca's opinion, was as it should be. "Uh. Certainly, milady. He's . . . he's at the temple right now. I'll go directly . . ."
She put a gloved hand on his arm. "No. It will wait . . . at least until I am somewhere warmer."
If the thing had been found and Manfred was—apparently—intact, there seemed little point in further intervention. Certainly not tonight, in the cold.
