The thrall quarters were in a ferment. " . . . A great black snake throttled him. Right in front of Eyrgjafa. He was trying to tell her something."
"You were with Gunnlaug, new thrall. Did he tell you anything?" demanded someone.
Cair shook his head mournfully. "He was dabbling in seid magic. A man using that! I was afraid of him, when I spotted the charms."
"Charms?"
"I'm a witch seer. If you aren't, then you wouldn't have seen them."
By the time he had embroidered the story, most of the audience were suitably sure that Gunnlaug, the bully of thralls and toady of their troll masters had died a justified death.
The question in his mind, of course, was just what Gunnlaug had said before he died. Superstitious fellow. He'd heard of autosuggestion in witchery of the west-African tribes. They died because they believed that they would, when they had been cursed. This must be more of the same. Still, there was no time to waste. The thrall might have said too much and would certainly have made the trolls a little more wary. The thralls were locked in—naturally. But it would appear that their locks came from the same source as the mine kobolds. He still had his key. As soon as the thralls were abed, Cair went on a snoop about. He had some things he needed to gather. If he could get them all together then he'd have Signy out of here long before the thralls were up and working.
The troll kitchens had stuffs in them that he did not want to look at too closely. It might not be cannibalism for trolls, but it would be for humans. However, he removed a stack of flattbrød from a locked cabinet, and took a bunch of hard-smoked trout and a small leather flask of beer someone had squeezed out of a cat. Most of it—barring the flask and three of the flattbrød rings—he hid in the stable. The flask and flattbrød he took to Signy.
"Cair!" she exclaimed. And hastily put her hand over her mouth. "I thought you must have been caught," she whispered. "You must get out of this place. I saw the most horrific piece of magic earlier. One of the thralls came in here looking for the queen . . . he spoke to another troll. And as he started to speak, a black serpent throttled him!"
Cair didn't quite know what to make of this testimony. The light was bad in here and, well, Signy didn't see close details well, he'd noticed. Best to deal with the business in hand. "We will be leaving shortly. I have brought you food and drink. Eat now, while I go and deal with the hill-raising mechanism. Then I will take you out. I have found the passage to another small doorway."
And then there was a vast cacophony of noise, and moments later the passage outside was full of shouting.
"It must be between those two rocks," said Erik quietly. "There is bound to be a guard. I'll go forward and check it out, Manfred. You make enough noise for a troop of cavalry."
He slipped his plank sandals off and crept forward into the dark gap between the rocks. There was a narrow stone arch and a door.
"ERIK!"
It was only Manfred's yell that saved him. The huge hand knocked him spinning, instead of flattening him against the stone.
Erik Hakkonsen was a fine stalker. The Vinlander plains tribe that had adopted him while he was there were proud of him.
The trouble was, he'd been prepared to stalk men—not stones. Sometimes when you're on the lookout for mice, you can walk smack into an elephant. And that was just what he'd done. Those weren't misshapen stone pillars. They were legs.
Manfred, sword in hand, sore feet obviously forgotten, bellowed like a bull, challenging the gigantic stone troll, trying to distract it. Stone trolls—half giant creatures—are not fast, but they are large and nearly invulnerable. As Erik discovered, one could cut the gray silicacious flesh with difficulty—and without much effect. It had taken all his strength, and the blade went in barely a handsbreadth.
It was stuck fast, too. Erik barely had time to dodge back as the troll reached down and plucked it out. It flung the sword away, bellowing loudly enough to temporarily deafen them. Erik ran back, and with the two of them playing tag with it, they retreated toward the river.
And more foes were now coming out of the postern.
Erik and Manfred ran onto the sandbars, and it followed . . . lurching and sinking into the sands.
"This sand is slowing it down, Manfred; let's keep going across."
"We don't have a lot of other choices," panted Manfred.
The stone troll swung a huge fist at Manfred—his feet made him the slower of the two of them—and Erik flung a handful of gravel at the monster's eyes. It stopped with a yowl and pawed at its eyes. Erik snatched up more and threw again.
They'd found its weak spot. It blundered toward them, waving its arms around wildly, obviously not seeing much. "That tree." Erik pointed.
Near the edge of the spit lay an enormous dead pine. Plainly the thralls had been cutting the dead branches away, and now all that remained was the trunk and some whitened branches down the far end. Even half buried in the silt it was still waist high.
Yelling like banshees they leapt over it.
The creature had sound and scent now, even if it could not see. It lumbered forward, unaware that they'd lain down beside the log.
It didn't even see the log until it stumbled over it—and fell headlong into the water beyond.
Water sheeted outward, soaking them. The fallen creature flailed at it, in panic. Erik stood up hastily. The braid of water wasn't that deep . . .
Looking back at the shore Erik realized that maybe the stone troll had been a small problem. The shore was lined with misshapen troll creatures.
In their midst stood what appeared to be a broad, stocky old woman with lank gray hair and a bitter, lined face. She ignored them and instead waved her staff at the river.
Manfred pointed upstream.
A wall of water was coming down at them. They still had at least two hundred and fifty yards of sandbar and channels to cross to the far bank, and perhaps forty back to the troll-crowded one they'd come from. And by the speed of the water that was coming, they didn't have time to get back, let alone sprint to the far side.
Erik saw their only hope. "The tree," he yelled. "To the branches."
They barely made that in time, scrambling up into the skeletal white remains of the branches as the water came surging in a chest-high wave. The water fussed and fretted at the tree, shaking the branches. It shifted slightly, but the flood did not actually succeed in dislodging the great dead tree from the sandbar.
The stone troll had been less lucky, and had gone rolling away with the current. "Well, that's got rid of him," said Manfred. "Now, if we can get out of here before that lot get to us, and if we can mount and ride off, we're away."
"I think we've found Cair's princess," said Erik grimly. "Or some other hag."
"She doesn't look much like that little thing we saw in Kingshall."
"They're supposed to be masters of illusion."
Manfred felt his feet. Looked at the blood on his hands. "I know a few girls who wouldn't mind that ability, without the rouge pot. But I can't see why she'd settle for being a skinny lass, if she can look as she pleased."
"Maybe to avoid being looked at too closely."
"Well," said Manfred, shifting his bulk on the tree branch. He still had his sword, and he obviously wanted to be in a good place to use it. "If this is her actual form, I'm surprised I haven't fallen in love with her myself."
Erik ignored this sally. Instead he inspected the water. "I think we're going to have to try swimming again, Manfred. It's dropping fast."
"Well, I'm wet already," said Manfred, sheathing his sword. "And the troll-hag is up to something. Say when. Do we try and stay together, and do we swim for the far bank?
But before Erik could answer, his muscles froze. He was stuck, immobile, and unable to say anything, let alone "when."
The trolls that waded across to fetch them simply snapped the tree branches and carried the paralyzed captives to their mistress.
Erik and Manfred were dumped at her feet, still clinging to the branches.
The troll-woman was nearly as tall as she was wide. Her eyes were very green. "Manfred of Brittany, and his henchman," she said, shaking her head. "Of all the doors in troll lands to knock at, you had to choose mine. Others might just have eaten you. You've saved me a great deal of trouble, you know. Now that I have seen that the human pursuit of you is not as active as I'd feared, I was going to go and take you from those little dung-eater kobolds. And you," she pointed at Erik, "you will make a good replacement for the björnhednar you cost me. I'll have to find some way of making you pay for my door warden. They are big and stupid, but they're good watchmen."
Erik and Manfred found themselves being carried in through the stone door that Erik had nearly been crushed against. The troll queen spoke a word of command and it swung shut behind them. The troll hill stank. And the dungeon that they were taken to stank even worse. They were tossed onto the stone floor, and troll hands stripped away their weapons. The paralysis remained, although Erik began to feel a tingling in his fingers.
Cair had moved swiftly when he'd heard the hullabaloo start. He naturally assumed that he was the cause of it. Being caught in here would make things worse for Signy. He had located several hiding spots in his sweeping progress. A man with a broom or a bucket can go into all sorts of places. Now, only hiding would serve him. There was no excuse for a thrall to be out and about. He was into the nearest of his nooks, a store chamber next to the throne room. This room lacked even one of the smoky lamps that burned in the passages. He had no knowledge of what was in there except for what he'd seen in the instant of entering. It was pitch-black. Cair was a self-declared rational man, but this place gave even him the creeps. It smelled of bad taxidermy, and other, less pleasant bouquets. Sulphur was definitely one of the reeks. His brief look had shown him a number of barrels near the entrance that he could duck behind if someone came to unlock the door. In the meantime he peered through the keyhole.
It gave him a view of hurrying trolls. And then nothing more than a crick in his neck. He was about to go out again, when he heard the sound of the return party.
He was able to see Erik and Manfred carried past. He ground his teeth in irritation. More complications! Escape tonight was probably out of the question. He waited. Noise subsided. Curiosity also ate at him. What was this room used for? Eventually he unlocked the door, nipped out, and brought a lamp in. He had to sneer a bit. Magical paraphernalia, by the looks of it. If he'd had this lot back in Telemark he could have convinced them that the sun obeyed him. He noted certain specific items: a stack of bear pelts. And various bottles—sulphur was easy to pick out. Saltpeter he could get from the stables. Charcoal was easy enough. A rack of women's clothes. And here was a lovely supply of bottles . . .
Cair paused. A large jar had a woman's head in it. A blond woman, with a face he knew well. The last time he'd seen her he'd locked her in a feed shed. He shook his head, feeling more than a little queasy. He had disliked Queen Albruna, but this was more unpleasant than he could cope with. He took the sulphur, three jars and, he had to admit to himself, fled from the staring eyes in that dismembered head.
After he'd hidden his loot in the hay at the stables, he stole back to the thrall quarters and slept. Even the fleas couldn't keep him awake. He had a sleep debt of at least a month by now, and it didn't look like he'd be catching up on it anytime soon.
The next day the thralls were abuzz with the story of the night capture. It got somewhat distorted in the process, with the two being anything from warriors from Oslo to Alfar spies. Cair, established as a power in thrall-land by the fact that he'd apparently beaten up Gunnlaug, was treated to a sneak view by one of the thralls whose work took him down to the dungeons. The warder-troll and the head torturer allowed the thralls to look from the stair, through the stone bars, even if they were not allowed into the dungeon. One got quite a good view from the open door. Cair joined in the mocking cheerfully, but kept back. He didn't need to be betrayed by the Franks.
It was another day's work for Cair. Lugging dung, looking for dirty pink saltpeter crystals in it. Cleaning passages. Noting things. Finding the opportunity to grind charcoal and saltpeter. And to curse because his weighting was so imprecise when it came to quantities. Filling bottles. Making fuses was another problem, as lighting them was going to be. The lamps would do while they were in the hill. But outside would be more difficult. He'd yet to find a flint and steel, boots, or weapons. But if he located the bear warriors' chambers, they would give generously, if unwillingly. They owed Signy, and he personally had no objections to collecting from their dead bodies.
Something else happened that day that pleased Cair no end. A column of some fifty trolls, with the troll queen stumping along ahead of them, left in what Cair had decided was midmorning.
"So where are they going, and why are the björnhednar not going with them?" He asked Helgi, the stable-thrall, casually. Thralls inevitably knew everything—albeit in a somewhat distorted fashion.
Helgi grinned evilly. "They're off to the kobold mines. I hear that the kobolds pulled a fast one on them. Gave them a lot of fake gold coins in exchange for some hostages. Bakrauf was spitting nails about it."
Cair had to shovel dung hastily to stop himself rolling on the floor laughing. There was a certain justice to it all.
"So why don't the björnhednar go, too? Then we could have time off," he said lazily once his shoulders had stopped shaking.
"Huh. Most of the time they leave their horses here anyway. Horses don't like bears much. Now that she's bespelled them, the björnhednar smell wrong. They sew that skin onto their living flesh, you know. They scream something horrible," said Helgi, ghoulishly. "The way they treat us you wouldn't think that they were slaves, too. But no rest for us. She only takes them with her and him, to Midgard. And horses aren't much use in the mines—there are too many narrow holes. Anyway, the place is a lot easier without her around. The björnhednar drink and dice and leave us alone when she's away."
A little later Cair asked once again with studied casualness, "Does anyone ever escape from this place?"
Helgi snorted, obviously not fooled one bit. "Forget the thought, friend. Where would you go? It's not too bad here in the stables. If you had to work in the foundries, maybe. But everywhere out there is worse. And it'll be winter soon. When the freezing mists come, nothing lives out there."
Bit by bit Cair established that Helgi and most of the thralls were born here, in captivity. Once, long ago, they'd come from a Norway that sounded primitive even compared to the Norway Cair had considered as such. Their seasons appeared a little different, too. Winter had its teeth into Telemark. Well, sheltered valleys existed.
Later he made an excuse to find out where the björnhednar's chambers were.
"There are plots against your safety," said Vortenbras. "Rumors that people of your faith were involved in the theft of the arm-ring abound. It is being said that my accursed half-sister was one of your faith."
Szpak stared at the kinglet, "We would of course point her out as the thief if that was the case," he said dryly. The language of the Götar tribes was not so different that the two of them could not converse.
"Logic does not enter into these things," said Vortenbras dismissively.
Szpak continued to stare unblinkingly. He'd noticed that Vortenbras seemed to have trouble looking people in the eye. And right now he felt that the handful of knights trapped here needed every bit of help that they could get. "You have a treaty to abide by and a letter to the Holy Roman Empire guaranteeing us safe conduct."
"Safe conduct to Kingshall," said Vortenbras. "Not liberty to roam my lands. And stop worrying, outlander. If, as you say, your prince lives, then he will be being held for ransom. Doubtless Sverre's men work," he said, angrily. "We could have saved a great deal of effort and time had the Emperor sent me a force to deal with him, instead of an envoy that I must waste my men to protect. You and your men must remain in your quarters."
Juzef Szpak did not offer details of why he was so certain that Manfred was imprisoned. The fact that the monks had used the shield of privacy to scry for the prince, and had located him, too, finding him in a cell . . . somewhere, was not one he'd gladly share with the gigantic man. Manfred's keepers had moved him, as far as the scryers could tell. But wherever he was being kept was very, very distant, and surrounded by dark magics. Juzef had decided that the greatest danger to his knights, and the holy clerics, was this man. Manfred had trusted him. And Manfred was now a captive.
"On the plus side," said Manfred, looking out through the stone bars at the latest group of thralls that had come to jeer. "At least we're in the same cell, this time. It is warmer and we still have clothes."
"On the negative side that troll-hag knew exactly who we were, and seemed to have a hand in this whole lot," said Erik sitting up slowly. The paralysis had left their arms first and was gradually fading from their legs. It still left them feeling as weak as half-drowned cats.
"True enough," said Manfred easing back to lean against the damp stone wall. "But then it has been obvious that there is more to this than a piece of theft and an accident with an avalanche." He ducked sideways. An apple core narrowly missed. "Why are these thralls taking it out on us? Some of them look as human as you or I."
Erik shrugged. "We're different. We're worse off than they are, and they dare not take out those that really oppress them."
"Uh-huh," said Manfred, "So what do we do now, Erik? Whatever turning you into one of her björnhednar means, it doesn't sound too good."
"It means that she will sew me into a bearskin, or rather sew a bearskin onto me."
"Well, it would be warm. I gather it isn't just a fur coat, Erik."
"No, it is actually stitched into the flesh and bound there, from what I recall about the stories of ulfhednar. There is more binding to it than mere stitches though. And you're the one she actually wanted, Manfred. You, or rather your role in the Holy Roman Empire, are bait."
"Now I know how the worm on a hook feels," said Manfred. "I'm not bait, Erik. If need be you will kill me."
It was said with perfect seriousness. Erik knew that Manfred had grown, grown a great deal. "Linn gu Linn," he said calmly. "And we're not dead yet."
Signy had cut through—but for a sliver—two bars now. It hadn't been easy. She hated to touch the wood, and she didn't dare to leave shavings on the ground. Her dress was now shorter than decency would allow. You could see her calves. She was desperately unsure of what was happening out there. Had her thrall been caught? The idea made her both afraid for herself, and unhappy. She'd never known any human that loyal before. It frightened her a little, too. He had accompanied two knights to find her, all this way and in such danger. How could she explain she wasn't prepared to go with them? Well, he was her thrall. She could just order him to take her away—if he was still free himself. Otherwise, well, loyalty called for loyalty. She would have to see if she could free him. The idea frightened her nearly as much as the idea of jumping down did. It was easily twenty feet to the stone flags.
Just then the door creaked open. Hastily she slipped the knife back into its sheath. She had to put her own hand over her mouth to stifle a glad cry. Cair was still free, and smiling. His teeth were very white in that dark face. He swung the heavy stone door closed behind him. "Good evening, Princess. I'm just stopping by to let you know that I'm getting some labor to let that cage down. I don't think I can lower you safely myself. I need to go and free a couple of prisoners. Then we'll have to break you out of there."
"I've cut through two of the bars."
He beamed. "Better and better. I will just go and fetch your replacement." He stepped out of the door again, but returned barely moments later with something over his arm. "Thrall's gear. I'm afraid we have to disguise you, milady. I've a rope here for you to haul it up on. Where is the hole?"
"I just have to kick them out." She kicked the bars, and he dropped his bundle and caught the falling bar. And dropped it with an air of surprise. "That burned."
"It does." She kicked the second one. He let it fall. "A lot of noise around, still," he said, moving over to the door, steel appearing suddenly in his hand.
No one came, and he came back to under her cage. He kicked the broken bars into a dark corner, and then expertly tossed a rope up through the hole. "There's a plait of straw, a pillow, and more clothes here. If you could . . . um . . . dress it in your clothes and leave it on the pallet. Anyone just looking in will assume you're there. I will . . . just go and organize a last few things."
Signy was grateful that having slatternly servants had meant that she'd learned to dress and undress herself. When Cair returned—cautiously and not looking up—she had to giggle. He was a thrall, of course. But sometimes he treated her as if she was his woman, not his owner. Of course there were scandalous stories of highborn women and elderly husbands . . . but she was a noble. Not like that at all. Was she?
"May I look up?" he asked cautiously
"You can. Can you tell me how I am to get down now?"
"Um. You'll have to jump. I could catch you, Princess."
She had to squeeze through the gap, touching the horrid wood. She had barely the strength to push through and fall.
Shaken and pale, she found herself in his strong arms.
After a while she said: "You can put me down now, Cair."
He did, hastily. And bowed. "Can we proceed, Princess? You are very pale."
He looked rather flushed.