Kingshall and the Odinshof were surrounded by a triple ring of warriors. Nothing was going in and nothing coming out. But this was Joulu. One thing had to pass through. The Joulu log must be kindled with needfire and fragments of the old log. The priests carried the huge oak log, garlanded with green swags, in through the barrier. And the warriors stood respectfully aside, allowing the priests clad in their wolf skins passage toward the Odinshof. Without the kindling of the fire on the Joulu log there would be no fertility for the fields, no protections against harm.
All across Europe variations of the same ancient pagan Yule ritual, sometimes with a little Christian top-dressing, were taking place.
Nobody would have dreamed of stopping it. Not for anything.
"It's sacrilege!" Signy had protested, when Cair had pointed this out.
"Why?" asked Manfred, grinning. "As far as I can work out, your corsair doesn't plan to blow up the log, or stop it getting to the temple. All he wants to do is to join in the hard labor of carrying the thing. You'd think they'd be grateful. And to be honest, Princess, none of us are of your faith, and so it is not sacrilege to us. And I need to get into that temple. Erik and I are going whether you do or not. I've helped to carry Yule logs in Carnac. No gods flung lightning bolts at me."
She looked at him, amazed. "You have? But you're Christians!"
"It's part of a pre-Christian tradition that has endured," explained Erik. "It still happens all over the place."
"But then you must know that no woman could do that!" She colored. "It's . . . it's men's work to carry Odin's holy log."
Manfred, of course, caught on quickest. He gave a shout of laughter. Patted Signy, with a great deal too much familiarity, thought Cair. "Don't worry, my dear. I'm sure if I were Odin I'd insist on female log-carriers."
Erik joined Signy in blushing. "I hadn't realized the symbolism. They scatter the ashes over the fields, don't they? You can just pretend to be carrying. We'll put you opposite Manfred. Let him do all the work."
Cair was the only one who had kept a straight face. "Princess, what would be better? To wait here, and be hunted at their leisure, or to go and beard them in their lair?"
Signy lifted her chin. "The latter of course, but can't we do it in a more . . . some other way? It . . . it doesn't seem honorable."
"And to allow Vortenbras to succeed is honorable?" asked Cair. "We can try an open charge, but that would just end up with us all dead. Or we can join the priests at dusk. Who counts priests? They're like flies on a corpse."
"But surely they'll notice us joining them?" said Erik, ever pragmatic.
"There are wolf skins here," said Cair. "Not very well tanned by the smell of them, but then that's just too bad. We can disguise ourselves—there is not much more to Odin's priests' garb that we can't deal with in the twilight. I will arrange a little distraction and then we can join the procession."
"Explosives?" said Manfred suspiciously.
"Well, gunpowder anyway," admitted Cair. "No big explosions. I have some interesting new experiments I haven't tried out yet with additives to the powder. Finely ground iron. It has interesting effects."
Erik and Manfred looked very distrustful.
Tch. He hadn't killed them yet, had he?
* * *j
"As the senior representative of the Emperor's delegation you must lead your men to the temple," said Vortenbras smoothly.
Juzef Szpak could cheerfully have pushed his sword through the big self-satisfied bastard's spine. They'd planned to hold a section of Kingshall against all comers—and short of the Norse setting fire to their own halls, they'd have been the very devil to dislodge.
Now, by following the pretenses of the truce, they would be forced into leaving their security. Well, the Norse would still pay a very steep price for their treachery. If he had a hundred knights on horseback they'd have had a real fighting chance. "We will be there. Dressed as befits the occasion."
"Good. I will be going to the temple now to spend some time in solitary vigil for my sister. She may have been evil and a witch, but she was still my sister. Or that's what my mother says. I will have a thrall sent to fetch you at the appropriate time. Your heathen priests must of course remain here. We cannot have Christian priests defiling Odin's temple."
Juzef drew himself up and touched the cross on his surcoat. "We knights are part of an order militant. We are as much priests as they are."
"Oh." That gave Vortenbras pause, but not for long. "Well, I dare say it will not matter in an hour or two. Let them see a real god's temple then."
"We've seen the true God's temples," said Szpak, stiffly. What was the point of this pretense? "Let them go, King Vortenbras. What are they to you?"
The Norseman snorted. "You will learn," he said, as he turned and left.
Juzef Szpak looked at the departing man, eyes narrow, thoughtful. There was no point in assuming a defensive stance in the temple. So he, personally, was going to see if he could save his brothers back in Småland and Skåne and Prussia a lot of dying later, by killing this man. When trouble broke, they would not form a defensive circle, but a wedge, and they would try to reach the Norse kinglet. He went to inform his brothers-in-arms.
He was not surprised to find the knights in agreement with him. He was considerably more surprised to find that the Servants of the Holy Trinity were pleased to go to the temple. Uriel looked down his long nose at him when he suggested otherwise.
"God's service asks not how little we can do, Ritter. It asks for our all. We are secure in his arms," said the monk dryly.
Szpak wouldn't have minded being secure in twice the number of Ritters, too. On horseback.
The mist swirled thickly through the bare oak branches of the Vé when they marched in perfect formation to the temple. The temple was full of warriors—Vortenbras's personal guard, and the nobles of Telemark.
As the knights took up their positions inside the temple, a party of Odin's priests and their acolytes in their wolf-skin cloaks came in carrying the huge log between them, on short strops of grass-woven rope. Behind him Szpak heard one of the nuns draw breath sharply. "Witchcraft!"
Coming, as it did, from a witch-smeller, that was no typical priestly accusation to be taken with a pinch of salt. Especially when Juzef recognized the scruffy large man on the far side of the log . . .
Erik thought Cair's fountains of smoky yellow sparks would probably have been an adequate distraction, even without the mist and the fast-descending winter night. When the mist lit up with sparks and hissing fountains of fire, several of the acolytes who had been rounded up for the heavy lifting had run, shrieking. In the pandemonium, joining the procession in their places had been almost ludicrously easy.
Disguises had been harder. Men here wore beards and long hair. Signy had had to undo her tight braids—that was easy. The glorious cascade of white-gold hair that this released was not masculine, however. Beards had to be contrived with a little help from the horse manes. Breeches had to be found for Signy: The bonder's scanty wardrobe had not been removed, and his spare breeches were available. But they were barely a disguise. They accentuated her narrow waist and broad hips, as the dowdy riding habit had not. And with her hair loose and framing her face, she looked far more feminine. It accentuated the high cheekbones, the fine structure of her face, and those deep blue eyes, which Erik thought were looking more Alfar by the moment. He wondered why he'd never noticed it before.
All that her horse-hair moustache and beard did was to make them all laugh.
"You'll have to put on a glamour to fool them," said Erik, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
Strangely enough, that just made her smile. It was the kind of smile that made men do really stupid things, like walk into walls. By the look on Cair's face, he was ready to walk right through them for her, right then. "I'll have to do that," she said calmly.
"I might suggest a hat as well," said Cair, regaining his composure. "Or a hooded garment such as the late owner of this place has left."
Maybe it had been the hood Signy wore. Or maybe she'd cast such a glamour over all of them that even Cair's display of sparks was unnecessary. But no one even questioned her right to be there. None of them got a second glance.
The party of priests—real and false—walked in through the dripping trees of the Vé grove. They stepped in through the carved doorway of the Odinshof to face the waiting crowd.
"Looks like they've had nothing to do but polish armor since we left," muttered Manfred to Erik. But that was real relief in his voice, at seeing Szpak and the rest of the escort grimly arrayed for war—here, where he had least expected their support.
The log was set down, and the old high priest of Odin had doddered forward with a hlauttein twig in his hand, when Manfred stepped forward. "Greetings. King Vortenbras. We have found where the arm-ring has been hidden."
Vortenbras's jaw dropped as he stared at Manfred and plainly recognized him. "Wha . . . seize him."
Manfred held up his hand. "Hold. We still have a truce. You, Vortenbras, are still bound by it," he said, grimly. "Bound by an oath sworn on the holiest symbol of all Telemark. Break it if you dare."
The Norse stood frozen. Only a few of Vortenbras's malcontent ragtag foreign camp followers stepped forward . . . and realized that no one else had. They stood, too, uncertain.
"We need witnesses." Manfred turned to the elderly priest. "The arm-ring of Telemark cannot be taken outside the temple waerds, without extreme pain. It will return magically to the altar stone if removed from contact with it. It is never worn except on Midsummer Day and Midwinter Night."
"Yes, outlander," quavered the old priest. "That is correct."
Manfred pointed to the altar. "Yet it isn't lying on top of the stone, which means there is only one place it could be, if this is all true."
Erik and Manfred seized the altar stone and heaved together. Slowly it came up from the earthen floor.
There was a hiss of indrawn breath.
Pressed into the hard earth was the image of an arm-ring-shaped object.
It had been there, all right.
But it wasn't there anymore.
Cair had taken the opportunity presented by Manfred's showmanship to melt back into the shadows. He wasn't watching Erik or Manfred. Instead he was watching Vortenbras . . . and somebody else.
Queen Albruna.
Her head looked just like it had in the jar in Bakrauf's castle.
He was less surprised than Manfred or Erik when the arm-ring turned out to have been removed. Vortenbras's face betrayed him. Cair could predict the next moves—and none of them were good for Signy or for him.
Signy looked at her stepmother in the same way that she'd looked at the dwarves when they tried to disappear. The image of the apple-cheeked, comfortably plump blond woman blurred and shivered as if viewed through a heat haze. But Signy was horrified to see that it was still someone she recognized.
Erik spoke. "This is plainly where the thief hid it. Has this place been unguarded since then?"
The old priest shook his head. Peered rheumily at the hole under the stone. "No. A priest and four guards have been here every hour of the night or day since the holy object disappeared." His voice quavered slightly. "We tried scrying . . . augury. All the signs did say that it was in the temple. We've searched. But no mortal could lift the stone."
"Can we put it down now?" asked Erik, making something of a mockery of that statement.
Manfred nodded. "On the count of three, mind toes."
They dropped it.
And the leader of the Frankish knights spoke. "King Vortenbras said that he came here to meditate in solitary this afternoon."
The old priest blinked. "But he is the king. It is his right."
"He is also the only man I've seen who could possibly have lifted that stone alone," said the man, Szpak, she thought he was called.
The deathly silence that followed was broken by Queen Albruna. "The witch must be here, too, Vortenbras. The one in the hooded cotte."
Signy felt all eyes turn to her. She pulled the hood off, shook her hair free, and for the first time in her life feeling every inch a royal princess. Now that she knew and understood that she'd been a prisoner, and magically oppressed, it was easy. Now she understood why her stepmother had abused her, too. Albruna—as she'd called herself—had been afraid. Signy lifted her chin and stepped forward, speaking loudly and clearly. "Yes. I am here. I am free of those who captured me, who would have seen me killed for their theft and their murders. Who have falsely accused me. Who have also sought to dishonor and break the truce my father swore to."
She pointed. "I name you, Vortenbras, as the murderer of the guards of Odin's temple. They would have known and trusted you. You were their king. You gained access and killed them, unsuspecting. The arm-ring was not stolen. It was hidden under the altar stone by the only man who could lift the stone. The outlander Christian magicians pointed to the thief—not to me, but to the person who stood behind me. You. Vortenbras, I accuse you. You are a murderer and a thief. You came here alone this afternoon. You insisted on being alone. Show us your upper arms, if you dare."
Vortenbras laughed. "Make me. I am still the king. I rule here. I give the orders here."
But Signy could feel the crowd in the temple draw toward her. She could hear the fear behind her supposed half-brother's bravado.
But she'd not accounted for her stepmother. "A woman? Even in men's clothing? Touching the holy log of Odin? That is sacrilege."
Manfred and Erik were back among the knights now, but Manfred of Brittany spoke up for her. He was an honorable man. "Strictly speaking she was not touching the log," he said loudly.
He might as well have tried to stem the tide. The Joulu-log ceremony was an older and far more powerful part of the life and belief of the people than any mere royal machinations or murder could be. On this rite the fertility of the whole land depended. There was a murmur of fear and horror. And with her new-awaked sensing of magic, Signy knew that these were being manipulated. But she did not know how to counter it. She saw that the Christian mages were trying something. But it would be too late for her.
"Take her to the tree," said the high priest, his old voice cracking with rage. And she found herself swept along in a tide of priests and warriors. Carried outside the temple.
The tree was ready for the sacrifice. It was a strong young tree, just outside the temple doors, its bare branches stark in the light of the torches they carried out with them. A stout rope was attached to it, and it was bent.
It was something of a signal honor they were paying her. Kings died thus. King Vikar had, to appease Odin for his people. She held her head up high as they put the rope around her neck. She would show them how she could die, even if she'd never had a chance to show them how she could live.
"Tell them to let go of me, damn you, Szpak," said Manfred, furiously. "We've got to save that woman!"
The four knights that Juzef had detailed to the task did nothing of the kind.
"Prince Manfred, we cannot intervene," said Szpak, sternly. "We cannot take up arms against the Norse without breaking our oath."
"The devil take that oath, man." The struggling Manfred had dragged all four knights to the door of the temple. "They're going to kill her. And I persuaded her to do what they plan to kill her for. Erik!"
But Erik wasn't there.
When Erik Hakkonsen had heard the queen mother speak, he'd looked at her in some surprise. He did not, by this stage, expect Cair to be wrong. She was dead and her head was in a jar in Bakrauf's Trollheim castle. But she appeared alive enough, and spreading her poison. It certainly looked like her, down to the detail of the silver bear earrings.
It was that final detail that overcame what he was later convinced was a magical compulsion. With a snarl he'd leaped away from the other knights. Albruna was still standing up, regally, smiling as if she had not just sent her stepdaughter to her death. She had seven bulky Norse guards with her, but they were in front of her. "I need your cross," Erik said to Brother Uriel, in a voice that brooked no argument.
Uriel did not hesitate to give it to him.
Taking it, Erik ran up the shallow stair between the banks of seats, and grabbed her, pushing the cross against her as he did so.
"Got you, Bakrauf!" he yelled, grabbing her from behind.
The cross did have an effect on her glamour.
It might have affected her magic and her strength too, but these were vast, anyway. She writhed and swung a blow at Erik that very nearly leveled him. The second fist hit his other cheekbone. Erik saw stars, but still held on tight, managing to pinion her. He was dimly aware that the seven guards had turned to bears, and that Manfred was calling him. The bears weren't his problem. The knights and several of the Norse nobility were dealing with them.
Then Brother Uriel was there, also sprinkling holy water on her. She hissed and spat like a fire in a rainstorm. And subsided like one, too. Glowering and furious.
Cair had been swept along with the press of men heading out of the temple with Signy.
He had no plans for this. Only determination . . . and a last fire and smoke bomb he hadn't used when they joined in the Yule log procession.
All this had been his idea in the first place. And now, she was going to die for it. He lit the fuse from someone's torch. And tossed it into the crowd. The bomb was designed for show, not harm, but right now it was all he had.
He hit the warrior nearest to him in the pit of the stomach and wrenched his poleaxe away from him.
"A rescue!" he yelled. "Signy!"
* * *j
With the rope around her neck Signy saw Cair, like some Viking berserk out of legend, fighting his way toward her. Men scattered, or fell. This was good and fitting. Cair would surely go to Valhalla, to be part of Odin's host, thrall brand or no, fighting like that. It would seem that no one could stand against him and his companion.
Her heart sang with pride and joy.
Cair realized as he fought his way forward that two things had happened—the first: his bomb had plainly not gone off, and the second was that he had at least one comrade to help him. The whistling iron bird dove at his foes, slashing at them with its long, sharp beak, or with the talons he'd cast for it. He had no time right now to question the logic or the possibility of it: it was here, and Signy needed their help. The fact that it was indeed a magical creature, or else it could not possibly fly and attack his foes, was irrelevant.
All that stood between him and Signy now were Vortenbras's hearthmen. The Norse locals were too superstitious to attack. There were of course still a lot of hearthmen.
"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?
* * *j
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.