A Mankind Witch (29 page)

The needle began to turn slowly . . . as it should. It should steady and point north.

It continued to turn instead. Turn faster.

Cair stared at the spinning needle rather the way a man might stare at a swaying, venomous snake.

They walked downstream. There seemed to be no other logical direction in which to proceed. The gorge had emptied onto a vast rolling plain with hills leading back into the towering, ice-capped mountains across the river. The river, no longer constrained by steep walls, spread out into a broad, meandering flow.

"Some rocks are naturally magnetic, you know," volunteered Erik after they'd been walking for a while. They were all tired and cold. Conversation hadn't exactly blossomed up to now.

Cair shrugged. "Or we have come out at the very place to which lodestones are attracted. Without a sight of the sun or the stars, and no northerly bearing, finding our way around here is going to be difficult."

"True. But we could just head for the smoke," said Manfred, pointing.

Away from the river, across the heath, they could see a thin column of it rising into the cold air.

"Almost certain to be trouble," said Erik, warily.

"Almost certain to have opportunities," said Cair.

"More trouble than being out here when nightfall comes?" asked Manfred, rolling his eyes. "I don't know about you, Erik, but my spine is touching my belly button, we haven't seen any game, I'm cold, my toes are frozen. I'm with our sailor from Lesbos. Even if I suspect he's a Turk."

"Very well," agreed Erik. "Let's walk closer, anyway. But there are only three of us, and I'm not keen on another spell of imprisonment."

"Take it from me, you can't be less keen than I am. That hole made the Empire's dungeons look attractive. And the place flooded the first few days."

"At least you had water."

They set out up the grassy slope and across the heath.

Soon, standing on a low hilltop, they were looking across another wide braided river—not as wide as the one they'd left, but still half a mile of sandbars and channels—at another hill on the far side of the river.

A hill with a difference, though.

Unlike the rounded rolls on the bleak heath that surrounded them and it, this hill had a fair amount of exposed rock. Odd-shaped boulders adorned it.

However, it was the fact that the hilltop was raised on brass pillars that really caught the eye.

The smoke they'd followed wreathed up from inside the hollow hill.

Erik took a long hard look at it, and crossed himself. "Troll hill," he said.

Manfred sat down, taking the weight off his feet. They were looking fairly swollen and ugly. "Do you think they'd give us a bed for the night?"

"More likely to eat us," said Erik grimly. "They're supposed to be able to smell man flesh from half a mile off."

Cair studied the lie of the land instead. "Well, maybe so. But look there. Those look like men to me." A line of ragged figures, carrying buckets, were heading for the water. Something in their posture said "thrall." From here, anyway, they looked human.

"We can cross lower downstream hidden by the bend. It looks as if there would be rocks for cover," said Erik.

Manfred rubbed his feet, wincing. "I thought we were avoiding trolls."

Erik shrugged. "I don't see that we'd smell too different from that lot, even if there
are
trolls in that hill. They've got fire, food, and maybe even horses."

Manfred got up. He was obviously in some pain, putting his weight onto those large feet. Perhaps because he was biggest and heaviest his feet had suffered worst, climbing over the rocks at the rapids. "For horses, I'll even take on a round dozen trolls. Lead on, Erik."

They walked down. It was possible to cross the braided sandbanks without getting wet to more than midthigh. The other side of the river was littered with boulders and flood debris, and in among the flood debris Cair found a broken wooden bucket.

"Ah. My gate pass," he said with a wry smile.

"A bucket?" said Manfred. "It doesn't even have a bottom to it."

Cair assumed a doleful look. "I may be beaten for that."

Erik snorted. "As opposed to just being killed—or made into a thrall anyway?"

"A chance I just have to take," said Cair with a shrug. "I seem to be getting good at changing owners."

"Just how do you intend to get to mingle with the thralls—and how do you intend to get away again?" asked Erik. "I think I had better go. I am a better stalker than most people."

Cair shook his head. "You are a better stalker, yes, Ritter. But you don't walk like a thrall. They would spot you instantly."

"What he says is true, Erik," said Manfred. "You walk like a cat."

Erik acknowledged this, reluctantly. "But you're an unlikely thrall, Cair. You don't fit the part either."

Cair slouched his shoulders and shuffled. "But I can," he said humbly, without, looking up, "master."

"You should have been a court jester or a traveling player, not a sailor," said Manfred, grinning despite his tiredness. "So what are you going to do in there?"

"Check out the lie of the land, find out where we are, steal what I can . . . that'll do for a start," said Cair. "But now I need a bundle of firewood. It'll give me an excuse to get closer. I will get away and bring you news and food as soon as I can. Where will I meet you?"

"Those rocks there," Erik pointed to three large boulders a hundred yards or so upslope. "By the looks of it we should be able to see from the ridge line just beyond that. We'll keep watch."

"Better keep my sword, too," said Cair, unbuckling it. He looked scathingly at it. "Norse rubbish, but better than no blade at all." His stolen knife went into his sleeve, tight-wrapped in a piece of rag. And then, gathering kindling, he set out. He walked along, hidden by an undercut bank until he was nearly at the bucket-filling slaves.

Erik and Manfred watched from the ridge as he meandered to join the tail end of the line of bucket carriers. He calmly set his wood bundle down and, with them, walked off into the hollow hill.

Manfred shook his head. "He's got a lot of gall; I don't know about anything else."

"True," agreed Erik. "I trust him as far as I can throw him, but he's a survivor."

"He's more than just a sailor though," said Manfred, untying the rough sandals and looking ruefully at his feet. "I'd dearly like to know what he was doing in Telemark. Looking at how he organized within the kobold mines, there is no way he couldn't have escaped if he had wanted to."

Erik scratched the bristles on his chin. "I would guess that he is an agent for someone rich and powerful. He's probably an assassin. He might even have been there to kill you."

"He's missed a few good opportunities since then."

"He's a bit confused over this princess," said Erik.

"I must admit I hardly noticed the girl before this lot blew up. I saw her at the feast, of course. A mousy little thing, who looked thoroughly miserable. She didn't look much of anything, let alone a witch."

Erik yawned. "Glamour, or a seeming. It's very much part of the northern magics. Now, you go over to the rocks and stay there. I'm going back down to the river. I saw at least one trout when we were coming across here. Let me see if I can tease one out from under that bank."

"With what? Insults? How do you tease a trout?" Manfred looked content not to move.

"Tickle them. Get a hand under them, flip them out. It takes patience, and tolerance for cold water."

"Even raw trout sounds good," said Manfred. "I'll stay here on the ridge and watch, Erik. I want to rest these feet before we have to run—if we have to run."

Erik looked critically at Manfred's feet. "Tonight, I think we will have to make a fire. We can cook the trout, and contrive some sort of dressing on those cuts."

Manfred nodded. "I'm half frozen now. Tonight will be bleak."

"If this place has a night." Erik slithered back from the skyline and walked off to the water. Manfred remained watching.

Erik found the water bone-numbingly cold but the little red-spotted trout under the bank were overconfident about how it protected them. He had three, and was just getting his hand under a fourth, when a ground-vibrating clang startled him into frightening the fish. He was up and running up the hill before the echo died away.

"They're just shutting up shop," said Manfred.

The boulder-studded hill was . . . just a hill. A little smoke and steam billowed around it, but a cold wind was carrying even that away.

Erik let his breath hiss between his teeth. "Well. I suppose there is nothing to stop us having a fire and some fish now. Cair is stuck in there."

"Did you get some fish?" asked Manfred eagerly, rubbing his stomach.

Erik nodded. "Three—the fourth I lost because I spooked with that racket."

"What are we going to do about the fire? Your tinderbox is somewhere in kobold lands," Manfred pointed out.

"I'll make a fire-drill," said Erik. "There is a lot of dry stuff washed up at the waterline."

The trio of rocks that Cair had pointed out proved as good a camp as they were likely to find. On a dry watercourse, it was hidden in a little fold in the rolling hill, away from prying eyes and sheltered from the icy wind. Water had eaten under the rocks so there was a little overhang. They carted driftwood, and Erik got busy contriving a fire-drill while Manfred cut some dry grass and bracken for their nest.

Erik had been well taught during his sojourn in Vinland. He got first a curl of smoke and then an ember. Shaved dry splinters of resinous pine gave them flame, grilled trout, and some warmth. Nothing could have kept them from the arms of Morpheus. Erik tried to sit guard for a while, but the toll of hard labor, poor food, a hectic escape, and the stress and worry over Manfred over the last few days were just too high. Swords in hand, back to the rock, with a little hidden fire, sleep took them.

If they'd been awake and watching, they would have seen seven huge bears crossing the sandbars. And a huge pile of rocks move to greet the mistress, before opening a narrow portal into the hill.

The thralls were not all human. And neither were the gate guards of the hill fortress. They were at least twice the size of a man, and looked as if they had been crudely carved out of rock. Well, just because there was a thing of substance underneath the rumor didn't make them magical.

The thralls appeared even more cowed and wretched than the thralls at Kingshall. They were certainly not about to ask questions of their troll overlords as to where the extra labor had suddenly come from. Of course they asked him. "I was captured on a raid," he answered as he parked his broken bucket with the others beside the cistern. "I will be ransomed."

"Likely! No one is ever ransomed," said one of the bucket carriers, the biggest by far. He stuck a finger under Cair's nose. "You. I'm Gunnlaug. I am number one here. You will give me one-third of your food. Understand?"

Cair understood perfectly. He kicked Gunnlaug neatly in the belly, and, as he fell, dived on top of him. As they went down, he drew the knife from his sleeve. Closing with the man on the floor, it was invisible to the onlookers. Gunnlaug felt it under his chin, however. "Understand this, Gunnlaug. You
were
number one. Got me?"

The man nodded—very slightly as the knife was pressing into his throat—terror in his eyes. "Good," said Cair. "Now," he slipped the knife back into his sleeve, "you're going to show me how things work. And you're not going to mention that sharp thing or I'll kill you." The man would attempt to betray him, he was sure. But it would take him a little while to pluck up the courage. And Cair didn't plan to be around by then.

The thrall quarters and food confirmed Cair's initial impression: Kingshall's thralls lived in the lap of luxury, comparatively. But, as normal, thralls went everywhere, because they did all the dirty work. An overseer with a whip came hunting for them to do the first bit of that work. Thirty or so of them were marched down stone corridors into the belly of the hill. It was as hot as Hades down here, steamy and sulphurous. The thralls, obviously being familiar with the task, took the sides of a huge pole, which turned the top of a huge brass screw the size of three men. "New men take nearest the screw," Gunnlaug informed him.

Cair punched him in the kidneys. "Don't be stupid enough to lie to me again." He'd observed that smaller thralls were being pushed into place—with the whiplash—close to the screw.

They heaved as troll guards swung their whips. The screw moved, first with difficulty and then with hissing steam and speed, and yelps of fear. Suddenly it spun easily and great gouts of steam shrieked out. Thralls and their troll guards scattered for the relative safety of the walls. The place shook with the deafening noise of impact.

Cair realized that he'd just helped to shut himself into the troll hill. Well, it was an interesting mechanism. Steam pressure. A fascinating idea. He would have been far more inclined to use counterbalancing weights. But it had all sorts of potential.

The thralls trooped out along long corridors and to various places of work. The troll hill was a busy, smelly place of industry. There were forge fires, hammering, the sounds of various forms of manufacture. It looked to him as if the troll hill was gearing up for war. He prodded the now wary Gunnlaug in the ribs. "Where are we going?"

"I clean halls," said the surly ex-number-one thrall. "All new thralls go to the foundries."

Trust this one to have the cushy job. "Things change," he said. "Today you have me to assist you in cleaning. Tomorrow . . . we will see. I think you might just be going to the foundry—if you give me any trouble."

"Where did they catch you?" demanded Gunnlaug, suspiciously. "You don't behave like a slave. You don't even look like a human. You speak strangely."

"The kobolds caught me in the mines. I was taken from there. Come. Find the cleaning equipment. No more questions, now. I have seen three places I could leave your body already."