David Freer - A Mankind Witch

Cover art by Gary Ruddell

First printing, January 2002

ISBN: 0-7434-9913-1

A Baen Books Original

Production by Windhaven Press

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webwrights.com

Content

Synopsis

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

In This Series

Prologue:Players Various

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Glossary

Synopsis

To the North of theHoly Roman Empire lie the pagan Norse-lands. It is here that Manfred, Prince of

Brittany, and his Icelandic bodyguard, Erik, must venture in the dead of winter. To a rugged land of trolls

and ice, to find a Pagan relic, something so magical that should not be possible to touch it, let alone steal

it. Yet, it is gone. Unless it is recovered before Yuletide, a new Viking age will be born. King Vortenbras

will lead his berserks in an orgy of rapine, looting and destruction across the Empire's unguarded flank.

Princess Signy is the King's older stepsister. Everyone believes her to be the thief, a witch and

murderess. Everyone but Cair, her stable-thrall, an ocean-plucked man with a hidden past. Cair doesn't

believe in witches or magic, let alone that Signy could steal and murder. And if he has to drag the

foremost knight of the age and his bodyguard kicking and screaming through the entire Norse underworld

to prove it, he'll do it. No kobold, dwarf or troll is going to stop him or his scepticism. Not the wild hunt.

Not even a grendel. He doesn't believe in this superstitious rubbish. He's a man of science, and he's used

that to fake his way into being feared as magic-worker. But for Signy, he'll be all of mankind's witches.

He'll have to be. Because that's what it'll take to defeat the dark magics massed against her.

A tale of intrigue, murder, love and magic set in the alternate history world SHADOW OF LION and

THIS ROUGH MAGIC.

About the Author

Dave Freer is an Ichthyologist turned author because he'd heard that the spelling requirements were

simpler. They lied about that. He lives in a remote part of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, with his wife

and chief proof-reader, Barbara, four dogs and four cats, two sons (Paddy and James) and just at the

moment no shrews, birds, bats or any other rescued wildlife. He does his best to blame his extraordinary

spelling on an Old English Sheepdog nose, or the cat/s on his lap. It has nothing to do with falling out of

pear trees onto his head or spending too long underwater freediving for spiny lobster.

His first book — The Forlorn (Baen) came out in 1999. Since then he has co-authored with Eric Flint

(Rats, Bats and Vats, Pyramid Scheme, and The Rat, Bat and the Ugly) and, with Mercedes Lackey and

Eric Flint (Shadow of the Lion, This Rough Magic, Wizard of Karres) as well writing as various shorter

works.

Besides working as a Fisheries Scientist for theWestern Cape shark fishery, running a couple of fish

farms, he has worked as a commercial diver, and as a relief chef at several luxury game lodges. Yes: he

can both cook and change diapers. (No man ever really gets tired of danger sports.) He spent two years

as a conscripted soldier along the way, so he can iron too. His interests are rock climbing (he's still good

at it), diving, fly-fishing (he's still bad at it), fly-tying, wine-tasting and the preparation of food, especially

by traditional means - smoking and salting, all the good unhealthy things.

Dedication

To the memory of loyal companions. If there are no dogs in heaven, let me rather go to wherever they

are.

Acknowledgments

As the first solo novel I have done for some time I felt very alone doing this. Working with Eric Flint and

Mercedes Lackey has been very supportive. Nonetheless, my friends and coauthors continued, kindly, to

support me this time, too, with advice and encouragement if not with writing the awkward scenes.

My greatest thanks go to my wife, Barbara, who not only fixed my appalling grammar, but also tolerates

a husband who has half his head inside Norse myth. I also want to thank the following people: Sioban

Finlow-Bates and Dag-Harald Skutlaberg for information about the vegetation and conditions in Norway

in winter; my friend Gunnar Dahlin, for help with Skåne; Annette Grahn, for names and maps of the same

area; and Jody Dorsett, for some advice on explosives. Mike Kabongo, Tania Shipman, Traci Scroggins,

Judith Lasker, all did a terrific job as first readers and helped me polish this tale. My thanks for their help

and encouragement.

Grendel is dead.

In This Series

The Shadow of the Lion (with Eric Flint & Dave Freer)

This Rough Magic (with Eric Flint & Dave Freer)

A Mankind Witch by Dave Freer

Prologue:

Players Various

Biscay, July 1538

Cair clung to a spar floating in the open ocean, out of sight or scent of land. The rain had stopped now,

and, as the spar rose with the swells, he looked around for other wreckage. Other heads in the water.

He saw nothing but white-capped gray sea.

The loss of his crew cut more deeply than the loss of his ship.

He drifted. And clung. The cloud-tattered morning turned to a slate-skied afternoon. There was no

longer hope left in him. Just relentless determination, beyond any logic or faith.

And on the wings of evening, a dragon came out of the sea mist.

* * *

Lying, bound with coarse rope, on the ribs in the bow of the longship, Cair knew that it had been no

dragon. A dragon would have mercifully devoured him then and there.

"They say," said the prisoner next to him, in broken Frankish, "That you are a man-witch. That any other

would have drowned. They found no others, nor any sign of your ship."

Cair let none of his instinctive scorn show. Primitive superstition! Instead he said nothing, keeping as still

as he possibly could in his patch of relative warmth.

He remembered little of the rest of the voyage. It was blurred with fever and exhaustion. But he was

aware that the other prisoners avoided even touching him.

Kingshall, Telemark, July 1538

"The poor girl. I feel so sorry for her. She's stunted, you know. They say . . ." and the honeyed voice of

Signy's stepmother dropped, but not so low that it couldn't be heard clearly through the thin wooden

wall. "It's thedokkalfar blood on her mother's side . . . The woman died in bearing the girl. That's a sure

sign of the ill-fortune that goes with meddling inseid -magic. And only the one scrawny girl-child, Jarl.

Anyway, it is not important. She is of the royal line even if she probably will never bear children. She's far

too small. She spoils her complexion with sunlight. And she has no womanly skills. I mean, look at her

embroidery! It's appalling. No, your master would be wise to look elsewhere."

Signy's nails dug into her palms. She dropped the frame of crooked stitchery that confirmed the truth

about her skills with a needle. She knew perfectly well that she had been supposed to hear every word.

That it was meant to wound. That didn't stop it hurting. Dowager Queen Albruna seldom missed the

opportunity to try and belittle her . . . And seldom failed to do so. It wasn't hard. Signy knew that she

was no one's idea of a shield-maiden. She was too small, too wiry, and as gifted with the womanly skills

of fine weaving and delicate stitchery as a boar-pig. She couldn't even see her threads in linenwork, let

alone do it. But, by Freya's paps, she'd sooner die than let the queen mother see any sign of how her

barbs stung.

She scrambled to her feet in a tangle of limbs, kicking over a footstool. That was normal, too. Her

stepmother hadn't said that Signy was as graceful as a pregnant cow on an ice patch—yet. But she

would, as usual. Then the shaming, half-true stories would follow.

Albruna could enjoy needling her stepdaughter. King Hjorda wouldn't care: he'd take her if she had two

heads and tail. He wasn't interested in Signy as a woman: she was merely wanted as a claim to the throne

of Telemark. As long as her brother was unwed and without heirs . . . she had value. And if that vile old

goat Hjorda could get a son on her, he'd have a better claim to the throne than Vortenbras did. She was

a very valuable trading piece at the moment, and Albruna was holding out for a high price. Signy knew

that was why she was still here, an old maid of twenty-four. She was waiting for Hjorda to increase his

offer. Albruna would go on belittling her, pretending to try and put Hjorda off, until the price went up

enough.

Signy spat, trying to rid her mouth of the sour half-vomit taste that the thought of her father's old foe

engendered. She touched the wire-bound hilt of the dagger in her sleeve. She'd sworn on both Odin's

ring and Thor's hammer, that she'd see King Hjorda dead in his marriage bed. Her father's honor

demanded that. Then she would die herself as her own honor required. But not for the first time she

wished that she really was thedokkalfarseid -witch's daughter that Dowager Queen Mother Albruna

accused her of being, every time she wanted to make sure the princess had not a friend in the royal

household. If Signy had had any powers, dark or no, she'd have turned her stepmother into a rat in a nest

of vipers long ago. The gods knew, she'd tried. But her participation in any charm, any piece ofgaldr ,

guaranteed that it wouldn't work. She could make any charm backfire, let alone fail.

"Come now, Your Highness," said Jarl Svein, his voice as smooth as oiled silk, "a princess of the blood

of two ancient houses, no matter how suspect the bloodlines are, is a jewel of value."

Abruna gave her characteristic sniff of disdain. "I've always had my doubts about her blood. Seriously,

King Hjorda would be wiser to look elsewhere. How can someone of our lineage be so graceless? She's

as clumsy . . ."

Signy had been told to wait until she was called to meet Hjorda's emissary. But she knew what was

coming next. She'd rather face the inevitable whipping than stay a moment longer. After all, what was one

more whipping? They hurt less than words anyway. She could be in the friendly comfort of the stables in

a hundred heartbeats. She darted out of the door of the antechamber . . .

To have her passage blocked by a large woman with thick buttermilk-blond braids. "Where do you

think you're going?"

Such an insolent question from a thrall-wench! Signy raised herself up to her full height, and did her best

to look a princess in every one of those meager inches. Even as she did it, she knew she was failing. "It is

none of your business, Borgny." She hoped she'd kept the quaver out her voice.

Mainz, late October, 1538

"It's already snowing in the north, Uncle," protested Manfred. "Surely it'll wait until summer. Or at least

spring." There was not much hope in his voice. When the Holy Roman Emperor made up his mind, even

Prince Manfred ofBrittany obeyed. He was even learning to do it with not more than a token protest.

"You're big enough to keep out the cold," said Charles Fredrik, dismissively waving his own large hand

at his oxlike nephew. "And I want this sorted out before spring comes and more trouble starts. You,

Erik, and Francesca will travel together toCopenhagen . Francesca, it will be your unenviable task to

soothe the Danes down. The Knights of the Holy Trinity are still the bulwark of our defence against the

Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and, with Jagellion on the throne, we need them more than ever. The last thing

I need is them involved in a messy little land squabble with the Danes up inSweden . At the moment the

Knights are subdued because of the way they were used in the Venetian affair. They know they came

very close to feeling the full weight of my wrath. The Abbot-General has agreed that there is a problem in

Skåne. He has agreed to allow you to act in his name there, provided that we also deal with the Danes."

He grimaced. "Which may be more tricky than knocking a few Knights' heads together, Francesca. They

are stiff-necked about that independence of theirs, even if they are a vassal state. It's not something that

you would be advised to mention."

Francesca, or, as she now styled herself, Francesca de Chevreuse, although this was not the name she'd

been born to, shivered artistically. "Your wish is my command, my Emperor." She dimpled, looking at

him with her eyes provocatively half-lidded. "Forgive the shiver. It's the thought of all that ice and snow,

and me without any good furs to keep it from my skin." The former Venetian courtesan was a

voluptuous, warm, creamy-skinned beauty. She liked to show that skin, and was well aware that even

the Emperor liked to look at it.

Charles Fredrik chuckled. "We'll have to see that you are appropriately equipped. We can hardly have

our Imperial special emissary turning blue in public. See to it, Manfred. Let Trolliger have the reckoning.

Why do I get the feeling that suppressing them militarily might have been cheaper?"

Francesca acknowledged this with a smile and a small bow. "I shall try to restrain Manfred from

spending more than the cost of a troop of cavalry, Your Highness."

The Emperor shook his head. "I hope you absorbed the lesson, Nephew."

"What?" asked Manfred, rubbing his solid jaw. "Never to go shopping with Francesca? My purse

learned that a while ago, Uncle."

"Besides that. Explain to him, Francesca."

She turned to Manfred. "He means I have not wasted my effort on fighting the inevitable, the Emperor's

orders, but instead got the best out of it that I can."

"Huh," said Manfred, gloomily. "Whatcan I get out of it? To think I asked for you to send me away from

this pile of stones before winter set in properly. I had somewhere warm in mind, before the

bishop-general insisted on me coming back to some freezing chapter house inPrussia . Even Erik got

chilblains in that first winter."

The Emperor turned his attention to the third person present at the interview. Erik Hakkonsen had not

said anything yet. But then the tall, spare Icelander seldom said more than he had to. The Clann

Hakkonsen ofIceland had provided personal bodyguards for the heirs of the Imperial House

Hohenstauffen'swanderjahre for centuries now. They were far more than mere bodyguards. They were

the final arms instructors and mentors for the princelings. Their loyalty was not to the

Empire—Icelandwas part of the League of Armagh, owing no fealty to theHoly Roman Empire , but to

the House Hohenstauffen, personally. It meant that they, and only they, treated the scions of the most

powerful Imperial house in the world like troublesome children, from time to time. Charles Fredrik knew

that he owed his personal survival—and the survival of the Empire—to Erik's father. Erik had done as

much for Manfred. When the Hakkonsen spoke, the Hohenstauffen listened. But Erik just shook his head

and smiled wryly. "He still complains too much, Godar Hohenstauffen. Even if that affair inVenice did

help him to grow up a bit. A bit of hard riding in the cold will be good for him."

Telemark,Norway. All Hallow's Eve.

A convocation high on the barren vidda.

The hag spat into the balefire. Green flames leapt as the stream of spittle hit the burning fungus. She

wiped her chin with the back of her broad hand, and then turned again to face thedraug she had raised.

Needs be it must be one of the dead of this place. Midgard's dead for information about Midgard, after

all. She'd brought the body up here, after her slaves had hauled it out of the bog where she'd laid him,

facedown, with his throat cut.

And they thought that his body lay in his ship mound in honor! A seeming was quite adequate to fool

these Midgard lice. And she was the mistress of seemings.

"Speak," she ordered.

Thedraug gurgled horribly at her. Her hard green eyes narrowed as her son stepped forward, ready to

cuff the dead thing. Bah. Blows, even blows from one such as he could not hurt the dead. But she could.

Hergaldr would burn it like a whip of fire. She waved her hulking child back, back to hisbjörnhednar

guards.

She raised her arms to begin the chanting . . . and realized that thedraug's defiance was merely a

problem of the cut throat. Or maybe it was defiance of a sort. Thedraug hated her, hated her with a

helpless fury that could drive it to act even against the pain she could inflict with hergaldr chants. She

took a handful of clay and mended it. "Now. Speak. Defy me if you dare. What is it that holds us back?

Why did the raid fail?"

"Thedraupnir ," he croaked. "The oath."

Of course. It was obvious now. The oaths sworn on that thing would be binding, even if the swearer had

no intent of honoring them. She should have guessed. But the thing had that about it which repelled her.

Odin's temple yard was not a place she went to if she could possibly avoid it. The one-eyed one's priests

were less affected by seemings than others, even if she'd seen to it that the present high incumbent was

near to blind with cataracts. With certain protections her son should be safe from it. And if not—well

they would find a way to break the oath. Or cause it to be broken.

Lightning split the sky, and the thunder echoed among the high places. Big drops began to hiss on the

balefire. Now that she had what she needed, Bakrauf began dismissing the spells that had given thedraug

the seemings of life. It fell like a child's broken doll, tumbling onto its side by the fire. The face of the dead

kinglet was twisted into the rictus of a smile. She considered it, thoughtfully.Draugar thus compelled

could not lie. She kicked the body, and gestured to thebjörnhednar . "Take him back. I may need him

again."

She turned away, the firelight glinting briefly on the cunningly wrought silver ornaments in her ears. They

were perfect, down to the last hair, and no small part of her power over thebjörnhednar rested in them.

Then she strode back downhill, away from the stone that marked the gateway between her place and

this, back toward the halls of men in the valley below. Behind her, her son followed. The pelting rain and

even the hail did not worry her. Troll-wives have no objection to rain. It is bright sunlight they avoid.

Chapter 1

You speak Frankish?" the karl translator asked, when the guards deposited him in front of the throne in

the high thatched hall.

More fluently than you,thought Cair. But he put on a show of concentration. Nodded earnestly. "I have

small." Cair was still not even sure where he was. Some remote little kingdom in Norselands seemed a

fairly sure bet. But now came the difficult bit. He had to lie, and lie fluently.

"Vortenbras King he says have you kin who would payblot . . . blood price for you? Ransom." Faced

with Cair's blank look, the karl tried again. "Give him money for you."

Cair wrinkled his forehead in a show of effort. "You tell him-King, me poor man." If word went out that

some Norseman was demanding a ransom for Cair Aidin . . . Well, even in the fleets of the corsairs there

were a good few who would pay for him . . . dead. If word got to one of theHoly Roman Empire 's spies

that the Redbeard was a prisoner here—they would pay generously. Very generously. They would keep

him alive, too. Their torturers were good at that. Dead people felt no pain. When he'd last heard,

theRepublicofVenice also was offering five hundred thousand ducats for his head. "Me poor man," he

repeated. It would mean slavery, but that was better than the alternatives. He would have some chance

of escape from slavery. And for some obscure reason the slaves here appeared to be left entire. The

threat of castration might have persuaded him to try his luck at escaping from the gilded but carefully

guarded cage they would put a high-value prisoner into, instead. However, he'd made sure of that

already—all that happened to slaves was a branding. And, once branded, slaves didn't appear well

guarded at all. Perhaps the Norse trusted to the remote wildness of this place.

The bearlike man on the throne spat disgustedly at the translation. Bellowed something obviously

derogatory in Norse. It was like enough to Frankish to have a haunting familiarity. "What him-King say?"

"Vortenbras King say you too old for good thrall. Not enough work in you before you go die. And too

small to plow with."

Too old! He was thirty-five. Not a young man, true. But in his prime! Then Cair understood the

implication of the second part of the statement. He'd heard of that, yes. Poor places where they plowed

with teams of men or women instead of horses. They did that in the high Atlas, apparently. But for one

such as he to be put to such a use by these primitive barbarians!

The hulking bear of a man snapped an order. Cair found himself being dragged backward, by the hair,

by his translator. He had to turn and follow, stumbling. He was going to have to learn this language. Fast.

And he was going to have to restrain himself from killing idiots like this hair dragger.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

"To be branded. Then," and the disdain showed in the man's voice, "you go to be woman's slave. Signy."

Cair thought—by the tone—that the last word was probably some kind of Norse insult.

* * *

"What your name, slave?" demanded the stable master in mangled Frankish, looking down at him as he

sprawled on the soiled straw he had been shoved down onto.

His new-burned flesh throbbed. Cair added that to the reckoning. But right now he had to survive until

that reckoning came due. And that meant that he had to stop being a corsair admiral—and become an

anonymous slave. He was not Cair Aidin until he stood on the deck of his own ship again. The barbarians

couldn't pronounce his name anyway. He bowed his head. "Cair, master." He would be that, and think of

himself as just that, until he was free.

"A good name for a thrall," the stable master grunted. "Get up. Move dung," he pointed to a wooden

shovel. "And learn our tongue."

Cair, the new slave, shoveled horse dung. That was another thing they'd pay for, when he escaped. But

for now he was content to bide his time. To study his captors and the place he was captive in. When he

made his break, he intended to be successful. And, if he had to bring half of theBarbary fleet here, he'd

burn this place around their ears. The "palace" and its halls were wooden. The roofs were thatch. They'd

burn well. They thought that being this far from the coast would save them. Nothing would.

But after a few days of captivity, Cair—the new thrall—was somewhat less sanguine about it all. The

first thing that struck him was that they'd scarcely give a slave this much liberty if escape was a real

possibility. He soon realized that, beside the brand, there were other trammels set on a thrall. And one of

them was that, here in the north, he was a small, unarmed fellow. Among the corsairs he'd been of

average height. It was not something that had worried him, previously. With a sword in hand, or a ship to

command, he was the equal or the better of any other man. Here he was utterly forbidden to even touch

either a ship or an edged weapon. A few older, very privileged thralls had belt knives. Small belt knives.

Besides being a mere small unarmed slave-thrall, at the bottom of the Norse social order, he also found

he was at the bottom of the pecking order for slave-thralls. He was a woman's slave. And not just any

woman. Signy.

David Freer - A Mankind Witch

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: