The Yngling

10.

During the days since he had left Ilse the arctic cold had eased a great deal, but winter still held strong. The snow had settled some, but there had been no thawing. He had passed through inhabited districts again. Peasants were out on skis, with their oxen and sleighs, hauling firewood or the bodies of cattle that had died in the storm. In Anglic they told him glumly that the surviving cattle would be on short rations by spring, for they were usually able to forage in the woods until near the solstice, but now they were eating their hay already. And the cold they had had was rare even in the middle of winter.

Nils still had some Danish coins in his money belt and twice stayed at inns, where he was warned that the Magyars did not like foreigners, that most of them did not speak Anglic, and that travelers in their land sometimes were badly used.

At length he crossed a high, rugged mountain range and skied out onto a broad plain, mostly treeless, that he had been told marked the beginning of the land of the Magyars. The mountains had shielded it from the worst of the storm, and men were able to move about on horseback through the four decimeters of wind-packed snow. As he was crossing a frozen river, he saw several mounted men riding along the high bank opposite him. They stopped to watch, and as he drew nearer, he saw that they carried lances. Suddenly one of them urged his horse down the bank and the others followed, charging toward Nils. The windpack allowed them to run their horses at a full gallop on the ice, and the leader dipped his lance as if to skewer the trespasser. Nils stood calmly without unslinging his bow or drawing his sword. At the last moment the rider swerved past him, his horse's hooves throwing snow on Nils, his left knee almost touching him. The others drew up in front of the northman while the leader pulled his mount around tightly and circled, looking down at him with eyes squinted against the snow glare. He spoke in a language unlike any Nils had heard and which he assumed was Magyar. Getting no answer, the man spoke again in what Nils recognized as German. In Anglic Nils said, "I am a mercenary who has come to seek service with King Janos of the Magyars."

The horsemen looked at one another, talking in Magyar. Nils sensed that none had understood him. Speaking slowly and deliberately he said, "Janos. King Janos. I come to serve Janos."

The leader scowled grotesquely at that, and Nils sensed his irritation. He spoke rapidly to his men, and one of them reached down to prod the northman with his lance and then to gesture toward the bank they had come from. They made way for him and he started toward it, two falling in behind while the others trotted their horses toward the point at which he had first seen them and disappeared.

They marched him for an hour and a half before he saw the large castle on the open rolling plain. He was taken to the guard room, where a man who was clearly an officer looked up at him and spoke with his captors in Magyar. Then, in good Anglic, he asked, "Where are you from?"

"From Svealann."

The officer snorted. "I have never heard of it," he said, as if that disposed of Svealann. "What have you come here for?"

"I heard of a king called Janos, and I have come to seek service with him."

Even as he finished the statement, Nils sensed that he was in trouble. "Janos, eh? This is the land of Lord Lajos Nagy, and there is no love here for the tyrant Janos." With that he snapped a sharp command in Magyar and one of Nils's captors pressed a sword tip to his back while a guard came forward with manacles.

The dungeon was simply a long spiral staircase that wound its way down underground. Instead of cells it had small open alcoves where prisoners could be chained to the wall by an ankle and wrist. They passed no prisoners as they went down, but from where he was chained Nils could easily sense others below. The only light came from smoky oil lamps, one of which was bracketed to the stone wall opposite each alcove.

The guard who brought him his evening gruel carried a cat-o'-nine-tails in one hand, its leather thong looped about his wrist. Carefully he sized up the new prisoner and took pains to come no nearer than necessary, putting the bowl down where Nils had to stretch for it. As soon as he had it in his hand, Nils threw the hot gruel at him. Reflexively the guard lashed at him, cursing loudly. Nils grabbed the whirring knout and jerked, the loop around the guard's wrist pulling him within reach of Nils's chained hand. Strongly though briefly the guard struggled, but did not cry out.

He had no key. Still chained, Nils took his cap, harness, short sword and cloak, tore strips from the bottom of the cloak and tied the corpse's arms and doubled legs against his torso. Then, one-handed, he threw the corpse down the steep stairs as hard as he could, listening with satisfaction to its rolling, bouncing descent. Next he put the cap on his head, draped the cloak over his shoulders, and squatted, waiting.

After some time the screech of hinges sounded faintly down the stone stairwell, and a voice called down questioningly. Nils huddled against the wall as if in pain-knees, one elbow and head on the stone floor, the short sword in his free hand concealed by the cloak-trying to look like a sick or injured guard in the semi-darkness, watching through slitted eyes. Within a few moments two guards appeared around a turn just above him, the first carrying a torch in one hand, both with short swords drawn. They were scanning the stairs ahead of them and might have passed entirely without seeing him.

Nils groaned softly as the second guard was passing the alcove. The man stopped and stared at him, then stepped in, bending and blocking the light. Quickly Nils raised his body, grabbing the guard's cloak with his chained hand and plunging the short sword into his abdomen and chest. For a moment he held the sagging form upright, letting go his sword to do it. The other guard sensed that something was wrong and moved into the alcove to see. Nils let the body collapse, reached out from beneath it with his manacled hand to grab an ankle, and groped for his short sword again. The struggling guard began to yell. Nils partly heaved the corpse from his back and, still clinging to the kicking ankle with an iron grip, hamstrung the man, pulled his falling body in close and began to chop at his back. The guard screamed twice before the blade split his rib cage.

Nils found a key and unlocked his manacles, listening intently both with ears and psi sense. The only pickup was a frozen intentness from farther down in the dungeon, where he had sensed other prisoners earlier. If the yells had penetrated the door above, anyone who'd heard them must have interpreted them as normal dungeon sounds.

Nils moved quietly down the stairs carrying the dropped torch and with two harnesses and swords over one shoulder and one at the waist. The first prisoner he found stared at him through hard eyes. The man had the build of a fighter, a knight, and looked as if he'd been there for a few days at most.

"Do you want one of these?" Nils asked, touching a scabbard.

The man's mind flashed understanding of his Anglic. "Let me have it," he answered grimly, and Nils freed him.

The next prisoner was gaunt and haggard. The first spoke with him in Magyar and turned to Nils for the key. "His leg is in bad shape where the iron has rubbed a sore on his ankle, but he can walk."

Farther down they found a third man, who only sat and stared, slack-mouthed, when spoken to. His bony chained arm was rotten to the elbow and he picked at it with filthy fingers. Nils looked into his mind for a moment, then put his sword to the man's chest and thrust.

At the bottom of the staircase they found a chamber with a rack and other instruments, and a stained block, but no door or corridor leaving the place. In one wall was what looked like a large fireplace, though there was no sign that it had been used as such. The first knight went to it.

"A shaft," he said, "for removing bodies secretly. You look able to climb it and there should be a windlass at the top."

Nils ducked into it and stood. Looking up, he could see nothing but blackness. He pressed his back against the front of it and muscled his way up like an alpinist in a chimney, moving as rapidly as possible. It was a long climb-as high as the stair. When he reached the top, he found the darkness barely alleviated by light diffused from somewhere down a corridor. As the knight had predicted, there was a windlass, and Nils lowered the sling. When the rope slackened, he waited until he felt a tug, then began to crank.

It was the injured man he raised. He had begun to lower the sling once more when suddenly there was a shout from far below. "Hurry! They're coming!" He jerked rope from the windlass then, sending the crank spinning, and stepped astride the narrow dimension of the shaft. There was faint shouting and a cry of "Pull!" Hand over hand he drew on the rope with long strokes, disdaining the slow windlass, and in a few moments the knight grasped the edge of the shaft. Together they hauled him out onto the floor, Nils's breath great heaving gasps from the violence of his exertions, and for a moment he failed to read the mixture of pain and rage in the man's mind. One foot and calf had been sliced by a sword, thrust after him as he had started up.

"Where are we, do you know?" Nils asked when he was able.

"I think so. But we can't get away because they know where we are. Even now there must be men hurrying to cut us off. But this time they'll have to kill me. I don't intend to end up like that one down there."

"I'm going back down," said Nils. "I may have a better chance where they don't expect me."

The two Magyars exchanged brief words. "Good luck then," said the one who spoke Anglic. "And I hope you kill many." They shook hands with Nils and limped away down the dark corridor.

Nils slid down the rope into the torture chamber and moved quickly up the stairs past the bodies of the dead prisoner and the three guards. The door at the top was not locked, and he peered out cautiously into the corridor. There was no one in sight. He opened the door no more than necessary, avoiding the abominable screech of hinges, slipped through, and took the direction away from the guard room.

Within a few strides he heard booted feet behind him, not yet in sight, but he did not hurry, depending on the poor disguise of his blood-squattered guard cloak and cap for protection if seen. Within a few meters a curtain hung to the floor on his left and he pushed through it, finding a flight of stairs. He bounded silently up, then stopped at the uncurtained opening at the top. Slippered feet scuffed the corridor he faced, and a female mind mumbled to itself in Magyar. The feet would either pass by the stairs or turn down them. At the same time he heard the voices of men below, stopped just outside the curtain. Nils realized he was holding his breath. A middle-aged woman passed the stairwell entrance without looking in. Waiting a moment to avoid startling her, he stepped into the corridor behind her and moved in the opposite direction. A door opened and closed, and he sensed the dimming of psi pickup from her.

The voices from below were louder now, as if someone was holding the curtain open while talking, and he hurried. This corridor ended at a window, through which he could see the frozen courtyard a dozen meters below. Without hesitation he turned, opened the door to the nearest chamber and walked in.

A tall bald man, wide-shouldered and wearing a long robe, sat before a fire. He turned his weathered, hawklike face to Nils and rose, speaking coldly in Magyar. Nils responded quietly in Anglic.

"I am a foreigner and do not understand Magyar. I had planned to seek service with King Janos but was imprisoned here because this lord has no love for his king. But I killed three guards and escaped, and now they are hunting for me. Call out and you're a dead man."

Nils, his hair cut and wearing the livery of Lord Miklos, sat a horse among Lord Miklos' guard troop. Miklos' voice spoke clearly in the frosty morning air.

"I will repeat the warning, Lajos," he said in Magyar. "You owe your fief to the crown, and homage, and the taxes and services prescribed by law. Twice you've failed those taxes and the respect that should accompany them. The next time Janos will send an army instead of an ambassador. Those were his words. Think about them. And if duty means little to you, consider how precious you hold your life."

With that he turned his horse and, followed by his guard troop, rode stiff-backed across the iron-frozen courtyard and over the bridge.