The Yngling

18.

A strip of wet meadow, roughly half a mile wide, bordered the brook. Several knights stood looking south into it, hands on sword hilts, watching three men ride toward them. One of the knights turned toward an awning stretched between young aspens and shouted in Polish. An officer ducked out from beneath the canopy, moving easily despite his heavy mail shirt, buckling on a sword. His helmet covered his ears and the back of his strong neck, and from the temples two steel eagle's wings projected.

The three men had approached near enough now to be recognized as a mixed lot. Two were knights, lanceless but wearing mail shirts and swords, their shields strapped behind one shoulder. The third was clearly one of the northern barbarians, a shirtless giant thickly muscled, with his blond hair in short braids, the skin of a wolf's head laced over his steel cap.

All three were well mounted, with a string of spares behind, and horses and men looked to have traveled a long way in a hurry.

The officer swung onto his mount. "Halt!" His command was in Polish, but the meaning was plain. "Identify yourselves!" That was not so clear but could be guessed.

Bela One spoke loudly in Anglic. "We are from the court of Janos III, King of the Magyars, who has gone with his army to fight the hordes of Baalzebub. We have come to see Casimir, King of the Poles."

The Pole scowled. "You have a northman with you."

"True. He has been in the service of Janos," Bela replied, "and has come to lead the northmen against Baalzebub. His name is Iron Hand, Jarnhann in his language, and your king knows of him."

Nils spoke then, his voice casual but strong and easily heard. "You mistrust us. We'll give you our weapons if you want; we don't need them among friends. And send word to Jan Reszke that we've arrived."

The hard-eyed knight stared narrowly at them for a moment, then turned and shouted abruptly toward the awning. A younger officer emerged buckling his harness, and mounted the horse led him by a squire. Several other knights rode out of the woods, their faces curious or distrustful.

"Your weapons," the officer ordered in Anglic. The two Belas turned worriedly to Nils, but he was unbuckling his harness so they reluctantly surrendered theirs. The officer then led them through a belt of woods and into a trampled meadow that sloped gradually toward a marsh some five kilometers away. On the far side of the marsh, which seemed two or three kilometers across, Nils saw a long broken line of low dunes, dark with pine, where he supposed the northmen were.

A stream flowed out of the woods nearby and toward the distant marsh. On both sides of it were orderly ranks of colored tents and tethered horses covering scores of hectares. They rode among them and soon saw what they knew must be the tent of Casimir. Like the others, its canopy was brightly striped, and the sides were rolled up to let the air through. But its diameter was at least twenty meters; it was surrounded by a substantial open space, and the banner above it was larger and stood higher than any other. Their guide stopped them a short distance away and one of their escort rode ahead. Some knights came out of the king's tent and squinted suspiciously at them through the bright sunlight. Then one swung onto a saddled horse and rode the few score meters across to them. He stared truculently at Nils.

"Dismount!" he ordered loudly in Anglic. "And follow me." The three swung from their horses and started forward. "Just the northman," the knight snapped. "The other two swine stay here."

Nils strode over to him and looked up through slitted eyes. "Listen to me, knight, and listen carefully." His voice was soft but intense, and somehow it carried. "I've had too much hard mouth since I came here, and you'd better not give me any more. Either my friends come with me or I'm going to pull you off that horse and break your neck." He sensed the listening Poles.

The two men locked eyes, one an armed and mounted knight in linen shirt and spurred boots, the other a barefoot and unarmed youth on foot, his torso smeared with sweat and road dust. For a moment the knight's hand hovered above his sword hilt, but he did not grasp it. He looked back toward the king's tent; Casimir had emerged and was looking across, as if waiting for them. The knight swore in Polish and turned his horse. "Come then, all three," he said hoarsely, and they led their horses toward the king while the escort that had brought them looked at one another, impressed.

In his prime, Casimir had been a famous fighter. He was still a strong man, but so overgrown with fat that he had to be lifted onto his horse. But his brain was not fat, and the fiery recklessness of his youth had given way to an uncommonly logical pragmatism. He was not yet forty and, given a reasonable life span, might have ruled much more than Poland, had not Kazi come into the picture. He stood in a robe of bleached linen embroidered with gold thread, and a light golden circlet sat on his brown hair. One fat hand wearing a huge signet ring rested casually on the golden haft of a dagger, a sign of authority.

Jan Reszke, his chief counselor, contrasted sharply. A gangling stork of a man, his two meters of height made him one of the tallest men in Europe, but he weighed much less than Casimir.

As they neared the king, the knight barred their way with his drawn sword.

"Who are you and what do you want?" the king asked in Anglic, although he'd already been told.

"I am Nils Jarnhann, warrior of the Svear, recently in service to King Janos of Hungary. My friends are from Janos' guard.

"I have visited the court of Baalzebub, fought in his arena, and seen his vileness. My greatest feat was escaping alive.

"I've been told that you're sending an army against Baalzebub and would send another except for the northmen landing on your shore.

"Word was to be sent to the tribes that I am coming. Baalzebub's land is broad and rich. I've come to lead the tribes against him, and when he's destroyed, we'll take his land." Nils folded his thick, sinewy arms across his chest and looked calmly at the king, his speech finished.

"And why should I believe you can do that?" Casimir asked.

"You're not damaged if I fail and a lot better off if I succeed."

"You mistake my meaning, barbarian," Casimir said, "or misuse it, more likely, if what I suspect of you is true. Never mind. Most likely you'll have a chance to prove yourself."

Nils shot a question to Jan Reszke. "Yes," Reszke thought back, "he knows-has known for years. He deduced psi without ever having heard of it, from listening to my council and considering the possible sources of my knowledge. Since then I've shown him the tuner."

Casimir glanced from one psi to the other, his narrow, full-lipped mouth amused in the gold-streaked brown beard, then spoke in Anglic. "Guard Master!" The surly knight stepped forward hopefully, sword still in his hand. "Jan Reszke and I will confer privately with the northman. I don't want to be disturbed unless there is an emergency. Meanwhile, see to the comfort of these two knights." Casimir gestured toward the Belas. "They have ridden hundreds of kilometers in haste, and I doubt they've had a proper meal in days. When they're refreshed, quarter them with my household knights. And Stefan," he added, gesturing toward Nils with his head, "you have called the barbarians a pack of wolves. Don't curse the wolves 'til we see who they bite."

They entered the royal tent and Casimir lowered himself onto a cushioned seat, gesturing toward two seats facing his. "Sit there. I want to see your faces while we talk. I'll ask again the question that you didn't answer when I asked before. Why should I believe the northmen will follow you? And why should I believe they will fight Baalzebub if I let them out? And finally, why should I believe they can make a difference, as few as they are?"

Nils looked squarely back at him. "The tribes elect their leaders. Chiefs are chosen by all free men for their wisdom and justice. Raid leaders are chosen from among the warriors, by the warriors, for imagination and cunning. War chiefs are selected from among the raid leaders.

"Now the tribes are migrating, and I know something about the world they are entering-much more than almost any of them. They have no doubt selected a war chief already, but they'll listen carefully to anyone with experience here. Also, you have guessed what I am and know the advantage it gives me.

"And finally, I expect to go to them with your oath that you will let them pass untroubled if they in turn give their oath to join you against Baalzebub. And if they give it, they'll keep it. Besides that, I will tell them truthfully that if they don't fight him now with powerful allies, they will have to fight him later with little help and less hope.

"As for their value as allies-haven't some of your people fought them? Why did you bring this army here instead of a small force? When all the warriors have landed, there should be two thousand of them or more. And if you chose ten of them blindly, by lot, you couldn't match them with your ten champions. Our freeholders will fight too, if needed. They are skilled bowmen and familiar with swords.

"If you furnish them ships, they will surely ally themselves with you, and they could be landed faster and be ready to move sooner."

"All right," said Casimir. "You sound as if you might pull it off at that. Jan has already made a strong case for you, and if I didn't respect his judgement, I wouldn't keep him around. Besides, when things are bad enough, one does things he might not do otherwise. As for ships, I've already furnished some unwittingly, but I can send more. I'll order them landed to take on guides from among your people. But see to it that they are met peacefully and the crews well treated. If you fail me in that, I will see you all dead. I'll send a messenger now. When will you go to your northmen?"

"Let me ask a few questions, then feed me and I'll go," Nils answered. "But let my two companions stay with you, for among the tribes almost no one knows Anglic. And among your people they'll find customs much more like their own. They came with me only to help discourage robbers along the way."

"Tadeus!" Casimir bellowed, and a page hurried into the tent. "See that food is prepared for the northman and me. And have a fast messenger sent to me, prepared for a hard ride to Nowy Gdansk. Go!" He turned to Nils as the boy hurried out. "And when you talk to Jan, talk out loud."

"Jan," said Nils, "ask Raadgiver to have Danish ships sent to harbors in Jotmark and Norskland to help move the tribes. It may be hard to do, but we need to speed things as much as possible. And have you heard from the Magyars?"

"The western lords have left Pest. They are on their way."

"And what about the fighting?"

"We've lost contact with our man with the Ukrainians. He's probably dead. Yesterday we had a message by courier but it was a week old. Our army under Lord Bronislaw still had not come to any Ukrainian troops; apparently the fighting is well to the south yet."

"How large are the combined forces against Kazi?" Nils asked.

"The Ukrainians began with over six thousand and there will soon be another four thousand in action under Bronislaw, including nearly a thousand Saxons under the banner of Duke Hermann. The Magyars will add thirty-eight hundred or so. We have three thousand here and Albert of Prussia is holding fifteen hundred against the northmen, all of which can be sent when we have an agreement with your people." He paused. "And later, of course, your two thousand northmen." The latter had been hard for him to say; it still was not real to him that Nils could settle this confrontation of Poles and neovikings and bring his people in. "Some of the independent west German nobles are raising their armies too," he went on, "but it's hard to know how many they'll come to or when they'll start."

Casimir interrupted. "You've been in Baalzebub's land. What do you know about his army? How big is it, and how good?"

Nils looked at him squarely while answering. "It numbers about thirty thousand and it's supposed to be very good. Twenty thousand are horse barbarians, eastern tribes that have allied themselves with him. The other ten thousand are his personal army, men he calls orcs, who are proud of their brutality. I expect the horse barbarians are very dangerous in the open, but it may be they won't fight as skillfully in timber, especially if they have to get off their horses. The orcs are probably as good on foot as on horseback. Some of the orc officers are psis; they'll be hard to ambush, and if they have tuners, they'll be able to coordinate their units better in battle."

Casimir pursed his lips and scowled. "The odds sound more rotten all the time. Maybe it would be better to surrender."

"Kazi-Baalzebub, that is-wants to conquer and rule for just one reason. He loves to debase and destroy. Public tortures are his entertainment and the entertainment of his orcs. You'd be far better off to die in the saddle than in the arena, and in the meantime there will be the game of war to enjoy."

Casimir grunted.

"His strengths are obvious, but he has weaknesses, too," Nils went on. "At one time he must have been a thinker and planner, but now he doesn't seem able to hold one matter in his mind and concentrate. And he acts foolishly. One of his whims turned the King of Hungary from a reluctant ally into a total enemy. So we are four thousand stronger and he's four thousand weaker.

"I won't try to mislead you, though. With his power he can make mistakes and still win. But there is a chance, and it's the northmen that make that chance real."

Casimir looked glumly at nothing while Nils turned his eyes to Jan Reszke. "Has Raadgiver had a man among the tribes?"

"Yes, and he's reported to me. He spread the word among them that the Yngling was coming from the south to lead them to a land of rich grass and fat cattle. He's a master wordsmith. They called a council and listened to him. Now they're waiting to see what happens."

"I'll go and eat," Nils said. "And I'll want to take three squires to use as messengers."

Nils walked rapidly through the marsh, his bare feet automatically finding the firm places where there were any and slopping nonchalantly in the water or ooze where there were not. Three young Poles hurried behind, apprehensive, muddy, and unhappy.

Nils's eyes searched the forest edge ahead. Their approach was open and it was certain they'd been seen. He had spotted brief movement once and could sense watchfulness; now he began to pick up the quiet thoughts of men speaking.

"It's one of ours. Do you know him?"

"No. From here he looks big; if I knew him, I'd recognize him. What are those outlanders with him? He doesn't seem to hold them prisoner. Knut, go and get Leif Trollsverd; there's something strange about this."

"My blood. He is a big one. If he was to wrestle a bear, I'd bet against the bear."

The edge of the marsh was a ribbon of slough into which a pine had fallen from the forest margin. Nils sprang to it and picked his way through its branches toward the dry ground. The tallest of the squires sprang too, missing with a splash. The other two simply waded glumly in.

"Halt!"

The squires stopped abruptly in surprise, standing almost to their crotches in the dark water. The forest was fringed with alder shrubs, and they hadn't seen the two warriors who now stepped out to the water's edge.

"What have you got there?" The speaker's blond beard hung in two short braids, and over his steel cap was the headskin of a bull seal. Both the totem and the accent were unfamiliar to Nils and he supposed they were Norskar.

"They are messengers loaned to me by Casimir, the Polish king."

The warrior's brows raised. The Polish king? That would be their chief, he thought. "Well, tell your messengers to get out of the mire before they sink out of sight," he said. "We were posted here as sentries, and while three Polish sprouts in the keeping of a warrior hardly amounts to an attack, you'd better wait here a bit anyhow. I've sent for our group leader."

Nils and the young Poles walked into the woods with the sentries and sat on the ground. Within a minute two more warriors of the Seal Clan trotted down through the pines, and Nils arose. Leif Trollsverd was rather small for a warrior, a young man whose thin skin and sharply defined muscularity gave him a startlingly sinewy and aggressive appearance. His dark complexion and black hair looked more Mediterranean than Scandinavian.

"Have you got prisoners there?" he asked Nils; even his words were quick.

"No. They are messengers loaned to me by Casimir, the Polish king."

"And who are you? I've never seen you before."

"I am Nils Jarnhann of the Svear, and I've never been here before. I've come here from a kingdom far to the south, the land of the Magyars, to speak to the war council."

The group leader looked Nils over from head to foot, his sharp eyes absorbing a score of details. "From the south. Come then. I'll take you to Bjorn Arrbuk, our war leader. He is of your tribe." Leif Trollsverd turned and loped off, followed by Nils and the discouraged-looking squires.

The seaward dunes too had long since stabilized here and were forested, and the camp of Bjorn Arrbuk was on one of them. The war leader stood with his runners on the beach, watching a captured Polish ship work its way around a sandspit offshore.

He turned as they approached. "Ha, what are these?" he asked, looking at the young Poles.

"They came from the Polish camp. With him," Trollsverd said, indicating Nils with his thumb. "He is Nils Jarnhann of your tribe, who has come here from the south and wants to meet with the war council." The Norwegian looked meaningfully at Arrbuk, then turned and trotted away into the woods.

Bjorn Arrbuk was of middle height and middle age, his barrel chest, short, thick legs and long arms giving him an apelike look. Even his hair was an orangutan red. A scar crossed his abdomen diagonally from the lower left to the rib cage, providing his surname. A physician of eight hundred years before might have wondered how he survived such a cut without twenty-first century technology, or surviving, how he could have become fit again. But he was fit and enormously strong, with the vitality of the bear that was his totem and his life name, and given to impulsive wrestling with any warrior at hand.

He glanced sideways at Nils. "I've seen you somewhere," he said, and turned to watch the ship again. Its sail was furled against an offshore wind, and strong arms pulled the oars. "It's from Svealann," said the war leader. "Of the three tribes, six hundred warriors have landed. But the only way we'll get all the people ashore before winter is to steal more ships, and that's costly business. They're heavily guarded at the docks now, and flee from us at sea."

"The King of Poland is sending us ships," Nils replied. "They'll land here in a few days for guides to take them to the tribes so we can land people faster. And it may be that Jorgen Stennaeve of the Danes will also send ships, to Norskland and Jotmark."

Bjorn Arrbuk turned and stared at the tall warrior beside him. "The King of the Poles? You must be crazy. The King of the Poles has brought an army to try to wipe us out when we leave this place."

"I'm not crazy," Nils answered calmly. "I've just talked with him and he gave his oath. But it's not a simple story and he wants something in return. I came to tell it to the war council, but if you want me to, I'll tell it to you now and again to them later."

The burly chief stepped back from him, perplexed and a little irritated, his body half crouched in unconscious response, "What's your name again?" he asked at length, straightening.

"Nils Jarnhann. You were at the ting a year ago when I was banished. When I was a sword apprentice, I struck a warrior and killed him. A great deal has happened to me in that year. I've traveled far and learned a lot."

"I remember. Yes. Some of the Eagle Clan believed we should have decorated a pole with your head and that Axel Stornave favored you because you were of his clan." Arrbuk chuckled. "Actually Kalle Blatann was a bully and braggart, and even in his own clan there were those who thought he had gotten what was overdue to him. Had the law allowed, we might have let you off free." He turned serious then. "What you say about the Polish king is hard to believe, but we have heard things about you. I'll call the council-all that have landed. Isbjorn Hjelteson is here, and the chiefs of several clans as well as group leaders. I'll gather them for the evening meal. But now I want to see who lands with this ship."

Seventy warriors of the Reindeer Clan landed-all that clan had, for it was the smallest of the Svear. Then the ship sculled out past the sandspit, powered by the strong arms of Sea Eagle clansmen. It's sail was hoisted into the offshore wind and it started north for the Glutton fishing village of Jaavham.

Bjorn showed Nils the council circle, then trotted off with his runners to find the members of the war council while Nils gathered twigs and piled them carefully among the ashes and char of the fire site.