“I think you’re likely to be right,” Gerin said. He too gave Rihwin a severe look. Sometimes Rihwin paid attention to such signals, sometimes he didn’t. Gerin hoped this was one of the times he did, because he might end up very sorry if he got Marlanz angry at him.
“I hope that will be our only excitement for the night,” Selatre said. Even Van, an incurable adventurer, nodded; the horrors of the werenight must have burned themselves into his memory for good.
Gerin said, “I’ll check and see how Widin is doing.” He went down to the door of the cellar, rapped on it, and asked, “Are you all right in there, Widin?”
“Aye, and still in my own shape, too,” his young vassal answered. “May I come out now?”
“I don’t see why not,” Gerin answered. “Marlanz Raw-Meat’s long since gone were; if the fit hasn’t hit you by now, I don’t expect it will tonight.” He unbarred the door and released Widin.
“What sort of beast is he?” Widin asked.
“Wolf, like most northern werecreatures,” the Fox said. “Actually, he’s about half wolf and half man right now. He’s gone to sleep in the rushes, guarding some meat like a hound. Come upstairs to the great hall, and you can see him for yourself.”
He led Widin upstairs. Widin gave the sleeping Marlanz a wide berth, and did not turn his back on him even for a moment. That struck the Fox as eminently practical. A trooper who’d drawn palisade duty came to the entrance to the great hall and said, “Lord prince, a warrior of Aragis’ wants us to let down the gate so he can have speech with you.”
“Is he in his own proper shape, with no beasts with him?” Gerin asked after a moment’s thought.
“Aye, lord, he is,” the sentry answered. “The moons are so bright, nothing could hide, neither.”
“We’ll let him in, then,” Gerin decided. He walked out to the gate and told that to the men who worked the drawbridge, adding, “but we’ll raise the bridge again as soon as he’s across it into the courtyard here.” That would mean more work for the men, but he did not want to leave the keep open and vulnerable to whatever lurked under two full moons and the other two nearly full.
Down rattled the drawbridge. As soon as Aragis’ warrior had crossed it, the gate crew hauled it back up again. The fellow came over to Gerin and sketched a salute. “Lord prince, I’m Rennewart Forkbeard, one of Aragis’ vassals, as your man said.” He was middle-aged, solid-looking, and wore his beard in the old-fashioned style his ekename described.
“What’s toward in your camp out there?” Gerin asked. “You’ve had a man take beast shape, is that it?”
To his surprise, Rennewart shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Oh, a couple of the lads are hairier than they have any business being, but they’re all still their own selves, if you know what I mean. We aren’t worried about ’em. No, the thing of it is, just a little bit ago we had a man walk into camp naked as the day he was born, and a deal bigger. He’s not one of ours. We were wondering if he came from the keep here some kind of way, or maybe from your peasant village not far off.”
“Why do you need to ask me?” Gerin said. “Why not just ask him?”
“Lord prince, the thing of it is, he won’t talk—won’t say a word, I mean,” Rennewart answered. “Won’t or maybe can’t—I don’t know which. We figured you’d know him if anybody did.”
“Yes, I suppose I would,” Gerin said, puzzled: his holding had a couple of deaf-mutes, but they lived in distant villages and had no reason to show up at Fox Keep in the middle of the night, especially naked. He plucked at his beard; his curiosity was tickled. “All right, Rennewart, I’ll come out and look at him.”
The walk from keep to camp was short enough that the ghosts did not much afflict him before he came to the area protected by the sacrifices Aragis’ men had made. Most of them were awake, either on watch or aroused by word of the strange newcomer.
“We brought him into my tent, lord prince,” Rennewart said, leading Gerin to it and holding the flap wide. “Here he is.”
Gerin drew his sword before he went in, wary of a trap. But the inside of the tent was brightly lit by several lamps, and held only some blankets and, as promised, one naked man sprawling on them.
“I’ve never set eyes on him before,” Gerin said positively. “I’d know him, were he from my lands.” The fellow was almost Van’s size, and just as well-thewed as the enormous outlander. He was swarthy and hairy, with a beard that came up almost to his dark eyes and a hairline that started just above them. “Who are you?” the Fox asked. “Where are you from?”
The naked man listened with every sign of attention—mute he might be, but he wasn’t deaf—but didn’t answer. Gerin tried again, this time in the Trokmê language. The fellow stirred on the blankets, but again gave no answer and no real sign he understood.
“We tried that, too, lord prince, with no better luck than you just had,” Rennewart Forkbeard said.
“Go fetch my companion, Van of the Strong Arm,” Gerin said. “He knows more different languages than any other man I’ve met.”
Rennewart hurried away, and soon returned with the outlander. Listening to the drawbridge go down and up, Gerin spared a moment’s sympathy for the gate crew. Van stared at the naked man with interest. Like the Fox, he started off with Elabonian and the Trokmê tongue, and failed with both. Then he used the guttural language of the Gradi, who lived north of the Trokmoi, and after that brought no response he spoke in the hissing tongue used by the nomads of the Shanda plains. Those, at least, Gerin recognized. Van tried what must have been a dozen languages in all, maybe more. The shifting sounds of his words interested the naked man, but not enough to make him say anything past a couple of grunts. After a while, Van spread his hands. “I give up, Captain,” he said, returning to Elabonian.
“Come to think of it, I have one other tongue,” Gerin said, and addressed the naked stranger in Sithonian, a language he read more fluently than he spoke it. He might as well have saved his breath.
“He can hear,” Rennewart said. “We saw that.”
“Aye, and he’s not altogether mute, anyhow,” the Fox agreed. “But—” He paused, a suspicion growing in him, then said, “Maybe what he needs is a jack of ale. Could you bring him one, please?”
Rennewart sent him a first-rate dubious look, but brought the jack as asked. He handed it to Gerin, saying, “Here, you want him to have this, you give it to him.”
Gerin took the couple of steps that brought him over to the naked man. He held out the leather jack, smiling invitingly. The stranger took it, gaped at it, but did not raise it to his lips. Quietly, Van said, “It’s like he never saw one before.”
“I’m beginning to think that’s just what it’s like,” Gerin answered. He took back the jack, drank from it to show what it was for, and returned it to the naked man. The fellow drank then, clumsily, so ale trickled through his beard and dripped on the ground. He spent a moment thinking over the taste, then smacked his lips and gulped down the rest of the ale. He held out the jack to Gerin with a hopeful expression.
Gerin pulled him to his feet. “Here, come along with me,” he said, and eked out his words with gestures. The naked man followed him willingly enough. So did Van and Rennewart, both looking curious.
The naked man jumped when the drawbridge thudded down, but went across it with the Fox. The feasters in the great hall stared at the newcomer; Gerin hoped Van didn’t notice Fand’s admiring glance. He gave the fellow another jack of ale, then took a pitcherful with him as he led the naked man down to the cellar from which he’d but lately released Widin.
Lured by the prospect of more ale, the stranger again accompanied him without protest. Gerin set the pitcher on the ground. As the stranger made for it, the Fox hurried out of the cellar, shut the door behind him, and dropped the bar. Then he went back up to the great hall, poured a jack of ale for himself, and gulped it down in one long draught.
“All right, Captain, what was that all about?” Van demanded when
he thumped the jack down on the table. “You know something; I can see it in your face.”
Gerin shook his head. “Come morning, I’ll know something. Now I just suspect.”
“Suspect what?” several people answered in the same breath.
“I suspect I just locked a werebeast in the cellar,” Gerin answered.
Again several people spoke at once, Aragis loudest and most to the point: “But that was no beast—he was a man.”
“And quite a man he was, too,” Fand murmured, which drew her a sharp look from Van.
“When men go were, they take beast shape,” the Fox said, filling his drinking jack again. “If a beast goes were, though, what would it become? A man, unless all logic lies. And look at this fellow—not just at how hairy he was, either. He had no idea how to be a man. He wore no clothes, he couldn’t speak, he didn’t know what a cup was for till I showed him.… As I say, we’ll know for certain come morning, when we open the cellar door after moonset and see who—or what—is down there.”
Aragis shook his head, still doubtful. But Selatre said, “I like the notion. It might even explain how the monsters came to be: suppose a female beast turned woman long years ago, and a farmer or hunter found her and had his way with her and got her with child. Come morning, she’d be an animal once more, but who knows what litter she would have borne?”
“It could be so,” Gerin said, nodding. “Or men as werebeasts might have mixed their blood with females of their beast kind. Either way, you’re right—the get might be horrific. It’s a better guess at how the monsters began than any that’s crossed my mind.” He raised his jack in salute to her cleverness.
“If you conceive by me, you’ll know what you’ll have, lass,” Van said to Fand.
“More trouble than I’d know what to do with, I expect,” she retorted.
“How d’you put a viper’s tongue in such a pretty mouth?” he asked, and she looked smug.
The ale ran out not long after that, and no one seemed enthusiastic about going down to the cellar for more, not with the stranger down there. No one seemed enthusiastic about staying in the great hall, either, even if. Marlanz had plenty of raw meat by his side as he slept. The kitchen helpers went to their quarters and barred the door. Everyone else went upstairs.
Gerin made sure the sun was well up—which meant full Elleb and Nothos would be well down—before he went downstairs the next morning. Even then, he went not only armed but ready to beat a hasty retreat.
He found Marlanz Raw-Meat back in fully human form, and just sitting up in the rushes, looking mightily confused at how he’d got there and even more confused at the pile of well-gnawed pig bones beside him. “How strong do you brew your ale, lord prince?” he asked. “Tunny, though—it must have been a mighty carouse, but my head doesn’t hurt.”
“It wasn’t ale—it was the moons,” Gerin answered, and explained what had happened the night before.
Marlanz stared, then slowly nodded and got to his feet. “I’m told the same fit came over me, only stronger, at the great werenight five years gone by. I remember nothing of that night, either.”
Van came downstairs then, also armed. He grunted in relief to see Marlanz without visible traces of lycanthropy, then said, “Shall we go down to the cellar and see what your wereman’s become?”
That required more explanations for Marlanz. When they were through, Aragis’ vassal pulled out his own sword and said, “Let’s slay the appalling creature.”
“If we can get it out of the keep without fighting, I’ll be just as happy to do that,” Gerin answered.
Marlanz stared, then realized he meant what he said. “You are the lord here,” he said, in tones that implied he was willing to obey even if he wouldn’t have gone about things thus himself.
“Take a shield off the wall and carry some of those bones of yours in it,” Gerin told him. “Maybe they’ll make the thing in the cellar as happy as they made you—and you didn’t quite get all the meat off them.”
Marlanz’s stare turned reproachful, but he did as he was asked. Van said, “What if it’s still a man down there?”
“We’ll find him something else for breakfast,” Gerin replied, which had the virtue of making both his companions shut up.
They went down to the cellar together. Gerin unbarred the door and pushed it open. “Father Dyaus above,” Marlanz said softly—a medium-sized black bear sprawled on the dirt floor. The beast looked up at them in absurd surprise.
It did not growl, nor did the hair on its back rise. It didn’t jump up and flee into the dark recesses of the cellar, either. “What’s wrong with it?” Van demanded, as if he assumed Gerin would know.
And, for a wonder, Gerin did. “It’s still got ale coursing through it from last night. That was a good-sized pitcher, and who knows when in man-shape it might have finished?” He paused, then chuckled. “I’m glad it’s a friendly drunk.”
Luring the bear upstairs with bones proved easy, though it wobbled as it walked. “I still say we ought to kill it,” Marlanz grumbled as the gate crew let down the drawbridge and the bear staggered off toward the forest.
“We didn’t try killing you last night,” Gerin reminded him.
“Lucky for you that you didn’t,” Marlanz said, drawing himself up with prickly pride. Gerin agreed with him, but wasn’t about to admit it.
XI
The next night, only Tiwaz was full, with Elleb and Nothos a day past and Math two. This time, Gerin sent Marlanz Raw-Meat down to the cellar and locked Widin Simrin’s son in the shack where he worked on his magics. To his great relief, neither Marlanz nor Widin changed shape, so he released them both when all four moons had risen into the sky.
The bear that walked like a man did not return to the camp of Aragis’ warriors, either in man’s form or its own. Gerin had wondered if a taste for ale would draw it back.
“Just as well it’s staying away,” said Drago, a Bear himself, when Gerin remarked on that. “We don’t need a thirsty bear when we have a thirsty Fox.” He sent Rihwin the Fox a sly look. Rihwin ostentatiously ignored him.
Late the next afternoon, Parol Chickpea came into Fox Keep, riding in the back of a peasant’s oxcart. “By the gods, I’m glad to see you,” Gerin exclaimed. “When I left you behind there, I feared you’d never come out of that village again.”
“I feared it myself, lord, but I went were night before last, and here, look at this.” Parol thrust the hand from which he’d lost a couple of fingers under Gerin’s nose.
“I see what you mean,” Gerin said. The wound, instead of being festering and full of pus, looked as if he’d had it for years. The rapid healing werebeasts enjoyed hadn’t been able to restore his missing digits, but had done the next best thing. Somehow, the Fox doubted it would ever become a popular part of medicine all the same.
“The bite on my arse is better, too,” Parol said confidentially, “but I don’t suppose you want to see that.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re right,” Gerin said. “I wasn’t interested in your hairy bum before you had a chunk bitten out of it, and I’m not interested in it now, except to see if it makes you sit at a tilt.”
“It doesn’t, by Dyaus!” Parol was the picture of indignation till he noticed the smirk Gerin was trying to hide. He laughed sheepishly. “Ah, you’re having a joke on me.”
“So I am.” Gerin felt embarrassed; jokes at the expense of Parol were too easy to be much fun. To make amends, he told the warrior something about which he’d just made up his own mind: “Now that we’ve passed through the little werenight, we’ll start the move against Adiatunnus and the monsters come sunrise tomorrow.”
Parol beamed. “Ah, that’s very fine, lord. I owe those horrible creatures something special for all they’ve done to me, and I aim to give it to them.”
“Stout fellow!” Gerin said. Parol was not the best fighting man he had, lacking both Rihwin’s grace and cleverness on the one hand and Drago the Bear’s indomitable strength
on the other. But he was not in the habit of backing away from trouble, and that covered a multitude of sins.
The tents in which Aragis’ men had passed the nights since they reached Fox Keep came down. The warriors stored most of them inside the keep, bringing along only a few in which they could crowd together in case of rain. Gerin was less worried about Aragis’ men coming into Fox Keep than he had been when they first arrived. Not only had the grand duke shown he didn’t intend treachery, but enough of Gerin’s troopers had come into the area to put up a solid fight if Aragis suddenly changed his mind. The force that rolled southwest against Adiatunnus and the monsters had more of Gerin’s men in it than Aragis’.
Leaving Fox Keep stirred mixed feelings in Gerin: hope that this fight, unlike the ones that had gone before, would yield decisive results; sorrow at leaving Selatre behind; and a separate mixture over Duren: sorrow at leaving him, too, but also joy that he was there to be left.
Aragis brought his chariot up alongside the Fox’s. “You have a good holding here,” he said. “Plenty of timber, streams where you need them, well-tended fields—you must get a lot of work out of your peasants.”
Gerin didn’t care for the way Aragis said that: it brought to his mind a picture of nobles standing over serfs with whips to make them sow and weed and harvest. Maybe such things happened on Aragis’ land—he had a reputation for ruthlessness. The Fox said, “They work for themselves, as much as they can. I don’t take a certain proportion of what they raise, whether that’s a lot or a little. I take a fixed amount, and they keep whatever they produce above that.”
“All very well in good years,” Aragis answered, “but what of the bad ones, when they don’t bring in enough to get by after you’ve gathered your fixed amount?”
“Then we dicker, of course,” Gerin said. “If my serfs all starve giving me this year’s dues, I’m not likely to get much out of them next year.”
Prince of the North Page 36
