by John Dalmas
Janos frowned. "But Kazi's army is more powerful than all the others put together. Otherwise, I'd never have allied myself with him."
"That's what he wanted you to believe," Nils answered. "And in open battle it would be true. But in that land you could work as small units, striking and then running to cover to strike again elsewhere."
Janos' face sharpened. "And who asked your advice?" he said coldly. "Have you forgotten that you're a foreigner of common blood?"
Nils grinned. "I'm young but not foolish, Your Highness. Yet I do indeed advise," he continued more seriously. "And deep in your mind you know my advice is good, because if you don't combine armies, Kazi will eat you up separately. But you are a king, used to listening to advice only when you've asked for it, and so my boldness offended you. Yet I'm only a foreigner, a commoner, a barbarian, and a mere youth to boot. You wouldn't have asked for my advice, so I had to give it uninvited."
The king stared at Nils for several seconds before a smile began to break his scowl. "You're a scoundrel, barbarian," he said, clapping the warrior's shoulder. "But allowances must be made for barbarians, at least for those who are giants and great swordsmen who can look into the minds of others and speak across half a world and heal dirty wounds in three days. You're right. We must move, for better or for worse, and if need be we'll die like men, with swords in our hands. And you will come with us, and I'll continue to listen to your unasked-for advice."
"Highness," said Nils, suddenly solemn, "with your permission I'll go instead to my own people and lead them against Kazi. They are not numerous, but they fight with a savagery and cunning that will warm your blood to see."
"All right, all right," the king said, shaking his head ruefully. "I bow to your will again. If your people are all like you, they can probably talk Kazi into surrender."
Janos sent riders ordering the nobles to gather at the palace on the sixth day, which was as soon as the more distant could possibly arrive if they left at once. The orders specified foreign danger to the realm, in order that there would be no delaying by independent lords who might otherwise be inclined to frustrate him.
After two more days spent resting and healing, Nils submitted his newly knitted thigh and hip to a saddle and rode a ferry across the Duna to the town of Buda. He didn't want to send a messenger to Zoltan Kossuth, the psi, in case the request be interpreted as an invitation to a trap.
Nils led his horse off the ferry and spoke to a dockman. "Where can I find the inn of Zoltan Kossuth?" he asked.
"Would that be the Zoltan Kossuth who is called the Bear? Turn left on the outer street. His is the inn just past the South Gate, under the sign of the bear, and the stable next to it is his, too. It's the best inn in town, if you like your inns orderly. The Bear is notorious for throwing out troublemakers with his own tender hands, although"-he sized Nils up with a leer more gaps than teeth-"He'd have his hands more than full trying to throw you out. Not that I'm calling you a troublemaker, you understand, but if you were."
Nils grinned back, mounted, and started down the cobbled street. "And the fare is good for both man and horse," the dockman shouted after him.
Nils strode into the inn, which was quiet at that hour. The keeper was talking with two men who were telling him more than they realized. Tuned for it, Nils had detected the man's psi before reaching the stable, but engrossed as the Bear was in the words and thoughts he was listening to, he wasn't aware of Nils until the barbarian came through the door.
Zoltan Kossuth was not admired for his beauty. His round head had no hair above the ears, but his black beard, clipped somewhat short, grew densely to the eye sockets, and a similar but untrimmed growth bushed out obstreperously through gaps in the front of a shirt that had more than it could do to contain an enormous chest. He was of moderate height, but his burly hundred kilos made him look stubby. Just for a moment he glanced up balefully at the strange psi, then seeing a servant move to wait on Nils, he returned to his conversation.
Nils sat in an inner corner nursing an ale and a bowl of dry beef. He felt no need to interrupt the Bear's conversation, but saw no point in waiting needlessly if the innkeeper's interest in it was not serious. Therefore, he held in his mind for a moment a clear picture of the Bear holding a gray plastic psi tuner, at the same time naming it in case the Bear would not recognize one by sight.
Zoltan Kossuth scowled across at Nils, excused himself from the table and disappeared into a back room. "Who are you and what do you want?" he demanded mentally.
"I am Nils Jarnhann, on business of the Inner Circle and the king."
This alarmed the Bear. Covering his intentions and actions with discursive camouflage, he walked to a crossbow hanging on the wall. "I'm not aware that a king of Hungary has had dealings with one of the Inner Circle since old Mihaly, counselor to Janos I, was murdered by an agent of Baalzebub when I was a boy." The Bear cranked the crossbow and set a dart to it. "What I would like to know is how you can be on business which is of both the Inner Circle and of Janos III."
"Put down your weapon, Innkeeper." And Nils ran through his mind a rapid montage of Kazi, of Kazi's guard lopping off the head of Imre Rakosi, and of vile acts in the arena. And the identities of all were clear, although Zoltan Kossuth had not known what Kazi looked like until that moment. And it was clear, too, what Nils's mission had been. Then the picture was of Janos leaning over a cot, slicing open the throat of Ahmed.
The innkeeper was a suspicious man for someone who could read minds, but he accepted this intuitively. Removing the dart, he pulled the trigger with a twang and hung up the crossbow. "And what do you want of me?" he asked.
When Nils was finished at the inn, he resaddled his horse and left Buda through the West Gate, riding leisurely toward the castle of Lord Miklos, which dominated the town from a nearby hill. Miklos was the town's protector, deriving an important part of his wealth from its tribute. Prairie flowers bloomed along the climbing dusty road, and the moat surrounding the castle was green with the spears of new cattail leaves that had crowded through the broken blades and stalks of last year's growth. The shallow water, already thick with algae, lost as much to the sun in dry weather as it gained from the overflow of the castle's spring and the waste that emptied into it through an odorous concrete pipe.
The countryside was at peace, the drawbridge down, and the gatekeepers at ease. "Who are you, stranger, and what is your business here?" one called genially as Nils drew up his horse at the outer end.
"I want to speak to Lord Miklos. My name is Nils."
The man's mind told Nils that he might not remember such an outlandish name long enough to repeat it to his master's page.
"Tell him it's the big barbarian he rescued from Lord Lajos' castle," Nils added.
A grin split the guard's brawl-sculptured face and he saluted Nils before he turned to carry the message. The ill-feeling between the two nobles was shared by their retainers.
Lord Miklos was sitting on a stool, stripped to the waist, when Nils was ushered into his chamber. One servant was washing the nobleman's feet and ankles while another towelled his still lean torso. "Ah-ha, it is you. Sit down, my friend. I've been in the fields this morning inspecting the work, and that's a dirty occupation in such dry weather. I'm afraid our talk will have to be short, as my vassals are waiting to meet with me at the noon meal. For business. Have you come to join my guard?" He eyed Nils's expensive clothes.
"No, m' Lord." Nils looked at the servants and spoke in Anglic. "I have news for your ears alone."
The old knight straightened and spoke to the servants, who speeded their work and left. "What is it?" he asked.
"I've come to tell you of the king and Baalzebub, but there's quite a bit of it and it will take time. Also, it's best if King Janos doesn't learn about my visit here."
"Plague and death!" Miklos strode to a bell cord and pulled it. In a moment a page entered. "Lad, I don't want to be disturbed until I ring again. Tell my guests I'll be delayed. Tell the steward
to hold the meal… no, tell him to feed the guests. I'll come later."
The page left and Miklos turned to Nils. "All right, my big friend, tell me everything."
Speaking Magyar, Nils told him of Kazi the Conqueror who was the basis in fact for Baalzebub, of Kazi's military strength and psi power and of his intention to conquer Europe.
"And you say this creature has lived since ancient times and looks into men's minds?"
"Yes. And there are others who can read thoughts," Nils answered. "I'm one of them." Without giving Miklos time to react fully to that, Nils told him of Janos' visit to Kazi's city some years earlier, of his conviction that Kazi could not be withstood and of his decision to ally himself to Kazi when the time came to assume the throne of Hungary. Then, without being specific or complete, he told of the kinfolk, of his commission to murder Kazi, and of his brief service with Janos. And he told of Ahmed, who also was a spy set to report on Janos through the psi tuner.
The old knight's eyes were bright with anger as he arose from his chair. "So this Ahmed looked into our minds when we had audiences with Janos and told him what we thought to keep secret. A lot of things are becoming clear to me now," he said grimly. "We'll have to overthrow him."
"I have not finished, m' Lord. The king has killed Ahmed with his own hand."
Miklos sat down again, confused and prepared to listen.
Nils told of his friendship with Imre Rakosi, of Kazi's demanding the boy, and of their going.
"And Janos sent him! The man is gutless!"
Nils went on to tell of Imre's murder. "But I was lucky enough to escape and returned to Pest to tell the king, and Janos cut Ahmed's throat. And Ahmed had a magic box he used to talk to his master's mind from afar. I know the use of such boxes, and used it to speak to my teacher who lives near the Northern Sea. He told me that Kazi has struck north against the Ukrainians. Casimir of Poland is gathering his army to join the Ukrainians, but he in turn has been invaded by barbarians from the north, so he can send only part of his army against Kazi."
Miklos was on his feet. "Why, man, we should go. Before we are alone. Throw down the traitor and go ourselves. There are no finer fighters in the world than Magyars. I… "
Nils interrupted. "That's what Janos plans to do. It's the reason he's called for his nobles. 'We must move for better or for worse,' he said, 'and if need be we'll die like men, with swords in our hands' "
Miklos stared. "Janos said that? This Janos?" His gaze sharpened. "Why did you come here to tell me this when I'll hear it from Janos himself in a few days? And why did you ask that your visit here be kept secret from him?"
The nobleman's mind was suddenly dark with suspicion.
"Because you've distrusted and despised Janos and might not believe him, while you might well believe me. And you'll be the key man among the nobles. For you are not only the most powerful of them; you're also the most respected, even by your enemies. If you respond with belief and approve the king's plan, the others will follow. But if Janos knew I'd taken it on myself to come here, he'd be mad. My forwardness has already tried his patience."
Miklos looked shrewdly at Nils. "I'll bet it has, at that. I look forward to seeing more of you, northman, for you're as crafty as you are strong, and I enjoy craft in an honest man."
"You'll be disappointed then, m'Lord, because I'm leaving tomorrow. The barbarians distracting Casimir are my own people, and I have to try to bring them in with us instead of unknowingly against us. If you see me again, it will be with them, the tribes of northmen, who, I have to tell you frankly, are the greatest fighters in the world."
It was then Miklos tested Nils. You've said a lot today, he thought silently but deliberately, most of it hard to believe, and asked me to accept it as true. You've asked me to trust Janos, a man I've always distrusted with what I know now to be good reason. So tell me, can you really read my mind?
The grin came back to Nils's face. "Yes m'Lord, and the honest doubts that go with the thoughts."
And Miklos smiled, the first smile Nils had seen on him. "That settles it. I'll do as you ask." He put out a big knobby hand that Nils wrapped in his.
"Thank you, m'Lord." Nils started to leave, then turned at the door. "And sir, don't underestimate the king. His mind does prefer the devious, just as you once told me, but he is no coward."
That evening Nils introduced Zoltan Kossuth to Janos, and the Bear showed no sign of surliness, for he was nothing if not shrewd. And they talked until late.
In the morning Nils rode north from the city astride a large strong horse, a prize of Magyar horse breeding. And with him rode Bela and a tough guard corporal also named Bela, differentiated by the guard as Bela One and Bela Two. Fourteen days later seventeen hundred Magyar knights left the fields outside Pest, with Janos and the western lords. By the time they reached the northeastern end of the kingdom and were ready to start over Uzhok Pass for the Ukraine, they had been joined by the eastern lords with twenty-one hundred more.
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 knight
s 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.