"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 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."