by Eric Flint
The wind rush shattered windows and slammed open doors. It was slower than a sword stoke or the floor spell. The floor suddenly liquefying did have some effect, but it did not stop the terrible scream from Tamas or the boom of Emma’s hand-cannon.
* * *
Von Stebbens’s yell of “Hold” came too late. Hartz cut at the peasant boy and the girl shot him. And before the archimandrite could do more than take a step, the floor began to swallow him; he gasped for breath as he sank down into it. There could be no chanting, no charge, no effective magic or physical attack in this.
Desperately, he flung his sword at the evil count, who had run to the very edge of the pit and was balancing his way along the thin fringe of surviving boards on the edge of the room.
The count simply ducked and the sword bounced off the wall and into the pit. Mindaug leapt across the remaining chasm to kneel next to the girl who was already cradling the boy in her arms. Blood was pumping out from the upper thigh, spurting in a way that Von Stebbens knew most likely meant death. Then, without the rites of protection or any further ado, the magician stood up and performed a summoning…not of some vile demon, but a very surprised-looking man—who took one look and hastily knelt next to the wounded man.
But the archimandrite’s personal problem was that he could not breathe.
* * *
One moment Francisco Turner had been leaving the meeting of Sforza’s officers, en route with his escort to Venice, or at least the Venetian border, and the next…
He found himself in the ruins of the front salon of the villa at Val di Castellazzo, where Kazimierz had once entertained Carlo. He might not have recognized it had not been for Kazimierz, blood on his cotte, and the pregnant Emma, cradling the wounded Tamas.
One of the young man’s hands had been cut, badly enough that he would probably never have the full use of it again. He’d probably thrown it forward in an attempt to block a sword strike, but Francisco spent no more than a moment on that. Tamas had a far worse injury.
One look at the blood pulsing from the femoral artery was all Francisco needed to rip his waist sash free and lift the leg and put it around, just above the wound; then, using his sheathed main gauche as a lever, he twisted it to stem the blood loss.
“Hold this,” he ordered, using his knife to cut another strip of cloth, which promptly blew away. “Blasted wind!” he growled, starting to cut another. The wind stopped, but Francisco was too busy trying to contrive a bandage for Tamas’s ruined hand to wonder why. When that was tied off, he went back to the savage cut in the leg.
Now he could absorb that the man holding that tourniquet was the former bombardier, Klaus. Emma clung to her man, and Kazimierz knelt next to her. Francisco noted the magician’s face was wet with tears.
“Can you keep him alive for a few minutes?” asked Kazimierz, his voice gravelly. “I see there is a priest among these.”
“How long ago did this happen?” asked Francisco.
“Perhaps thirty heartbeats. I called you as quickly as I could,” said Kazimierz. Kneeling next to his servants, he reached out and squeezed their shoulders. “Tamas, my boy. Emma. I am sorry.”
“Am I dying, master?” gasped the boy between clenched teeth, “Look after…Emma. Baby. Please. Thought…” he gasped weakly, “I’d…be good father, husband.” He slumped back.
“Please, a priest, master,” sobbed Emma. “At least then his soul…”
“I will see to it,” said Kazimierz. He looked around, and stood up. “I must take certain actions.”
He took a thin-bladed stiletto from his sleeve and carved symbols on the wooden board. He was muttering words at great speed as he did this, and then he walked across the strange quagmire that embedded the knights. They looked like Knights of the Holy Trinity, from the quick glance Francisco had spared them, before attending to his patient. The girl was now praying and holding her man, who was moaning weakly, plainly in shock.
“What happened, Klaus?” Francisco asked.
“Dunno, Captain. Young Tamas and I were fetching some of those flying stars and some small rockets for the master, and we come in the back, and Tamas hears a noise and runs to help. I’m not so fast. I come in to this mess.”
“What happened to the guards?”
“They got ordered to Milan. The duchess signed the orders.”
Kazimierz returned with a man in Hypatian robes.
The boy looked up. “I’ve only got…one thing. On my conscience.”
“Confess and I will ask God to grant you absolution.”
“I…not married. Asked long ago… Got absolution, last Sunday.”
“But the priest wanted us to stay and have the banns read! We couldn’t!” said Emma. “It’s not Tamas’s fault. And the good master gave permission,” she sobbed. “He gave me my trousseau. It has just…not yet happened. It was to be this Sunday.”
“If that is your only great sin, my son, God forgives easily,” said the priest.
The boy nodded. “Will you marry us, Father?” he croaked.
The priest, to give him credit, simply said, “Yes.”
“Kazimierz,” said Francisco, as the priest knelt next to the two and held their hands together. “I need some instruments. A small clamp of some kind, some small knives and cloth, and the finest needle and silk thread. And the strongest grappa you can find and a bowl. And something for him to bite on. This is going to hurt, and he’s in a lot of pain already.”
The count blinked. “He hasn’t long to live, Francisco. They bleed out in a few minutes if cut there. I have some strong poppy juice that will at least make it painless.”
“I’ve all but stopped the bleeding, and with some sewing, luck, and no infection, we might save his leg. His hand, no. I’m sure the tendons are all severed. But it is his left hand, and there are many men who live with the use of only one.”
“Oh.” The expression on the older man’s face told plainly that he had expected the boy to die. The relief was open and honest. “Well, yes, I have all manner of tools. Klaus, a small clamp? Which do you think would be best?”
“I will go to the workshop and fetch some, master. If you could hold this?” said the bombardier of the tourniquet twist which he was still holding.
“I’ll tie it off,” said Francisco, taking control of it, as the scarred bombardier got to his feet. “What about that lot behind us?” he asked, directing an elbow at the chest-deep Knights. He’d just heard one of them say something.
“Them?” said Kazimierz irritably. “They destroyed my trap for Orkise and wrecked my house and injured my good loyal servant nearly to death and cost him his hand. I have slowed and hardened the flow, so that I could haul the priest out, but it will slowly take them down into the hole and set around them. They deserve it.”
“Can one of you be spared to witness their oath?” asked the priest. “And please, I would like to beg for the lives of the Knights. They are men of God, doing their duty.”
“No quarter!” said one of the Knights.
“I order you to be quiet,” said another, their officer by the ornate extra row of gilded spikes. “It is still a Christian marriage. We may die but we will do so with honor, dignity and prayer. We are all witnesses to their vow.”
“For that, I will let you live,” said Kazimierz.
* * *
Archimandrite Klaus von Stebbens, having very nearly died from a lack of air, and having lost his sword, had not lost his wits. He was a skilled magic worker himself, though he now realized he was completely outclassed by Count Mindaug. The Empire had severely underestimated the man. It took very little time to realize that the trap they were caught in had been carefully engineered to reduce the possibility of using any form of magic to escape it. There was a weave of counterspells about them.
Von Stebbens finally admitted to himself that perhaps he and the other Knights, and indeed the Emperor, had not quite gauged this man aright. The Aemiline hesychast Dimitrios had continued to insist that the K
nights of the Holy Trinity were misreading the situation.
Von Stebbens tended to be distrustful of the monk’s assessment, mostly because he was an Aemiline. They were a very pacific order, which was why they inclined toward the Peterines rather than the Paulines. And while that attitude might speak well of their souls, it did not necessarily speak well of their good sense. Being pacific toward someone like Count Mindaug was likely to lead to disaster.
Still, by now Von Stebbens accepted that Dimitrios had been able to keep a closer watch on Mindaug than anyone else. And there was one feature of the Lithuanian count’s behavior that the archimandrite himself had always found difficult to explain.
Von Stebbens had grown up in a noble family in the Marches. If these two young servants of Mindaug’s were anything but mere Hungarian peasantry, he’d be amazed. The girl had been praying steadfastly and aloud…
And Mindaug, whom they had assumed to be without feeling and utterly cold-blooded, a murderer of his own family, had shown more emotion than most noblemen over the injury of a loyal servant—a young man who seemed to consider his worst sin not yet having married this girl. Von Stebbens knew that on the order of things that both Bartholdy and Jagiellon had done, that did not even register as a peccadillo.
Could the young people have been that ignorant? Could Mindaug have kept evil blood magic that secret from his own servants? In the confines of the wagon in which they’d spent most of their time together?
Or, as Brother Dimitrios had suggested, had the count turned his back on those practices? But there was still the great magical flux that had happened a bare fortnight ago. And the traffic with the water-demon…
And then, just after the vows, just after the maimed man who was plainly a soldier returned with things he’d been asked for, there was the distant sound of things breaking, coming ever closer.
It was a sound reminiscent of someone snapping kindling, but vastly magnified.
“Dear God!” said Father Thomas, pointing out the blown-in window. Across the parkland, an enormous serpent was advancing toward the house. It forced its way between the trees, uprooting or breaking whatever resisted the lateral pressure of the sinuous slither. That was what they’d heard.
“Orkise,” said the count grimly. “The dying in Terdona has fed him, given him strength, raising him from his lair as I feared it would. He is aware of my little magics and has now come to destroy any possible threat. We must flee.”
“How?” asked the surgeon, lifting his head from the bandaging.
That was a good question, thought Von Stebbens. The creature would outrun a horse, by the looks of it.
“Tamas is in no shape to get on a horse, Kazimierz. Have you a coach?” asked the surgeon.
Mindaug shook his head. “We will have to depart by magical means. I am sure Orkise’s mistress will have her soldiers hunting the countryside anyway, even if some could escape the serpent. I have it all prepared. Do you remember that mirror you took to Venice for me? We will need to carry Tamas to the next room. Klaus, call as many of my people as possible. I must save what I can. I have set traps that will delay Orkise slightly.”
He pointed to the men trapped still, chest deep in the floor. “I wasn’t expecting these Knights, though. I just hope we have enough time.”
“Mindaug,” said the archimandrite. “Free us and we will buy you that time.” At that moment, he was not sure if this was guile, but one thing was certain, remaining there would mean certain death.
The magician’s forehead wrinkled briefly. He looked around. Then he nodded.
* * *
Mindaug had been shocked at his own rage and despair at the boy meeting his end as he had. He hadn’t realized just how much he had come to care about Tamas and Emma. A part of his mind still said, but they are merely serfs. Another less logical but more dominant part of his mind said, look at the promise, the loyalty…
Mindaug dismissed the thoughts. However it had happened—whenever it had happened—he had come to care deeply about both of them. Caring was something he was unpracticed at, that he’d always distanced himself from. It had only been the knowledge that they faced a very slow unpleasant death that had saved the Knights. He’d always shied from actually using too much of his power or skill. If he did, he could be perceived as a threat and not as a source of support.
And then Francisco had turned his despair for the boy into relief and hope. His mind, always quick, recovered some of its tone, and he saw the Knights as the tools they could be. He was not merciful or kind, but he was not given to mindless cruelty either.
“It would be a pointless death,” he said, as he began the spell to release the Knights. “Orkise is the enemy of all that lives.”
Chapter 49
Val di Castellazzo, Duchy of Milan
“The only effective weapon against Orkise is fire,” said Mindaug. “I do not think the serpent itself can actually be killed, for it is not truly alive. I had hoped to trap it, to encase it in stone, which would have delayed it considerably. Its breath is poisonous, and its bite deadly. But it fears fire.” The count nodded toward the one-eyed bombardier. “Klaus will show you how to operate the star rockets. He always has slow matches with him. Light them. Charge towards it. Fire the rockets and then retreat back here. With luck, we’ll still be here and you can escape with us. Otherwise—flee. As fast and far as you can. Duchess Lucia’s troops will probably hunt you, too.” Mindaug was as cool as if he had not nearly killed them all and, it appeared, been quite willing to watch them die.
Von Stebbens had no time, right now, to work this all out. He was close enough, perhaps, to kill the man. But, firstly, Mindaug had proved trickier in defense than they had guessed, and secondly, that vast serpent out there was real. His men—bruised, half-suffocated and having been chest-deep in the magical trap—showed why they were the Empire’s finest fighting men because, despite this, they were ready and able to go to battle…barring Hartz, who had died with a fragment of steel in his brain from the young woman’s shot. It had, indeed, gone straight through his visor.
This could be a deceit, still. But what was out there was a vast snake, and what Mindaug and his retainers were doing was preparing to flee, not to consort with it.
“God willing, we will hold it off,” said one of the Knights.
Mindaug visibly took a deep breath. “I will help magically as much as I can. And I will beg the Lion of Etruria to lend us his strength. I will attempt to build a big enough portal to take all—or at least as many of you as survive—to safety in Venice. We’ll sound the call when it is ready. Cry truce until then.”
“Truce,” said Von Stebbens. “Now let us out and mount, men.”
Venice
The next time Violetta awoke, Sforza wanted to discuss something other than military affairs.
“I’m curious,” he said. “I presume you know a great deal about the current situation with Milan? Ruled, as it now is, by the usurper Carlo Sforza.”
Wondering where he was headed, she replied cautiously: “Well, yes, I do—at least, up to the point when I was poisoned. But a lot of time has gone by since then. In the sort of predicament the Wolf of the North found himself when I last knew anything about it, every day can mark a turning point or a crisis. A week is like a month, a month is like a year, and a year might as well be eternity.”
“Truly said,” he agreed. “I was poisoned quite a bit later than you were, however. Allow me, if you would, to fill you in on the main features of the more recent events.”
What followed was a terse but excellent summary of the course of the conflict—which had now reached the scale of an outright war—since Violetta had been poisoned.
Once he was finished, Violetta pondered the matter for a bit. She had to shift her viewpoint, first. Her own keen interest in military affairs tended to overshadow other considerations, she’d found. Well…more precisely, she hadn’t “found that out” herself so much as Uncle Cosimo had pointed it out to her.
Um. Several times, in fact. Her second cousin was a masterful strategist on a level that even Duke Enrico of Ferrara rarely attained. War, for Cosimo de’ Medici, was first and foremost a grotesque waste. A waste of people; a waste of resources; a waste of money—most of all, it was wasteful of the future. So, as the ruling duke of Tuscany, he approached all strategic issues with the aim of avoiding war if at all possible.
Usually, he managed to do so. Many of northern Italy’s small mob of princes sneered at Cosimo de’ Medici for what they perceived as his pusillanimity. But what they overlooked was that Tuscany’s reluctance to engage in warfare also meant that Tuscany had become—by far—the richest region of Italy. Not even the much larger territories controlled in one way or another by the Church were as prosperous and wealthy.
And wealth meant power. Usually, so long as Cosimo was in charge, power held in check rather than power used. What Violetta had once heard one of the scientists who clustered around the court in Florence—yes, there was that, too; Tuscany was rich in scholars as well as merchants—call potential energy or stored energy. He’d distinguished between that sort of stored energy and what he called “kinetic energy,” which was energy actually manifesting itself.
“Think of the immense power of the water held in check by a dam,” he’d used as an example. “The water just sits there, to all outward appearances a completely placid phenomenon. But now imagine that whoever owns and controls the dam decides to open the sluices—perhaps because an enemy army is marching up the valley toward his realm. That army will soon vanish, won’t it? As if it never existed at all!”
Such was the nature of Tuscany under the rule of Cosimo de’ Medici. His duchy had the strongest and best-designed fortifications, probably in all of Europe, not just Italy. Tuscany could also afford the best condottieri, and Cosimo paid his mercenaries well enough that there was no significant risk that they might turn on him.
