Demon Rider tyol-2

by Ken Hood

  The friar sighed but did not comment.

  "Doesn't a man have the right to defend himself, Brother? They were going to torture me to death!"

  "Because they thought you had a demon. They weren't so far wrong were they? No, I don't really blame you for fighting back. I believe you would have chosen another way to escape if there had been one. But you and the hob are growing together, and eventually there will be no difference between you. Which of you is going to be master? I warn you, if it can ever gain control of you, then it will. It will take you over completely."

  "And I will go crazy?"

  "You will be its creature, my son. The hob may not be as malicious as a demon, but it has no conscience, not yet. You know what happened at Mezquiriz."

  Toby shivered, for his worst fears were being confirmed. "Is this inevitable, Brother? Because if it is, then I must try to kill myself now."

  "No, it is not inevitable. You still have a chance. You were not a child when it happened, but you were not fully adult, either, so there is hope. Time will work on your side. Through you the hob must learn what it is to be mortal, what is right, what is wrong, what suffering means. We teach the spirits these things, my son. It takes centuries to train an elemental to be a tutelary, and you do not have centuries."

  "Is there no quicker way?" Toby asked.

  Apparently the old man did not hear that impertinent question. "Keep practicing your meditation, for that keeps the hob quiescent and you in control. The two of you will gradually merge into one, but it will take many years, and you must emerge as the dominant partner. Rush the process, as you were doing the other night, and the hob will be the survivor."

  They were almost at the campsite.

  "That's all I can do—breathe funny, think about swans, mumble 'Lochan na Bi' over and over?"

  "That is quite enough to keep you busy!" Brother Bernat said sharply. "The safest thing would be to enter a monastery, for there you would have no distractions. I just cannot see you ever becoming a monk, though. I think you would go out of your mind with boredom, and then you would be no better off. But do try and stay away from battles and women, from strong drink and hair-raising escapades."

  "And if I do? If I am the survivor, what will I be then?"

  The friar walked on for a long while before he answered. "Whatever you deserve to be."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Ah. You promised not to ask questions until I had finished, Tobias. I have not finished yet. Not quite."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The men unloaded and groomed the horses, watered them and set them free to graze, hobbling a couple so that they could be caught in the morning and used to round up the rest. The women gathered firewood, ground grain, made biscuits of dough to bake under the ashes. Those persons who chose to do so washed themselves. By the time the meal was ready, darkness had fallen, and the company gathered around the fire in no especial order to eat and share stories.

  Some nights now they had singing after their meal, for Don Ramon had liberated a vihuela from the landsknechte camp. He had not only a gentleman's skill at playing it but also a fine tenor voice—there seemed to be nothing he was not good at, except facing reality. He could pick up the melody when the Catalans sang their songs, and even manage to accompany Hamish in Scottish ballads, although Hamish's memory for lyrics was much better than his ability to stay in key. Father Guillem had a powerful bass and a repertoire of monastic chants from many lands.

  After that evening's meal, though, Toby took Hamish aside and asked him to organize a second campfire some distance from the first, where he and the don could have a private chat.

  Hamish disapproved, naturally. "How can you possibly trust him? He's as batty as a bell tower! His head's full of eels."

  "And I have foreseen his death. It may not happen, but I owe him a warning, at least." For some reason he could not identify, Toby felt he ought to trust the don, that it might be important.

  Hamish went off muttering but did what he had been asked, as usual.

  Toby invited Doña Francisca to attend also and then decided to include Josep, who had supported him steadfastly and deserved recognition for it. The inquisitive Senora Collel tried to gatecrash, bringing Gracia with her, and the don peremptorily ordered them away, insisting that women could not attend a council of war.

  The five huddled around the little flames that danced on their nest of twigs and streamed ribbons of smoke into the night wind. Pale light flickered on intent faces.

  "This is a strange tale," Toby began, "perhaps the strangest you will have ever heard, but Brother Bernat believes it, and I suspect no lie would ever deceive him. I must warn you that it involves truths that are dangerous to know. The Fiend has decreed that anyone who learns these things must die, so you may prefer not to listen. Whether that will reduce your peril, I cannot say. Just by associating with you, I have put you all at risk."

  "A dramatic preamble!" proclaimed the don. "Let us hope that the gravamen is worthy of it."

  No one departed. So there, in the cool night breezes, Toby told his whole improbable story once again. Hamish just scowled in silence at the starlit hills, for he knew it all. Josep and Doña Francisca grew more and more worried as it progressed, but Don Ramon seemed to find it dull. Perhaps his internal fantasies were too vivid for him to appreciate anyone else's adventures, no matter how bizarre. He yawned frequently, although he beamed approval when Toby described how calmly he had laid his head on the block to have it chopped off. His mother wailed in horror.

  "That's all," Toby concluded. "Have I left out anything, Jaume?"

  Hamish blinked himself back to the present. "What? Sorry. Wasn't listening."

  Toby chuckled. "You weren't even here! You left us at Glen Shira and Loch Fyne."

  Hamish smiled, half abashed, half wistful. "I was thinking about girls."

  "This Baron Oreste," asked Doña Francisca, "did he not lead the army that sacked Zaragoza? Then he is a monster!"

  Toby nodded. "Most true, Senor Francisco. He is one of the Fiend's bosom friends."

  "Does a demon have friends?" asked Hamish. "Or a bosom?"

  Ignore that. "General, courtier, advisor, potent hexer. A monster for all seasons."

  "And you say he is viceroy in Barcelona?" the old lady persisted.

  "That was what my vision told me."

  "And what the landsknechte told me," said the don, "when I demanded to see their authority." He smiled and twirled up his mustache. He had lost his air of boredom. In fact the firelight sparkled in his blue eyes with a strange excitement.

  "So he is after you and this amethyst?" asked Josep, appalled.

  "Mostly the amethyst. I am of no real interest to him, except that I have tweaked his pride too often."

  "Then you must not go near Barcelona! Surely so great a hexer will track you down at once."

  "Honored Senor Brusi," Hamish said, "were you to write that advice on my friend's forehead with a stonemason's mallet and chisel, he would still not notice. I have been telling him the same thing every chime of the clock for weeks."

  "I suppose I shouldn't," Toby conceded.

  "Spirits preserve us! The earth moves!"

  "Conditions have changed," Toby said, a little nettled. His main reason for going to Barcelona had been to see Hamish aboard ship and homeward bound, but Josep could arrange that much better than he could and would certainly be willing to do so. "I was hoping that the baron would rid me of the hob, but it was never a very plausible plan, and Brother Bernat fears that it would cripple me. I'll decide what to do when we reach Montserrat. I may go on to France."

  "Or Florence?" said Josep. "Or Majorca, or Salerno? I have... my house has branches in all those places, and my offer of employment still stands." He chuckled, detecting Toby's astonishment. "Barcelona is a great trading city, Senor. Not so very long ago it ruled half the Mediterranean. It is still cosmopolitan, a center of the arts, a—"

  "Yucch!" snarled the don. "Trade? You insult th
e man. You insult all of us by even mentioning it. A true man's ambition is the accomplishment of great deeds of valor. Still, I suppose he is only a peasant and would not understand that. Perhaps trade is all he is good for, after all." He turned to the peasant in question. "Is Baron Oreste a creature like his master?"

  "No, he is human," Toby said. "Although he is a hexer, he himself is bound to absolute obedience. I was told once that the demon that controls him is immured in a beryl set in one of the many rings he wears. He cannot remove the ring and so escape beyond the demon's reach."

  "He is mortal, then." Don Ramon twirled up the points of his mustache with apparent satisfaction. "I ask merely out of curiosity, you understand. I shall be paying my respects to the noble lord when we reach Barcelona."

  "What?" shrieked Doña Francisca.

  They were all staring at the don. Had he taken leave of his senses? Well, yes. Some time ago. But where was his confused mind wandering now?

  "I warned you, senor," Toby protested, "that by associating with you I have put you in peril. You know of Rhym, and that is a capital offense. The baron can find any number of executioners apart from me."

  The caballero shrugged with superb disdain. "My estates lie in lands ceded to Aragon under the treaty, so my rightful liege is now the... King Nevil himself. It is fitting that I call upon his deputy when I arrive in Barcelona." His mad eyes scanned them all, daring them to argue.

  "No!" His mother had both hands to her mouth and looked ghastly in the firelight.

  He dismissed her protest with a sneer. "Campeador? Francisco is well past his best. I need a younger squire. If you are seeking employment, I can offer you a career with prospects greater than anything your haberdasher friend there may dream of. Of course you will require training, but you seem to have some capacity beyond brute brawn."

  Did the don really think he could kill Oreste, a hexer protected by innumerable demons? For a moment Toby was tempted to say that he would rather apply his brute brawn in Josep's warehouse or even Senora Collel's bedroom—but discretion prevailed.

  "You honor me greatly, senor. I beg you to let me have time to weigh your splendid offer against certain other obligations I am not at liberty to reveal."

  "As you will. I am confident we shall reach Barcelona within the week, if we continue at our present pace."

  But the present pace was liable to kill Brother Bernat. There lay Toby's other obligation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Oddly enough, the rain didn't help at all. The countryside had become greener and gentler, little rolling hills that a man could almost imagine were somewhere in the Scottish Lowlands, and that just made the ache worse. Some people are never satisfied. Hamish was astride Liath near the head of the line, right behind the don and his squire, and it was his turn to lead the pack train again. At least that kept his mind occupied, so he had less time for brooding.

  Not that he couldn't work in a bit of brooding if he wanted to. They would be in Barcelona in a few more days. Toby wanted to send him home. He wanted to go. Josep said he could arrange it for him quite easily, although winter sailing was erratic, so he might have to lay over for a few months in Seville or Lisbon. But he didn't want to desert Toby. Not that the big man needed him, except for friendship, but going home was going to feel a lot like running away. There could be no second thoughts—once they parted, Toby would vanish into a war-torn continent and they could never hope to meet again. Life back in the glen would seem dull as mud after the last three years' adventuring. There were a lot of interesting places he hadn't seen yet. What to do?

  Rain was running down his neck. That really made him homesick!

  There was Toby now, coming back on that big spotted gelding of his. Ever since they passed Lerida he'd been zigging and zagging all over the landscape, investigating every little hilltop village they passed—looking for somewhere for Brother Bernat to lay up and rest, he said, although he was probably hoping to find a spirit willing to heal whatever was wrong with the old man. If his problem was just old age, not even a spirit could do much about that. Many tutelaries refused to heal strangers anyway.

  Somewhere back along the line, Eulalia laughed. She was a problem much worse than homesickness! One night they'd gone off into the bushes together, and she hadn't protested when he kissed her—she'd started unlacing his hose. She had shown him what to do next when he wasn't sure, and in no time at all he'd achieved what he'd been wanting to do for years. He'd thought of it as a great victory. But it wasn't. It had turned out to be a terrible defeat, because now he kept wanting to do it again.

  He did not like Eulalia, and she did not like him, and they had told each other so several times. But they both enjoyed what they did with each other. Not that she admitted it. If he did not ask her, she would not ask him. No, she would just tease him until she had him begging and promising anything she wanted. She was very good at that. He knew he was taking a terrible risk of getting her with child, if he hadn't already. Or she would say he had whether he had or not, and when they arrived in Barcelona Senora Collel would throw her out in the gutter. Then Hamish Campbell would find himself having to marry a woman he didn't want. Every morning he swore he would not succumb again, and at sunset she would melt all the lumps out of him with one glance from her sultry Spanish eyes. Why was he so weak? Why did women have this awful power over men?

  Why couldn't he be like Toby and not need women?

  A shout from the rear turned his head. Something was wrong. The don wheeled his horse and went charging back to see, followed slowly by Francisco. Everyone else was stopping. Hamish directed Liath around a patch of bushes, watching to make sure the train followed without any stupid quadruped trying to take a shortcut, and then led the way back. By the time he arrived at the group he could guess that the problem was Brother Bernat.

  He dismounted. "What happened?"

  Josep said, "The Franciscan. He reined in and said he felt faint. We helped him down..."

  Hauled back almost on his haunches, Smeòrach skidded to a halt in a shower of mud. Toby flung himself from the saddle and plunged into the group, hurling Manuel and Rafael and others aside. Hamish sighed to himself and waited. Toby was fond of the old man and grateful for that strange healing he had gained from him. He was going to be upset if this was the end.

  "How bad?"

  Josep shrugged. He said, "Can't tell," but his face said very bad.

  Hamish surveyed the countryside. The village Toby had just visited was only a mile or so off, on a low hill, but even from here it was obvious that the roofs had fallen in and the walls were blackened. The tower of the sanctuary was a stump, so there would be no spirit there and probably no people either. The town was just one more casualty of the terrible war, and he wondered why Toby had even bothered going to investigate it.

  Then Toby's head rose above the others again. The watchers parted for him, and he emerged with Brother Bernat cradled in his arms. The old man's face, the color of skim milk, nestled against Toby's shoulder. His lips were blue, and his eyes not merely closed but sunk back into his skull. Toby went past Hamish without a word and set off along the road with huge strides. If he was looking for a place to dig a grave, why so much hurry?

  Father Guillem and Pepita scurried after, running to try and catch him. Apparently they were heading for the village, but Toby's sword was hung on Smeòrach's saddle, so they had gone unarmed. Hamish detached his own blade from Liath, slung the baldric over his head, and thrust the reins at Josep.

  "Look after them."

  Josep's protests that he couldn't handle the train faded away as Hamish went racing after the others.

  Toby was running up the hill, setting a fearful pace in spite of his burden. The monk flapped along behind him like a giant bat, holding Pepita's hand. Glancing back, Hamish saw that the others were following, but at a leisurely pace. The don would probably make them wait outside the gates, because the horses might break legs in the ruins, even if there were no thieves lurking there.r />
  He caught up with Father Guillem, whose face was as red as a furnace door. Pepita would obviously be weeping if she had any breath to do so. What was all the burning hurry?

  "There can't possibly be a spirit up here!" Hamish panted.

  The monk said, "No," and kept right on going.

  Hamish ran past them, slipped on a patch of mud, caught his scabbard between his legs, and fell flat on his face. Cursing in a mixture of Gaelic and Catalan, he scrambled to his feet and discovered he had wrenched an ankle. He switched to Breton and Castilian and began to run again in a wild, painful hobble.

  He went by the child and Father Guillem a second time. Toby had almost reached the shattered town gate, and a couple of men had appeared, watching his approach. Hamish drove himself even faster, steadying his sword with one hand so he didn't make a fool of himself again. Why were they doing this? Did the old man just want to die in a shrine, even if it had no tutelary? Was this some Franciscan custom?

  Toby slowed to a fast walk and went through the gateway with the two men following and Hamish at their heels. They glanced around and then ignored Hamish, following a few paces behind Toby. They were making no move to molest him and did not seem to be armed, but Hamish decided to stay at their backs and keep an eye on them.

  The road was narrow and dim in the rain, but it was not obstructed by debris and gruesome bodies as the streets of Onda had been. Although most of the buildings were unroofed and stank of burned timber, the village was inhabited, and the residents had made a start on cleaning up and rebuilding. People began emerging from alleys and doorways, men and women both, even a few ragged children. Toby seemed to know where he was leading this procession, crossing a couple of tiny plazas without hesitation and apparently heading for the stump of a tower that marked the sanctuary.