Demon Rider tyol-2

by Ken Hood

  He suspected his chances of doing even that were slender as gossamer. He was bound for disaster, sooner or later. That was another reason to go on alone.

  Hamish sighed. He liked the world to be more logical. "You're not planning anything foolish, are you? You're not going to go off with the don to try and kill Oreste? Or try to buy him off with the amethyst?"

  "Never. Strangling that monster would be a very good idea, yes. I would dearly love to squeeze his throat until his eyes pop and his tongue sticks out and his face turns purple, but I know it's impossible. I just want to keep well away from him, and the Inquisition, and the Fiend. A quiet life for me and the hob, nothing exciting. A job as a woodcutter, perhaps, or a stonemason—something I can put my muscles to work on." Then he lied. "Perhaps someday a wife and children, if I can ever be quite sure that—"

  "Demons, Toby! I don't want to go! Not yet. Please?"

  Toby sighed. "Let's get you to Montserrat. If the spirit will cure your cracked head, then you'll be able to think straight again."

  Hamish managed a smile. "Thanks! But I know what I'll—"

  They peered into the murk.

  "Toby? Isn't that the don shouting?"

  Toby urged Smeòrach forward.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There could be no better site for an ambush. Overhanging foliage made the trail into a tunnel, gloomy and foggy. The slopes on either hand were impassable for horses, overgrown and much too steep. Don Ramon, in the lead as always, had just gone round the next bend and now came cantering back into view, his warning shouts growing clearer. Only one word mattered: Barricade!

  For an instant Toby wondered if the man had panicked at the sight of the expected checkpoint, then discarded the notion. Other men might make such an error, but not the don, and the odds must be overwhelmingly bad for him to have turned tail.

  Roadblock ahead meant danger at the rear, of course. Cliff down on one side, cliff up on the other. A perfect trap, lobsters in the pot.

  The only hope was to turn tail and hope to break out downhill. As Toby reined Smeòrach in, he saw the women start to turn their mounts, but then Josep knotted up the pack train like kelp on a beach and blocked the don's path completely. Worse!

  He spun Smeòrach around, back toward the last bend, shouting warnings to Father Guillem and Hamish. He drew his sword and reined in with an oath as the brigands came around the corner. There were at least a score of them, a ragtag band of pirates, all on foot and clad in a motley collection of garments and armor, but spread out in good order, not all clustered in an easy target. Someone knew his job well. Pikes, swords, no arquebuses—the don had proved the previous night that firearms were useless in such weather—but also crossbows. In desperation Toby looked again at the flanking slopes and saw more men above the trail, even a couple in trees on the downhill side. Chattering to Hamish, he had missed those, but so had the don. A dozen bolts were pointed at his heart. They would have difficulty missing at that range.

  It would be small comfort while dying to know that Baron Oreste was not going to get him, nor lay his fat hands on the amethyst.

  Sick with despair he glanced back. Jacques had jumped from his donkey and was disentangling the pack train, apparently very expertly. The don would get by it in a moment. But even he could do nothing against this force.

  Had they been landsknechte, Toby might have hoped to give himself up in return for the others' freedom, but one glance at these ruffians was proof enough that they were only after loot, not him in particular. He felt mostly anger at being taken so easily... frustration at failing so close to his destination... sheer terror at what those bolts could do to his flesh... an urgent disinclination to die... the hob! Not the hob!

  Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. He lowered his sword and strove to breathe as he had been taught, struggling to calm his racing heart. He must not let the hob rampage! It might strike down his friends as easily as his foes.

  And besides: If you ever travel that road again, you must not expect to return.

  "Company halt!" barked the leader. He was big, although probably more blubber than muscle, with a coarse, black-bearded face. He wore a steel helmet and breastplate. Alone among the group he carried no weapon in his hand, but a gilded hilt protruded from the scabbard at his side. He regarded the catch with satisfaction. "Throw your swords over there."

  His arrogant smirk made Toby's fists clench and brought sweat to his forehead even as he repeated his mantra and tried to think of the swan. "We are but poor pilgrims, senor. We have little worth stealing except our mounts."

  "We'll be the judge of that. Throw away your sword, boy."

  Gold did not matter now, and certainly the horses did not. Even if the pilgrims lost everything except their lives, they could walk to Montserrat from here.

  Toby eased Smeòrach forward to place himself ahead of Guillem. "Will you spare our—"

  Before he completed the move, the monk roared, "Fools!" in a voice like a cannonade and kicked in his heels. Startled, his horse leaped into motion.

  Toby shouted, "Careful, Father!"

  Still bellowing, the monk rode straight for the brigands, going much too fast over the rocks and mud. "You are within the domain of the holy tutelary of Montserrat. It will not condone such violence!"

  "Take him, Jordi."

  A crossbow cracked. Father Guillem and his horse went down together in a somersault and rolled on the muddy, rocky trail. The horse screamed, tried to struggle to its feet, shrilling in pain, but then collapsed in a heap and fell silent. Father Guillem lay face down, half dragged out of his robe. The bolt must have gone right through him without hitting bone, or the impact would have hurled him backward out of the saddle. If the shot had not killed him, then the horse had smashed him to pulp. He was either dead or dying.

  "Seems he was wrong," said the leader. "Nice shot, Jordi. Throw down your sword, boy, and dismount." He had summed up the group and picked out Toby as the leader. He knew his business. He had the same cold blooded efficiency as Arnaud Villars the smuggler; he even looked like him.

  "You will spare our lives?"

  "Your lives are no use to me, sonny, but if you don't get off that horse right now, we'll shoot you off it."

  Smeòrach was fast and nimble. Toby might get one of them—the leader or another—before they got him. Maybe even two. By then he would be a hedgehog of crossbow quarrels and what would happen after that? Unless a bolt took him through the heart, his body might fight on without him. Or the hob might lash out with lightnings, destroying brigands and pilgrims and forest indiscriminately. Or it might flip him back in time to the Inquisition. Whatever it did, Brother Bernat had said, If you ever travel that road again...

  He threw his sword into the trees and turned in the saddle to address the others. "Do as they say! They will spare our—"

  "King Pedro and Castile!" Hooves thundered, mud sprayed, horses whinnied in alarm. Having won his way past the pack train, the don came charging down the trail with his lance couched.

  It should have been obvious that Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo would not surrender to a common footpad, nor even forty of them. Or perhaps he thought he was leading a whole army of armored knights against the Moors. Whatever the reason, honor demanded death. Toby spun Smeòrach around and kicked him harder than the poor beast had ever been kicked. Astonished but ever willing, Smeòrach leaped forward. Toby rode him straight into the oncoming maniac.

  The don held his lance in his right hand, aimed to strike an opponent approaching on his left—that was correct technique for jousting, and he was undoubtedly well practiced in the arts of chivalry. But the terrain was very treacherous, and one thing that almost never happened in the best tilting yards was a horse careering into you at high speed from the right and a young man of very large size hurling himself on top of you. Lance, shield, knight, Longdirk, and Midnight all went over together in an explosion of mud and stones. The outraged Smeòrach carried on up the trail as fast as his hooves woul
d carry him.

  ***

  The brigand leader walked over and put the crippled Midnight to death with a single deft thrust to the heart. He peered at the don, then wiped his sword on the animal without bothering to administer another coup de grace. He took a longer, warier look at Toby.

  The world had not quite stopped spinning. He had managed to rub most of the mud out of his eyes but had not yet catalogued all his scrapes and bruises. Still too sick and shocked from the impact to think of sitting up, he returned the brigand's calculating stare as well as he could from ground level.

  Total disaster! In three years of wild adventuring, he had never failed so hopelessly. Even in his visions of Oreste's dungeon or the Inquisition's torture chamber he had been alone, whereas here he must endure the reproach of friends who had depended on him. Now he could appreciate Brother Bernat's warning that he would no longer have the hob to defend him. Worst of all, he had accepted the old man's word for it that next time the hob would take him over permanently. He might have been wrong. It had never done so before. For the others' sake, Toby should have risked possession. The don had done the honorable thing, while he must live with his guilt—Montserrat piled on Mezquiriz.

  Only the monotonous hiss of the rain disturbed the silence of the forest. Then Doña Francisca threw herself on top of her son with a wail. His helmet had fallen off; his auburn hair trailed in the mud. He was either dead or stunned.

  The surviving members of the company arrived on foot—Pepita, Josep, Gracia, Senora Collel, and Hamish leaning on Jacques's shoulder. Brigands closed in around them with drawn swords. Others had already taken charge of the horses, moving as if they had performed this operation many times.

  Toby sat up—carefully and painfully.

  "That's far enough, sonny!" snapped the leader. "Jose, keep an eye on this one. If he as much as twitches, kill him."

  "With pleasure, Caudillo." The nearest guard took up position in front of Toby, aiming a cocked crossbow at him. He was a rangy youth with a nasty leer on his unshaven face. "It will not be a difficult shot."

  Toby groaned and just sat where he was in the mud. The spinning slowed.

  Night and fog were closing in. Vague shapes of horses jingled and splashed as they were led away down the road. The captives huddled together at the verge, surrounded by their grinning captors. Some of the brigands dragged Francisca off the don and began searching his body for valuables. The monk lay where he had fallen, ignored.

  The caudillo stepped up to Gracia and leered. "You're worth keeping. You'll come with us." He raised his voice. "The rest of you take your clothes off—all of them."

  "That is barbaric!" Toby roared.

  "Kill him if he speaks again, Jose."

  "You promised not to harm us—"

  "I promised nothing. Shoot him at the next word, Jose. That's an order."

  Toby stared up helplessly at Jose's teeth and eyes shining mockingly in the gloom.

  The caudillo sneered down at him. "Too late for heroics, little boy. You can keep your lives if you behave, but that's all. Nothing more. The run up to the monastery will warm you. This one has a treat in store for her." He poked a finger at Gracia's bottle. "What's in this?"

  She clutched it with both hands and tried to step back, but there was a tree right behind her. "Nothing, senor!" she wailed.

  "Nothing?" The caudillo seized the bottle in one hand and her throat in the other. With a yank, he broke the thong and snatched it from her grasp.

  Gracia screamed and tried to reach for it. Toby ground his teeth, horribly aware that any visible move would provoke the twitch of Jose's trigger finger that would end everything. At his back, his hand groped the gravel in search of a rock small enough to throw, large enough to damage...

  The caudillo pulled out the stopper and tilted the bottle. Nothing emerged. He snorted and tossed it over his shoulder. It shattered. "We'll fill your flask for you tonight, senorita. I told the rest of you to take your clothes off. Do I have to kill one of you to get..." He turned and peered up the road. "What's that noise?"

  The crossbow menacing Toby fell away as Jose stepped back, staring fixedly at something in the woods. His eyes seemed uncannily bright in the gloom. "Oh, no!" he wailed. "No, no!"

  Toby risked a quick glance around and saw nothing behind him except darkness and tree trunks. What was going on?

  With a shrill scream, the caudillo drew his sword. "Leave me alone! Begone!" He parried like a fencer, then began slashing and leaping as if beset by invisible foes, gradually drawing away from the captives.

  More of the brigands cried out and started flailing pikes or swords at the fog. Their frenzy grew wilder, their screams of terror louder. Metal clashed against metal. The prisoners were being totally ignored. Injuries forgotten, Toby lurched to his feet and made a dive for a fallen sword. He came back armed and much happier for it, although he could see that there would soon be no enemies left. His friends huddled in around him, as if he could defend them from what was happening. Gracia clutched at him, and he put an arm around her.

  "The voices!" she cried. "Oh, do you hear them, senor? Do you hear what they are saying?"

  "I hear nothing." But he could feel the hair on his scalp stir.

  Pepita's squeal sounded more like laughter than fright. Senora Collel shrieked wordlessly and kept on shrieking until Toby gave her a shove. "Be quiet!" he said. "Will you draw attention to us?" She choked into silence.

  There was no escape, for the road was blocked in both directions by cavorting weapon-wielding madmen, whose windmill strokes were inevitably starting to find flesh-and-blood victims. Screams of terror were being overwhelmed by screams of agony and mindless rage. Jose was still the closest; he swung his bow like a club at a swordsman, who turned on him with a string of lurid oaths. The two of them engaged in a wild duel, bow against sword, both slashing ineptly as if they could not see each other properly, both shrieking hysterically.

  "Villains! Monsters!" the caudillo bellowed. "I will not accept your lies!" He felled Jose from behind. The other man promptly reversed his sword and threw himself on it. A crossbow bolt thudded into the caudillo's breastplate, toppling him backward. He kicked a few times and then lay still.

  It was almost over. A few vague figures still screamed and howled in the fog, battling one another without mercy or any visible reason. When they lost their weapons they went for each other with bare hands, punching and strangling, battering heads on rocks. Several hurled themselves over the edge of the track, their yells dying away in thuds and crashes among the trees on the slope below.

  "Wraiths?" Hamish said. "Can you see them, senora?"

  "I can hear my voices!" Gracia cried.

  "Victory!" Josep cried shrilly. "Senora de Gomez has defeated them!"

  The last two brigands rushed at each other in a duel, shrieking nonsensical insults, hacking wildly with no attempt to parry. One dropped, the other took a couple of paces and pitched headlong to the ground. The gurgling cries of pain died away into silence.

  It was over, all over. Incredibly, the enemy had destroyed themselves in their madness, to the last man. No one would mourn them, but they might have claimed two worthy lives in their villainy, and those lay heavy on Toby's mind. He had come to like the mad don and admire him. Lately he had even come to terms with the crusty old monk. In fact, if not in name, Toby had been in charge, so their loss was on his conscience now. He also owed Gracia a profound apology for doubting her and her voices.

  More screaming... in the distance, farther down the hill.

  "Listen!" Josep shouted. "The wraiths have gone to rescue our horses." His voice cracked with fear or excitement.

  Pepita laughed. "They will drive them back to us!" She was much less upset than any of the adults. "Those bad men were fighting ghosts. Did you see, Toby? Their swords went right through them!"

  "I did not see, but I guessed." He saw that Doña Francisca was kneeling over her son again. "Is he alive?"

  "I believe so
, senor."

  "I am glad."

  The don was young and fit, and all he had suffered was a fall. Was there any chance that Father Guillem had survived? Stepping over corpses, picking his way through the slaughter, Toby set off down the road to where the acolyte lay beside his horse. Everyone except Francisca came after him, wanting the comfort of his presence. He was a failure and a coward, but he was all they had.

  He squatted to lay fingers against the stricken man's throat. Astonishingly he found a pulse—weak but regular, not the fluttering uncertain beat of a dying heart. Although it was hard to tell in the gloom, he could see no trace of a wound, or even injuries. Another miracle? He felt anger surging and struggled to suppress it.

  He rose. "Father Guillem's still alive! We must get him to the sanctuary as fast as possible."

  "I do not think that will be necessary," Hamish said quietly. "Listen."

  Hooves clinked and splashed on the downhill bend—apparently the horses were returning as Pepita had predicted. But there were voices from the opposite direction. Balls of brightness in the fog came into view around the corner and gradually resolved into flaming torches as they approached, a dozen or more of them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The five at the front were nuns in black robes and head cloths, and although four of them held lanterns, almost nothing of their faces could be seen. They halted a few feet from the huddle of pilgrims and just stared at Toby, who had remained standing when his companions knelt. The one in the center was taller and probably younger than the others. She carried no light, but the rain around her glimmered with another sort of brightness.

  Behind them came a dozen monks in the black robes of Benedictines with their hoods raised against the drizzle, so that the flicker of their torches showed only disembodied faces floating in the gathering dark. They divided into two lines and took up position like a guard of honor along either side of the road, shedding light on the battlefield. More monks without torches followed them.