The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  "The inquisitor warns the accused that the pain will be increased."

  One tormentor held the prisoner immobile by pressing on the ends of the bar in his mouth while the others lashed stone weights to his ankles.

  4

  His arms were free. The gag was gone. "Senor, what is the matter?" Wasn't that Eulalia's voice? Grass? Horrified faces against the sky: Josep, Miguel ... Hamish shouting, "Demons, Toby, what's wrong?"

  "What is going on? Stand aside!" ordered Don Ramon.

  Everyone scrambled out of the way, leaving only Hamish kneeling there, holding the leather water bottle to Toby's mouth.

  He choked and spluttered and spat out blood. He was flat on his back on the grass and could not even think of rising—to do so would mean moving his arms. His throat was so raw with screaming that he could not speak, but he could laugh, a pathetic little animal whimper of laughter to celebrate his escape from the Inquisition. It might not work this way when the events really happened, sometime in the future, but it was real now. What he had just endured had been only another vision. He was safely back with the pilgrims and could worry about the Dominicans another day. Life was worth living again.

  "We do not know what happened, senor!" That was Josep, his voice shrill with worry. "We were rounding up the horses and the captain cried out and fell. We ran over at once. He seems to be injured."

  Now there was a massive understatement! Would he ever lift his arms again? Both shoulders burned and throbbed savagely, but the left was worse than the right, not just more painful but distorted, as if the bone was out of its socket. What sort of protector was he now? Two days since Salvador Brusi died, two days of being a hero to them, and now he was a useless cripple. How long would the pain be this bad?

  "I was only a few paces from him, senor." That was Gracia. "He just dropped."

  "Well, sit him up."

  Toby made croaking noises and shook his head violently.

  "It may well be that a demon has cursed him!" the don announced, and his audience moaned fearfully. "Bring Father Guillem."

  Hamish laid a hand on the patient's forehead. "I believe it may be a sudden fever, senor. Perhaps Brother Bernat could be summoned? He is skilled at healing."

  The chorus backed away, for memories of the plague were still strong in Aragon.

  "We shall send both," said the don. "Collect the horses. Strike camp. We cannot wait here all day. Load the wounded into the hospital wagons."

  The pilgrims ran. In a moment there was only Hamish kneeling there in the field, his face pallid with worry under his deep tan, lank hair dangling over his eyes. "Another vision?"

  Toby grunted and nodded.

  "It could only have lasted a couple of seconds. I saw you."

  "No! Longer." He had spent at least three nights in the stinking cell. The torture had started on the fourth day of questioning—and lasted about a hundred years. Couple of seconds?

  "Your beard's thicker!"

  Toby started to raise a hand and stopped instantly, grimacing. "Uh?"

  Hamish produced a smile that looked as if it had been slept in. "Remember we agreed we'd know it was the hob doing it if your beard came back? Well, you've got a lot more stubble than you had ten minutes ago. Several days? A week? Can't say. Don't know if anyone else will notice. If they do, they just won't believe their eyes, so it won't matter."

  Did that mean anything? Was it part of the warning, a hint that he had a few days or at most a week until the torture began? A man could grow a beard and shave it off every month for years. He did not know when the vision had been, nor where. In a town, yes, because he had heard city noises from his cell window, but Barcelona or some other?

  Hamish rose. "Here comes Brother Bernat. Do I tell him?"

  "Just him," Toby whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring voices. It was hard to think through the pain. He could probably walk if he was on his feet and had both arms in slings—it would be getting there that would be the problem.

  What he needed to know was how the Inquisition was going to catch him and how to avoid that fate, but all he had were his memories of that hour or so in the torture chamber—plus a few vaguer memories of memories. When he was shown the poster, he had been thinking that someone betrayed him ... pilgrims, these pilgrims. There had been other interrogations ... in a tent? Recalling those moments of dread and defeat when he had stripped naked before the watching tormentors and inquisitors, he realized that he had been removing the same shabby hose and doublet he wore now. The future he had foreseen was not very far off. Less than a week's beard. This was the same beard, grown longer, not next month's beard or next year's beard.

  None of this made sense! His shoulders were going to take months to heal—if they ever would heal properly—and yet there had been nothing wrong with them until the thugs began systematically wrecking him. His vision of the future seemed to have made itself impossible. Madness!

  Last night, around the campfire, the pilgrims had agreed that it could not be long now, a day or two at the most, until they reached the Ebro, the greatest river in Spain, and the only one of any size between Valencia and Barcelona. They would have to cross it on the bridge at Tortosa, which was a large town. Large enough to have an office of the Inquisition, perhaps. And where better to apprehend a suspect you have a picture of than on a bridge he must cross?

  A shadow fell over his face. He opened his eyes to see the emaciated old friar kneeling beside him. He sensed that Pepita was there, inevitably, but Hamish had been sent away.

  "This gramarye has injured you, my son—where?"

  "Shoulders," Toby whispered. "Strappado."

  Brother Bernat drew in his breath in surprise. "Who did this?"

  "The Inquisition, Brother."

  "Ah, a great evil! And your speech? Sore throat! Let me tend that first. Relax as much as you can and do not be afraid."

  Dry, cool fingers clasped Toby's neck. He felt a tingle, then a strange sensation like ice water soaking through his flesh. The fires died away to a lingering ache. Even his torn mouth stopped hurting. Spirits! This was gramarye as potent as any he had ever met.

  "Is that better?"

  "Much better, Brother! Thank you. Thank you very much. How do you do that?"

  The old man shook his head impatiently. "We have much to talk about. Ah, your wrists! But your arms must be the worst, yes? Can you sit up?"

  Toby shuddered. He took a deep breath, released it, and then performed the fastest sit-up of his life, letting his hands trail in the dirt. His shoulders exploded in thunderbolts. He did not cry out, not quite, but that was only because he knew the child was there.

  "Ah, fool that I am!" said Brother Bernat, clasping Toby's head between his hands. "Peace, my son!" The agony subsided a little. "Now I have to open your jerkin. Pepita, your fingers are faster than mine. Unlace this for the captain."

  At once Pepita was there, kneeling on his other side, looking very solemn. Her hands fluttered like butterflies: jerkin, doublet, shirt—and then she chuckled gleefully. "Look, he has hairs on his chest! And a locket! Can I see?" She reached for the little leather packet Toby wore around his neck.

  "No!" The amethyst was the thing he prized most in all the world. Granny Nan's farewell gift to him, but if this child were to try and take it, he could not lift a finger to stop her.

  "Pepita, your manners!" Brother Bernat said sharply. "That is the captain's. Leave it." With delicate, careful movements, he stripped off Toby's loose garments until he was bare to the waist. Pepita sat back and stared, but even Toby could see that his shoulders and arms were puffed out like red melons, the left one worse than the right. He had a better view of his hideously discolored elbows, his bruised and bloody wrists. His ankles felt as if they were scraped raw again inside his buskins.

  The friar muttered angrily. "This arm is out of place, my son. It may hurt when I put it back. Wait." He laid his hands on the fiery swelling, and his touch produced the same icy relief as before. "Ready?" He
pushed.

  That gentle pressure should have had no effect at all on a dislocated shoulder, but Toby heard a crunch and a thud as the bone slid back into place. Despite all he could do, a whimper escaped him, then it was over. The coolness returned. Gramarye!

  After a few moments the friar switched his attention to the other arm. "Pepita? Put your hand here. See if you can feel what I am doing." He placed his long, slender fingers over her tiny ones.

  She frowned at first, then smiled delightedly. "Yes! Yes! Can I try?"

  "By all means. Take it slowly, calmly. You work on his elbow."

  Toby had always thought that gramarye was pure evil—like the houses in Mezquiriz bursting into pillars of flame. This was pure goodness, the most blessed relief he could imagine. He did not understand, but his gratitude was infinite. He would never doubt Brother Bernat again. And although Pepita was not producing any detectable results in her efforts to copy what the old man was doing, he did not believe now that her trick with the mouse had been a trick.

  Sounds in the distance told of the pilgrims mounting and preparing to move off, then he felt the ground shake and knew the tread of Don Ramon's horse.

  "What are you doing, Brother?" demanded the arrogant voice. "And what is that child doing? Why is that man indecently exposed?"

  Exposed? Had the noble lord never seen the poor toiling in the summer fields?

  The gray-robed friar looked up, frowning. "We are invoking the good spirits of this country to heal him, senor. He injured himself when he fell."

  Still being considerate of his arms, Toby twisted around to look up at the caballero. "It is as he says, senor." His voice was hoarse, but it was a voice again.

  The don raised his eyebrows in surprise at this miraculous recovery. "Indeed? From the look of you, you fell a long way, Captain. Can you catch up to us? I mean, if I leave a wagon to carry you, you will follow soon?"

  "We shall catch up," said the friar. "Pray proceed."

  Not Hamish. He would refuse to leave without Toby.

  "If your honor would be so kind as to inform Sergeant Jaume that this is my wish, senor? The password is, 'Strath Fillan.'"

  Don Ramon nodded and tried to repeat that, although his Castilian tongue stumbled over the consonants. Looking uncharacteristically doubtful, he turned his horse and rode off without another word. The three of them were left sitting on the grass.

  "Wagon?" Toby muttered. "Is he truly crazy or just deceiving us?"

  "Attend to his actions, not what he says, my son." Unlike several other members of the company, Brother Bernat was not a gossip. "Pepita, you are doing very well. Let me finish the elbow, and you try his wrist."

  The gentle laying-on of those ancient hands brought relief from pain, the most welcome thing in the world, and yet it also brought its own shadow in the knowledge that the respite could only be temporary. A few days from now Toby would have to meet it again, and then there would be no magical escape. His flesh cringed, his courage wavered. Could he bear to remain with the pilgrims after this warning?

  "Can you walk now, my son?"

  "I think so, Brother. But my ankles ... "

  He reached down and the friar intervened, removing his buskins and then hauling his tattered hose up his shins. He clucked when he found the lacerated skin, but again his touch worked its healing magic, and this time the effects were more visible. Eventually he sat back with a sigh, looking weary for the first time in Toby's experience. The parchment face was paler than ever, the dark eyes more deeply sunk.

  "That will have to do for now, Tobias. It is not enough. I am sorry."

  "It is enough. It is wonderful. I am so grateful that I cannot find words." He was still very sore, but he was not a cripple.

  A trace of the familiar smile crept back. "You must find a lot of words."

  "I shall tell you everything, Brother, and gladly. And now I do believe that you can help me. I am very sorry I ever doubted you. Can you rid me of the hob?"

  "Hob? What is a hob?"

  Dismayed, Toby paused halfway into his shirt. "A spirit, an untrained one. Not quite an elemental but one that knows something of people. It was the spirit of the glen where I was born."

  "Ah! I understand. We call them imps." The inscrutable dark eyes studied him. "Then your problem is even worse than I suspected. No, I cannot rid you of it. I may be able to help you deal with it, though. I wish to rest here a little while, but you must tell me the whole story. And then we shall rejoin the others."

  "I shall tell you gladly, but I do not know that I wish to rejoin the others. I am sure that someone in the party betrayed me."

  Brother Bernat sighed. "I expect so, but you must not think badly of them for that, Tobias. The Inquisition is very skilled in its questioning and never betrays those who tell tales. Even an account of what happened to you here this morning would be enough to condemn you, and many people saw you fall. You are not the only person who fears the inquisitors."

  "You have endangered yourself by helping me!"

  "Don't worry about me. I have survived a long time." The old man smiled his cryptic little smile. "Now tell me everything, or I cannot advise you."

  "I shall. Now?" Where to begin? "Let's see. I was an orphan in a very small village in the hills of Scotland. The woman who raised me was what we called the witchwife ... . "

  It was a very long tale. When he came to tell how he had fled Scotland to escape Baron Oreste, the old friar heaved himself up.

  "We must start moving. You can talk on the way."

  Toby was shaky, but he could walk. There was nothing wrong with his legs, although the tormentors would doubtless have gotten to them soon enough. He tucked his hands inside the front of his jerkin, thinking that would help support the weight of his arms and ease the jarring on his shoulders. He would not want to be carrying his pack, or even his sword. Hamish would have taken care of those for him—capable, dependable Hamish. That was why he had to go on to Barcelona, to see Hamish safely on a ship. He continued with his history.

  Even the brief rest had restored Brother Bernat, for he set off at his usual distance-eating pace which so belied his frail appearance. His haggard features were intent, but he displayed no reaction to the improbable story, other than an occasional penetrating half smile. Pepita hurried along at his side, looking worried or shocked or puzzled by turns, but saying nothing.

  The pilgrims could not be very far ahead, because once Hamish came trotting into sight and stopped when he saw the stragglers. He waved. The friar waved back, and Hamish disappeared again. Then Brother Bernat slowed down a little, as if unwilling to catch up with the group before the discussion was ended.

  Toby concluded with the visions that had begun about two weeks earlier, a total of five of them now—a man in Valencia he had never met, the ghoul in the orange grove, Oreste's dungeon, the executions in Barcelona, and finally the Inquisition. There seemed to be no logic to them, no pattern, no rationality.

  "Are these prophecies, Brother, or are they madness? If they are madness, why do they injure me? If they show the future, they contradict each other. Once the Inquisition has demolished me, how can I ever become Baron Oreste's headsman?"

  "Perhaps your meeting with the Inquisition will happen later."

  "No, I was wearing these clothes, I am sure of it."

  The friar nodded. "The visions are not madness, Tobias, although they may drive you mad. They happened but did not happen. They are real and not real. They may be true or false. All they show is that you are in fearful danger. If the Inquisition may be looking out for you at Tortosa, then we shall have to scout the town very carefully before we enter it." He smiled wanly. "You are not alone in having reason to be wary of the inquisitors."

  "They are friars too."

  The old man thrust out a bony jaw. "Not of my order!"

  "I am sorry, I should not —"

  "No you shouldn't. To rid the world of demons is commendable, but if those who seek to do so use methods as evil as the
demons themselves, then where is the benefit? And if the methods do not work, then the total evil is worse than before. But peace, Tobias! Let me think on what you have said." Brother Bernat fell silent.

  5

  As they were walking past the remains of an orchard, the friar began to talk again, gazing at the road ahead and speaking so softly that he seemed to be musing aloud.

  "Like you, Tobias, I can see elementals. That is not a birthright but a knack one gains from dealing with them. You were a witchwife's child, and I have studied the spirits all my life. I don't know how old I am—ninety, perhaps more. It is too long to remain ignorant, but that is what I am. Spirits are still mysteries to me, and especially I do not know where they come from. They do not procreate as mortals do, but they must be replenished somehow, else the hexers would have stripped the world clean of them long ago. I like to think they are spontaneous manifestations of nature, outpourings of the power of life and beauty. Anywhere I have ever encountered a sprite was a place of beauty—a grove of willows, a grotto, a bend in a stream. But I don't know if the elemental is attracted to the beauty, or creates it, or is created by it."

  He smiled his patient, gentle smile, which Toby now thought was more effective than a castle wall at preserving secrets.

  "I have gathered a little lore in my time, though, and I shall share it with you if you promise not to ask any questions until I am done."

  "I should gladly promise more than that, Brother."

  "That will suffice. Most people know of only three types of spirit, although they are all varieties of the same, of course—the wild elementals, the benevolent tutelaries, and demons. It does seem unfair, doesn't it, that the evil ones are able to move around while the tutelaries remain always in their own domains? Their mobility is bought at a terrible price. Whatever the Inquisition did to you, Tobias, or would have done to you, could be nothing compared to the tortures an adept applies to a spirit to make a demon of it. And the spirit cannot even hope to die, as I am sure you did ... would, I mean. Small wonder they are so malevolent!