by Dave Duncan
"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.
5
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.
"Is this not wonderful!" Gracia enthused, reaching up to pull on Toby's arm. "After so many troubles, to find sanctuary! And the wraiths tell me that Montserrat will cherish them... . " She prattled on.
Toby kept his attention on the silent women and especially the one with the golden shimmer around her. So this was the famous tutelary of Montserrat! Why had it not intervened sooner to prevent so much anguish and so many deaths? He felt he had a bone or two to pick with Montserrat, but it was obviously not going to speak until he behaved like a grown-up. Angrily, he threw down his sword and sank to his knees on muddy stones that felt accursedly sharp and cold through the only pair of hose he possessed.
As if that were a signal, four novices came forward bearing a litter. In reverent silence they lifted Father Guillem onto it and then bore him away up the road. Others were similarly attending to the don. Lay servants arrived with clattering, squeaky carts to remove the dead.
So the two casualties were to be cured of their injuries, were they? But why bother with the litters? Why not perform the miracles right here? Toby's own aches had almost totally disappeared. And Hamish's, also, apparently, for he was holding his head up and smiling as much as anyone, and he had not smiled all day. And that meant ...
He struggled to quell fury. That meant that the fight had been a hoax. Not an illusion, for those dead men seemed real enough. And dead enough. But a fraud, nevertheless. The arrogance of it! The callous, deliberate slaughter! A tutelary should never allow such evil things to happen within its domain! Father Guillem had known that, but Montserrat had silenced Father Guillem before he said too much. Montserrat had been playing tricks—evil, evil tricks. Why? Something to do with Toby Longdirk, certainly. Dangerous tricks. The brigands might have provoked the hob into another rampage, putting everyone at risk. What had happened to the hob, which had always shunned tutelaries in the past?
The incarnation spoke, her voice clear and cold like the note of a bell, a voice to brook no argument. But she addressed the words to the night, not to anyone in particular. Her eyes were closed.
"Pepita, you would be welcome here for Brother Bernat's sake, but you are equally welcome for you own. Stay with us and be cherished."
Pepita beamed. "I like you! You make me see rainbows." She ran forward. One of the older women smiled and bent to hug the sodden bundle, then scooped her up and carried her away. As they disappeared from view, a childish voice shouted: "'Bye, Toby!"
"'Bye, Pepita," he shouted. "Spirits bless you."
"Gracia," said the spirit, "Margarita, Josep, Hamish ... and Tobias. You may rise." It fell silent until they did so. Perhaps it spoke then in confidence to Hamish, for he suddenly pulled off his bandage and grinned at the incarnation with all the stupefied adoration of a spaniel.
The last bodies were being wheeled away; the last of the pilgrims' horses led off. The monks with the torches remained, human candlesticks to illuminate the proceedings. Somewhere higher on the hill a large wagon squeaked and rattled. And more feet, more hooves? Unless there was a freak echo at this spot, it sounded as if two minor armies were approaching, one up the hill and one down, and they were going to meet right at Toby Longdirk. That could not be coincidence.
The rain was growing heavier.
"You come seeking sanctuary," the spirit said. "But your petition has already been contested. Antonio?"
Surely a monastery wouldn't throw a man out in the hills on a night like this without even Smeòrach? Why couldn't they all go indoors and hold this meeting in front of a roaring fire of pine logs?
Many men had halted in the background, their weapons and armor glinting faint reflections of the torchlight. The Antonio the spirit had summoned marched forward out of the darkness. He saluted the incarnation, then stared at Toby with only a faint trace of curiosity in his customary granitic expression.
It felt much like an uppercut to the jaw. Toby knew Captain Diaz of the Palau Reial in Barcelona, but Captain Di
az would not recall their previous meetings, because they had never happened.
"Repeat your concerns, Antonio," the incarnation said, eyes still closed.
"Your Holiness has already seen the document. I have a warrant for the arrest of the foreigners Tobias Longdirk and Hamish Campbell."
Toby shrugged with as much unconcern as he could manage, sending numerous trickles of water racing down his back. He wished his insides felt as cool as his outside. "On what charge?"
"No charge is specified. You are to be detained by order of his Excellency the viceroy."
Toby spared a glance for Hamish—who returned a grim scowl—then addressed the incarnation. "Holiness, I appeal for sanctuary! This is gross injustice."
"We agree. Catalans cherish their ancient freedoms. Antonio, you must present a reason."
Diaz frowned, and if he had been a man who showed emotion it would probably have been surprise. Surely he had not expected the tutelary to hand over a suppliant without cause? Or had he already been assured that in this case it would? The stench of trap was unmistakable.
"The civil power's warrant is cause enough, Holiness, when it deems that lives are in jeopardy."
"If Oreste can be so arbitrary, then so can we. We require you to give us a specific reason."
Another voice intervened before Diaz could respond, a voice whose rasp of age did not lessen its deep authority: "I can present a reason. Captain Diaz is acting on my behalf. The man Longdirk is possessed by a demon." Out from behind the soldiers came a tall, elderly Dominican.
Randal's first punch. The first and last bout in Longdirk's brief career as a professional prizefighter had opened with a sickening lesson in just how hard a man could hit a boy. This punch felt even harder. He had been told repeatedly that tutelaries would never have dealings with the Inquisition. Why must he always turn out to be the exception to every rule?
The old man's pouched eyes inspected him, then a smile like a sword cut parted the skull face. "There can be no question that this creature belongs to the Inquisition, Holiness."
"No question?" For the first time the spirit lost a little of its inhuman calm. "There can be no question that our authority is paramount within our domain! Do you dare dispute this, Vespianaso?"
Hamish recognized the name and muttered something fiery under his breath.
The friar's bow was perfunctory. "Of course not, Holiness. But unless you plan to retain him here, then you must hand Longdirk over to the appropriate authority outside, and in all Spain that proper authority is the Inquisition." He cupped his hands and blew into them to warm them.
"This is not our concern!" Senora Collel cried. "I have no truck with demons! Holiness, I beg you —"
"Be silent, Margarita! The rest of you may be required as witnesses, depending on our decision. Tobias, do you deny the charge?"
Surprise! Perhaps there was hope after all?—if Montserrat was willing to defy both Oreste and the Inquisition. Again he wondered whose were the feet and hooves coming up the hill. It was late for anyone to be on the road, especially in such weather. Things were happening too quickly.
Still, he had no choice now but to gamble on the tutelary's honesty, no matter what tricks it had been playing earlier.
"Yes, I deny the charge."
"State your case, Vespianaso."
The friar shrugged as if that would be a waste of time. "The man was identified as a creature years ago in his native land. He has been pursued across all Europe, spreading death and destruction in his wake. He was indicted again in Castile this summer and escaped again. We set up a checkpoint to intercept him near Tortosa. It was wiped out. Thirty-four men died. I am surprised that your Holiness would even —"
"This is all hearsay. Have you witnesses?"
The rain that sizzled in the torches was driving hard in Toby's face, but more than cold was making him shiver. Yes, there were witnesses: Gracia, Josep, Collel, and the others now up at the monastery. He must not let them be dragged into the Inquisition's coils.
"I do not deny that I was there, or that the men died. But I am not possessed of a demon."
"In that case," inquired the inquisitor with heavy sarcasm, "I assume Captain Diaz is here to enlist you?"
Tobias," the incarnation said, "you quibble about the nature of the sprite. Do you seriously expect us to release you so that you may continue your bloody course?"
He wiped his eyes. "Brother Bernat instructed me in how to control this sprite you mention."
"Did you control it at Tortosa, or did it act without your guidance?"
That fast one-two left him no defense. He had admitted that he bore the hob. Which of them was master did not matter. "I had not yet had time to master it," he mumbled. "It is behaving itself now."
"That is only because we have subdued it. Do you regret what happened?"
Both Oreste and the Inquisition had underestimated the hob in the past, but Montserrat had centuries of experience and far greater wisdom than either of them, so perhaps the hob was truly incapacitated this time... .
He shrugged. There was no way to deceive a spirit. "Yes, in the sense that I wish they had just left me alone. I do not enjoy killing. But put me in the same circumstances again, and I would still not submit to violence. The reverend friar reversed the truth. I am not possessed, and yet I have been hunted and hounded across all Europe. For three years I have lived in dread of being stabbed through the heart by any stranger I met, and what the Inquisition planned for me was a great deal worse than that. I have the right to defend myself, do I not?" The best method of defense, he recalled, was attack: "And who are you to judge me? You slaughtered as many or more here tonight."
"That was not our doing."
"This is your domain. You let it happen."
"They came to loot and rape and so deserved the death they met. We intervened only to save innocent lives."
"You absolve yourself very glibly!" He wished the spirit would lose its temper and shout back at him, but immortals did not do that. The icy girlish voice was slaughtering him. "I was saving innocent lives at Tortosa—my own and other people's. I don't see that my actions are any different from yours."
"We are not on trial here, Tobias. You are." Punch!
"Sauce for the gander is not sauce for the goose?"
Hamish thumped his arm with a warning growl. "Be respectful, you big oaf!"
"Why should I be respectful? If this is a trial, then the judge should be in the dock with the accused. I was being threatened with the most humiliating and painful death imaginable. Does an immortal deny a mortal the right to defend his life?"
"We do if he is deserving of death," the spirit said. "The men you slaughtered were doing their duty, legally and morally."
"You call torture moral?"
"Would you have submitted had the penalty been beheading?"
Punch! Feeling as if all the breath had been knocked out of him, Toby again wiped his face with a sodden sleeve. He could never win a battle of wits against one of the wisest tutelaries in all Europe. If this went on long enough he would freeze to death.
"It wasn't!" he shouted. "It was torture. You argue in circles. I deserve death because I defend myself from being put to death for defending myself?"
"And what were you defending yourself from at Mezquiriz?" the spirit persisted in the same calm tones. "What threat to you were the sailors on the Maid of Arran? Or the women who died in Bordeaux? Or the soldiers at Limoges ... "
Punch, punch, punch! He would not survive much more of this. Perhaps the tutelary was dragging all the details from his own memory. The incarnation's eyes were still closed, but the nuns attending her and the monks with torches all stared at him in wide-eyed horror.
He found his voice; it sounded strange to him. "You know that the hob is not a demon."
"Tell that to the dead in Mezquiriz. Tell them in Tortosa. You may not think of the sprite as a demon, but who else can agree with you?"
"Brother Bernat did!"
&nb
sp; "We are not bound by his conclusions," the spirit said. "He was fallible."
"And you are not? The hob's motives —"
"The hob's motives do not matter, only its actions. Your promises to make it behave in future are not credible. You show no repentance. We judge you to be possessed."
Now he was on the ropes!
For a moment no one spoke. He caught Hamish's eye and answered the horror in it with a shrug. There was certainly some truth in what the tutelary said—the hob could be very demonic at times. If he were just given time to learn the techniques Brother Bernat had taught him ... but he might never succeed, and every failure would risk more innocent lives. Toby Longdirk was not guilty of anything except wanting to go on living, and the hob would not have let him kill himself anyway. Could it rescue him from the Inquisition again? This time, after Tortosa, the inquisitors would be very careful.
"So you will hand the creature over to us, Holiness?" Father Vespianaso inquired, rubbing his skeletal hands. He looked pleased.
"Unless the man asks us to exorcize the demon, or sprite, or hob, or whatever he chooses to call it."
Hope pealed like thunder. Toby came out with fists flailing. "Is that possible. Holiness? I have been wanting that for years!"
"It is possible," said the incarnation. "You had time to become acquainted with Jacques?"
Oh, bloody demons! Knockout!
6
Jacques! Toby had completely forgotten the inexplicable messenger and had not seen him since the ambush, but he was inexplicable no longer, and neither was his message. This was the worst blow yet. He stared in revulsion as the gardener-cleaner-porter came shuffling in through the misty rain with a bemused smile on his empty face. Horror, horror!
"He is broken," Pepita had said.
