by Dave Duncan
The adept gathered his scarlet robes more tightly over his little paunch as he thought about that. "What guarantees would you give that the demons be used for that purpose only?" he asked suspiciously.
A gleam of hope flickered. "Any guarantees Your Eminence requires."
Heavy lids drooped over the fishy eyes. "And if I require you to pledge your life on it?" the cardinal asked softly.
"I will pledge."
"You will swear?"
"I will swear."
The little man's voice grew quieter yet. "Would you submit to a stronger charge than that?"
So much for the doctrine that the College never indulged in gramarye. Toby doubted that the hob would allow him to be hexed with a lethal conjuration, but if he breathed a word about the hob to this pompous little parasite, he would find himself with an iron blade through his heart in very short order.
"Anything Your Eminence requires." He hoped that the hob, if it did rebel, would begin by frying Ricciardo Cardinal Marradi in batter.
"Mm." The arch-acolyte seemed almost disappointed. "I shall discuss this proposal with my colleagues. Return in four days at the same hour, and I will let you know then of Their Eminences' decision. If it is favorable, I may even have some material for you to transport to your hexer, Fischart. I warn you that you will be the one pledged for their proper use and safe return."
* * *
The College, or some powerful faction within the College, did accept the agreement. Even more surprising, the hob did not object to the binding, and Toby had returned from his second trip to Tivoli carrying the squirrel's horde, a sack of jewels so heavy that even he could barely lift it single-handed.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Without warning the mists wavered, and the hoofbeats lost their odd metallic note. Trees came into view, at first like wraiths and then more distinct. A wall, a gate... reality returned at the wooded uphill edge of the muddy, disfigured slope where the Don Ramon Company had camped for half a year.
Smeòrach rarely made a fuss entering the Unplace, but coming out of it was another matter. There were dangers in the real world, in this case shrubbery, walls, many men on horses, and a foul reek of burning. He brayed, bucked, and kicked up his heels. Toby was no Don Ramon. He was an adequate horseman at best, and he had no saddle. He hit the real world with a crack that blew all the air out of his lungs. Chabi went in search of a tree. Demons! That was not exactly a dignified way to begin a war. His linen armor had saved him from serious hurt, but he needed a moment to let the sky and branches stop spinning.
A banner bearing the winged lion of Venice came into view, being carried by a puzzled-looking young gonfalonier on a white horse. A knight in full armor on an armored destrier appeared beside him.
"Hawking with an owl?" inquired the mocking tones of Captain-General Alfredo. "In daylight? How many mice today, messer?"
Ignoring the scorn for the moment, Toby sat up and took stock. The villa had been sacked the previous morning—he had seen the smoke then, and now he could smell it and view the charred remains. But the Fiend's troops had moved on, and in the night Alfredo's had come, the army of Venice that had been treading on Nevil's heels all the way from Bologna. The wood was full of knights and their warhorses, and there would be companies of infantry behind them. This was a small host compared to Nevil's multitude, although it included men of Padua, Verona, Ferrara, and many humbler towns. Even villages and hamlets had sent their youth to Florence to fight the Fiend.
To his left, the dozen or so hooded figures in white robes were Maestro Fischart and his hexers. Downslope, Smeòrach was still playing the fool, and no one had dared to go after him because they all thought he was demonized. Toby put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The first edge of the sun blazed on the horizon, but there was still time, for Fiesole was very high. Dawn would come later down on the plain, where Florence glowed pink in the morning light, with no sign of war yet. Two hundred thousand men—it was a shock to realize that Nevil himself must be down there, too. For the first time in his life, Toby Longdirk was within reach of his implacable foe.
The Fiend had walked into his trap. That felt very good.
Feeling ready to face Stiletto's mockery, he scrambled to his feet. "Good day to you, Captain-General. Last night the darughachi appointed me comandante of the armies of Italy."
A careful smile appeared under Alfredo's visor. "Officially at last? Congratulations! Well earned. And what orders have you for us today, Your Excellency?" As if he did not know.
"Just one, messer." Toby pointed to the enemy. "Kill!"
Alfredo's grin became more convincing. He raised his silver baton in salute. "It shall be done, comandante. Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!"
Toby turned to give Smeòrach a pat, then heaved himself onto the big oaf's sweat-slick back. Chabi wheeled down to his shoulder as he rode over to the waiting hexers. Volunteers they all were, officially, and he had not asked where Fischart had found them, but he was confident that most of them were skilled adepts, so he had already bent his oath to the cardinal very badly. He intended to break it into tiny fragments shortly. Four of the thirteen were women, and two of the others seemed barely more than boys. Most were keeping their hands out of sight inside their sleeves, but he knew that their fingers were weighted with rings, and they had chains of assorted gems hung around their necks under their robes. With this huge spiritual artillery they had concealed an army of more than fifty thousand from the Fiend's demons.
Fischart hurried forward to meet him, white robe swirling around his ankles. For once the grim old man was smiling, if that wolflike snarl could be called a smile. Nothing in his world mattered except fighting the Fiend, and he was about to inflict on that monster the worst shock he had ever had.
"Success!" he shouted as he approached. "We did it! Not a sign of alarm. No gramarye yet."
Drums were beating, bugles sounding, as the army of Venice prepared to move out down the hill.
"Magnificent! My congratulations to your associates. Lift the shield when the sun is one fingerswidth above the hills."
"The men won't be in contact with the enemy by then."
"You heard my order. Use no more gramarye until battle is joined or the enemy looses his demons."
Still panting from his run, the hexer scowled up at him. "You are hiding things from me!"
"I am comandante. I'll hide anything I want from anyone." Including, reasonably enough, himself. "I don't explain orders on battlefields, Maestro. I trust you to obey and do your best." He saluted the line of hexers, wheeled Smeòrach, and urged him forward into the Unplace.
* * *
After the morning light, the Unplace seemed like a fog at midnight. Smeòrach's trotting hooves rang in a steady refrain.
"How do you know where you are going without a guide?" asked Sorghie's voice.
"I don't know. Don't know how I know, I mean. I seem to be my own familiar."
"And what secrets are you keeping from the man in the white robe?"
"The same ones I am keeping from you."
His helmet saved him from suffering a bitten ear at that point. Instead, the owl leaned under the brim and nipped his nose, which was no improvement.
"Stop that!"
"Will you tell me now, or must I hurt you more?"
"Well. It's a long story," he said. He did not know what the truth of it was. The cardinal had no reason except personal spite to want him dead. The hob probably would not have tolerated a real death hex. Enchantments on people faded quickly, and it was more than two months since his second trip to Tivoli—although Marradi might have renewed the gramarye when he was in Florence in March.
Before he had to answer, Smeòrach left the Unplace, trotting out of the mists onto green pasture. This time Toby calmed him and kept him under control, although he could no more have explained how he did it than he understood his own navigation. It seemed his wishes were commands now.
They were on the north bank of the Arno
, a league or so downstream from Nevil's invading army—less than a league, for he could make out individual tents in the Fiend's camp. But vision could be deceptive here, for when he looked around, he was only a bowshot away from another army, already advancing at a slow march to the beat of a drum, and obviously the enemy had not seen it, nor the camp behind it. He turned Smeòrach and cantered to meet the vanguard. His appearance had coincided with the moment when the first sliver of the sun's disk peeked over the ridge, and a great cheer went up to greet him.
Wonderful, wonderful sight! This was to be Longdirk's day even if it killed him, as it might do very shortly. Here was an army larger than the one he had led at Trent, yet still merely a quarter of the forces he was now sending into battle. Even if he lost, he would be remembered for having achieved one of the greatest surprises in military history, while if he won... Time enough to think about that when he did.
He was surprised that Ercole had put his cavalry squadrons on the right and the infantry marching in six battles on the left. He would have placed the men-at-arms on the other wing, so the river would protect their flank, but doubtless the old warrior had his reasons. Out in front rumbled the carroccio, a flat-bottomed, rectangular cart, garishly painted and drawn by two armored oxen. Traditionally the hexers rode in this absurd battle wagon, but it was also a mobile headquarters and a symbol of sovereignty. The finest troops in the army would guard the carroccio and perish to the last man around it if need be. Above it floated the serpent banner of Milan.
There were other banners in the background—Savoy and Genoa, Pisa and Lucca, others, too. All the ancient rivalries had been set aside, and for that Toby could claim no credit. Well, perhaps a little bit. They had rallied to the standard he had raised.
Ercole Abonio was riding forward to meet him, accompanied by a knight whose surcoat bore the blazon of the Black Lances and who must therefore be di Gramasci. Two of the finest military leaders in Europe roared a welcome as soon as they were within earshot. In the far distance, cannons rumbled a reply. He glanced around, but it was too soon to discern smoke. He hoped it signified only Florence's defenders warning off an attack, not the battery on San Miniato opening fire on the city.
"I was getting worried!" Ercole shouted.
"I couldn't find a clean shirt!"
He halted, and they reined in on either side of him, eyeing the owl on his shoulder with surprise and noting the curious absence of a saddle, but the terror-thrill of upcoming battle was making them beam like children under their raised visors. On closer inspection their faces also showed the wear and tear of the long forced march, although less on the condottiere's, for he was the younger. Abonio had visibly aged since the conclave at Cafaggiolo, a month ago. No matter, Nevil's army had come farther and would be even wearier.
"You're late," the old collaterale said. "Trouble?"
"No trouble." The comandante just forgot what he was doing, that was all. "That's a truly dainty army you gentlemen have brought. Why don't you go and do something useful with it now?"
"We await only your word, Sir Tobiaso." Di Gramasci was not normally pompous. Did even these seasoned veterans suffer from battle nerves?
"Then here it is: Destroy the enemy! Have your hexers drop their shielding when the carroccio reaches that tree. Tell them to do nothing more until the fighting starts. That's important."
The two men exchanged puzzled glances, but did not argue.
Di Gramasci raised his baton in salute. "As you command, signore!"
But Ercole hesitated. "Forgive me if I ask one last time, lad. Must it still be no quarter?"
He was a good man, Abonio, an honorable soldier who had been loyal to his cousin the duke all his adult life. This savage new warfare was foreign to him, hard to take. Even Toby's heart twisted at the thought of the orders he had given, the suffering he must now cause. The two of them had argued this through most of the night at one of their secret midnight meetings in Milan, but Toby's view had prevailed in the end and must prevail now.
"You know what quarter the Fiend gives. Your orders are to show no mercy whatsoever. Announce that any man doing so is to be shot. Let the burden be on my soul."
He turned Smeòrach away and rode off into the Unplace.
* * *
The mists had hardly swallowed them before Chabi asked, "Why must there be no quarter?"
"Because it must." Did she think he could not feel pity? She did not see the visions he saw, of thousands and tens of thousands of Nevil's troops surviving as lordless fugitives, starving outlaws, rabid dog packs overrunning Italy. There was no way to imprison so many, no money nor organization to escort them back to their own lands.
"Why is it important that the hexers do nothing before the fighting starts?"
"Because it is." What had he forgotten, or overlooked? If the cardinal's hex killed him soon, as it well might, could the alliance forge ahead to victory without him?
After a moment the shaman—or her familiar, or perhaps it was both of them—tried again. "Why did you suffer when we took you into the spirit world? Where did the pain come from?"
"An old memory." Perhaps he should have designated a deputy to take over if he fell, but it would probably have been a fruitless exercise. The coming carnage would be so confused and catastrophic that each of the six armies in the coalition would have to fend for itself. With the Magnificent dead, Sartaq would try to take more power into his own hands. He might even succeed, for he was a very shrewd and devious young...
Talons digging into his jerkin, the owl flapped her wings and screeched, much too close to his ear, even with the steel helmet between them. "Why do you not trust me? Did I not help you find your lost self? Where would you be now, who would you be without my help? What would have happened to your war?"
Women! And birds, for that matter. But Sorghaghtani did have a claim on him today.
"The demons the hexers are using were loaned to me by the College. I swore a solemn oath that they would be used only to make the armies invisible while they were assembling. They are not to be used for any other purpose, not even to heal wounded. I agreed to this because I had to, but I did not tell Maestro Fischart of the terms, so he has prepared his minions to take part in the battle."
Smeòrach's hooves rang in the silence for what seemed like a long time before the owl said, "You will break your solemn oath?"
"It has been broken. I have no way to stop the hexers now, and they would not obey me if I tried. You think they would stand by and watch Nevil's demons destroy living men? Or watch men bleed to death when they can be healed? That is a greater evil."
Chabi shifted feet on his shoulder. "Does the College not know this?"
"Yes, but the cardinal who provided the demons probably did so without proper authority. His crime can remain a secret only if I limit their use as he required. But I am not going to, so he will be exposed, and important people will discover that he broke his oath."
"How does that explain the orders you gave? Why should it matter if your oath is seen to be broken now or in a little while from now?"
Before he could think of suitable words to explain about the death hex, Smeòrach trotted out into sunlight. Now they were on the hills south of the city, on the downstream side, not half a league from the Porta San Giorgio, and the cannon fire was an almost continuous rumble. As far as he could see, all the smoke was rising from the gun towers on the walls of Florence, so it was still defensive fire. Nothing showed yet on the crest of San Miniato.
The Roman contingent was small but so well supported by its own hexer auxiliaries that Villari had dared to pitch camp almost on top of the enemy. Whatever his personal faults, the abrasive captain-general was a fighting cock. He had not waited for Toby's signal. His infantry was advancing with band playing, and his cavalry was already down in among the Fiend's baggage train, silencing a ragged rattle of arquebus fire. The cats were out of the bag, and Toby could wish he was back on the dome of the sanctuary hearing the excited screams of th
e Florentines as their deliverance poured into view from all directions.
Or in the fight, even better.
It would be even nicer to hear what King Nevil was saying at the moment. He had arranged his whole gigantic army facing inward to assault Florence and now had the impossible problem of turning it inside out to face an attack from the rear while it was already under fire. He would not panic, but his mortal minions must be in chaos already.
The Romans had shared their camp with lesser bands from Siena and Perugia, and the lion rampant banner of Florence still fluttered over Don Ramon and his cavalry. He probably would not have restrained himself more than another few minutes, but he did not have to. The ground trembled as he brought the monstrous armored Brutus galloping across the field to meet Toby. Excitement flashed in his blue eyes as bright as dawn on his shining armor.
"Comandante! At last!" He ignored the owl.
"Senor! All is as planned, except that the guns are on wheels. If they manage to turn them on you before you get there, you will be in grave danger."
The don's brief scowl brightened. "But then when we take them, we can turn them on the Fiend!"
"I hope you do. I ordered the sortie to aid you, and it will include cannoneers. Good luck, Captain-General."
"San Miniato is yours, comandante!" Don Ramon wheeled the great warhorse and cantered back to his command.
That left only the big Neapolitan contingent two hills over. Poor Paride Mezzo had stayed home, sending word that he would be less trouble to everyone if he died in his own bed, and the king had appointed Desjardins captain-general. That pugnacious warrior would almost certainly be on his way to join the battle by now, but he should still be given the signal promised. Toby kicked Smeòrach into a canter that took him back into the Unplace.
There was a sixth force in the Allied army, but it was far away...
"Why are you laughing, Little One?"
