The Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Eric Flint

  "Yup." Manfred held his right hand above the ground, about an inch lower than the top of Sforza's curly hair. "So tall; don't think he'll get any taller." He gave Sforza's stocky form a quick once-over. "But I think he's going to wind up even thicker than you. The kid's already got the forearms of a small bear."

  For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross the condottiere's face. That was the first expression other than stoic resignation Erik had seen Sforza exhibit since the surrender ceremony began in mid-afternoon. And it was now well into sunset.

  "I haven't seen him in years." The great captain's words were almost whispered.

  "You will," predicted Manfred. He held up the hilt end of the broken sword in his left hand. There was more than a foot of the blade left. "I'll be giving this to him, when I see him next." He nodded toward the Duke of Ferrara, standing stiffly some distance away. "As his grandfather commanded. Some day?don't ever doubt it, Sforza?he'll be coming to get the rest of it."

  "And when that day comes," said Erik between tight jaws, "I strongly urge you to have found another employer. Or your guts will be the carpet he uses to get to Visconti's throat."

  Sforza's dark eyes swiveled toward him. Erik's grin was quite savage. "Believe me, Carlo Sforza. I'm an Icelander, and I know a feud when I see one. I've met Benito also."

  "I'll consider your words." The dark eyes got even harder. "I told Filippo Visconti this was a fool's errand. Damn all dukes and their complicated schemes. But… he pays well. Very well."

  Manfred snorted. "Idiot. Benito'll spill your purse before he spills the rest of you."

  "That's my boy," murmured the Wolf of the North. "Others doubted. But I never did."

  Chapter 90

  The grayness swirled thick, carrying the sounds of combat and dying. Despite everything they'd done, some of Aleri's agents had survived. Fire bloodied the fog to the south, and the smell of it was thick in the air.

  Marco turned to Kat, a heaviness in his chest, and the edge of despair in his voice. "We're losing. In spite of everything, we're losing. Count Badoero must have brought at least a thousand men. Caesare has made sure the damned militia are ineffectual. The Arsenalotti and the boat-people fight well. But this fog?it confuses everything. There's something wrong with this fog. It's like it's fighting for them."

  "It feels heavy. Not natural," said Kat. She'd acquired a cut on one cheek and two ash smudges on the other. With or without them, Marco still thought she was the most beautiful, wonderful person he'd ever met. She lightened the fog around her, and in the face of her hope and determination, he lost some of his despair. If Kat believed in him, in their cause, maybe?

  She patted his arm. "You're a good general, Marco. People rally to you."

  He pulled a face; he didn't want to be a general, and it wasn't what he was good at. If only there was something he could do to make a bigger difference than merely whacking at people he'd rather be meeting over a glass of wine at a taverna! "Benito is twice the organizer. And I hate this killing."

  Someone came running out of the fog. It was Rafael, gasping for breath. "Luciano says… needs you… the Marciana…"

  They headed across at a run. They weren't that far from San Marco anyway.

  Rafael led them upstairs to a room, and they burst through the door. Sigils and arcane symbols were chalked on the floor and all three of them came to an abrupt halt before they so much as touched a toe to one of those sigils. A complex triple circle with squares at the cardinal points and an internal octagon occupied the center of the room?that wasn't chalked, it was inlaid onto the floor of the room.

  This is a?a working chamber, Marco realized. A place for magic, and nothing else. Christian magic? Jewish? Strega? All three, perhaps? There was some overlap?more than just some if Brother Mascoli was to be believed. Emeralds twinkled from the cardinal square nearest them?sapphires from the one across the room?topaz to the left and rubies to the right. The lines of the diagrams were laid out in?gold and silver? Well, for some Strega magic, the magic with the purest intentions that called only great spirits, silver and gold were a good thing, not something to be avoided. Silver for Diana, and gold for Dianus. Or silver for the Moon and gold for the Stars. Or silver for Earth and gold for Heaven. The jewels glittered, and the whole of the diagrams seemed to scintillate. The boundaries weren't fully up yet, but the energies that would create the walls between the realms weren't white, they were opalescent, rainbowed. The air was thick with incense.

  Luciano, clad in a long white robe, loomed out of the scented smoke. He looked old and tired?older than Marco had ever seen him before. And frail. His skin seemed translucent, as if the motral part of him was wearing thin and his soul shining through it. "Are we winning?"

  Marco sighed, and shook his head, despair once again pressing down on him. "No. We have more men, but Badoero and Caesare are just too damned good. And they have the certainty of more men coming. Kat's grandfather got the message off to Trieste?if that works, at least we won't have to deal with the rest of the Knots. Manfred and Erik and Lopez rode off to try to save the Polestine forts from that nun. We won't know for some time whether Sforza is on his way here with the Milanese. In the meantime, we're fighting fires?and each other, often enough?in this damned fog."

  Luciano's lips thinned with anger. "It is indeed a 'damned fog.' It is caused by Chernobog, working through someone here in Venice. Lucrezia Brunelli, I would think, is the only one powerful enough to do it alone. But she's supposed to have left the city, so perhaps it is several mages working together. The only good thing about it is that it's taking nearly all of their energy. Weather magic is hard, expensive magic."

  "They've obviously got gold to burn," said Marco bitterly.

  "The expense I refer to is of magical energy," said Luciano tiredly. "And what I have been doing is also?expensive. I had hoped to avoid this, but it seems we have little choice… I will perform a summoning. If it works, it will save us. Save Venice. But it calls, of all things, for one of the Case Vecchie blood. One of the longi. And only four families are listed. Two are no more. The other two are Valdosta and Montescue."

  "What do I have to do?" asked Marco, a bit doubtfully. A summoning? Just what was Luciano going to summon? Not necromancy, dear Jesu!

  "Be within the circle of invocation. Give some of your blood." It seemed simple enough. Some of his blood?that couldn't hurt. Not here. It was a token sacrifice, not an actual one; something, perhaps, to remind a greater spirit of a promise from long ago.

  Blood to blood.

  "I'll do it," said Kat decisively. "It says Montescue, doesn't it?"

  Luciano shook his head. "The script is faint, but it clearly says 'a son.' This?this is a Christianized attempt at a far more ancient ceremony, but it is all that I have. Hence?" he waved an ancient bronze knife vaguely at the rest of the room "?all this. According to this it should be the Metropolitan who is doing this, but?"

  He didn't finish the sentence.

  "What will this do?" Marco asked, feeling oddly detached and strangely calm.

  Luciano shrugged. "The spell has only been used twice before. Yet this is a very ancient copy of an even more ancient spell. It is called the Lion's Crown and it invokes the spirit of the lion of the marshes. One of the oldest of the great neutral spirits. The Guardian of the lagoon, the marshes, the islands. And, yes?the Lion is still here, and strong. It influences much, still. But mostly it slumbers, waiting for Venice's hour of need. It is what Chernobog has feared most all along, and why he maneuvered so stealthily. If the Lion awakes?awakes fully, as only you can do?not even Chernobog can stand against it. Not here, not in Venice."

  The memory of a brushing of wings passed through Marco's mind, but was gone before he could snatch at it.

  Luciano looked directly into Marco's eyes, as if weighing the heart behind them. "I think this is that hour of need. And not only do you bear the blood, you carry the mark of that Lion. Scrying glasses turn to you. I've long known you would wear the Mantle after I'm gone, but
you can also wear the Crown?and do it now. Are you willing?"

  The mark of the Lion? Mantle? Crown? But this was no time for questions, not now. Questions could wait until after, when this was over. If they all survived. This might be the only way for them all to survive. Certainly the enemies of Venice, whether they were evil spirits or came with fire and the sword, would not leave any of them standing. Marco nodded. "It's my city. And they are my people."

  "I am your person too," said Kat quietly. "And I'm scared for you, Marco. I don't understand any of this?and?and?it sounds like a sacrifice!"

  He leaned forward and?for the first time?kissed her cheek, gently. "It'll be all right. And… if we don't do something it won't matter. The city is burning. Caesare and Count Badoero's men are winning."

  Somehow, she composed her face, stilled her trembling, drew herself up, and stood like the daughter of Montescue that she was. "I love you, Marco Valdosta."

  His heart swelled with pride for her. "And I love you too, Katerina Montescue."

  Luciano stamped his foot impatiently. "Come on! There are auspicious times for doing these things. And one of them is dawn. It's hard to tell in this fog, but that must be soon. Step inside the circle and let me close it behind you. This is a great spell and it will tax me to my utmost."

  ***

  Kat was left standing, head bowed, disconsolate, his kiss still warm on her cheek, to watch as the ward-fires flared. A tear trickled down her nose. This was dangerous, horribly dangerous. She felt it in her bones, no matter that Marco didn't seem to think anything of it. A Strega mage practicing a Christian version of a pagan spell? It was crazy?how much could go wrong, or had gone wrong in the transliteration? Luciano was taking on more than he should ever have dared and he had dragged Marco in after him. Or was she just getting overprotective about Marco? She fumbled out her talisman and took comfort from the fact that at least the medal was cool.

  The door opened, and Kat whirled, one hand on her Saint Hypatia medal, the other on her dagger. The medal flared with heat.

  Lucrezia Brunelli stood there, smiling in triumph. "Crying for your lover, little Montescue?" she asked smirking cruelly. "It's a waste of time and tears."

  Kat gasped. "You're supposed to have left!" Then, as the words themselves penetrated: "And damn you! I'm crying for a good man."

  Lucrezia laughed, throwing her handsome head back. "There's no such thing, girl. Believe me?I've tried them all, from Capuletti to my brother Ricardo."

  Kat gaped, for a long moment, as Lucrezia waited for the sense of that to penetrate, unable to believe what she had actually heard. "Your b?your brother!?"

  Lucrezia smiled lazily, but the smile had a nasty edge. "Cleopatra slept with hers. He did crawl into my bed when he thought I was too young to understand, but in the end, he was just a man. And I did have my revenge, after all. I've had him killed for it."

  The words, so cool, so unemotional, chilled Kat to the bone.

  "And now," Lucrezia continued, "I need to kill these two while I still have the strength. Weather magic is wearisome."

  "B-b-but?" Kat was trying to ask why, but the words wouldn't come. By now the Hypatia medal was almost burning her hand. But was that caused by what Luciano was doing, or was it Lucrezia's presence? Or both?

  Lucrezia obviously understood what she meant to ask. "Oh, for many reasons?but among others, it's enough that they are two of the three who ever turned me down. Strange. Those potions you brought me from Ascalon were very effective, you know, and to have them fail so significantly on two occasions, your sweet little boy and that upright priest…"

  Priest? "Dottore Marina isn't?"

  "I wasn't talking about him. Unfortunately, Luciano disappeared before I had access to those philters. If I'd had them?" she licked her lips, as if she tasted something bitter "?perhaps we wouldn't be having this discussion now."

  Rafael, who had been standing ignored on the other side of the room, chose this moment to try to deal with her in a rush. He stopped as if he had hit a wall, paralyzed. Kat's medal enveloped her in warmth.

  At Lucrezia's gesture, Rafael dropped the knife and folded, to sprawl before her feet.

  Lucrezia shook her head. "I am far too powerful for little Strega with their little knives. Lie there, little Strega, and watch as your friends die?for I believe that I will allow you to die last of all."

  She turned back to Kat. "I learned a great deal from the Grand Duke of Lithuania's emissary, you know?in no small part, what not to do. She allowed Chernobog to possess her, in exchange for her beauty and power. I have not made that error."

  "You?" Kat tried to speak.

  Lucrezia smiled viciously. "And oh, my dear little virgin Montescue! Luciano made a most incalculable mistake in allowing you here, for you will make the perfect sacrifice to break the circle of power."

  ***

  Inside the circle, Marco was unaware of all of this. Luciano's words were like the droning of bees as he walked the sevenfold circle. Why seven? Why not three or five or nine? He tried to remember what Brother Mascoli had been teaching him. Seven wasn't a Strega number, though it was pagan. It went back a lot farther than that, to the Romans, or the Etruscans. It felt right, though; each time Luciano completed a circuit, the rest of the room receded a little, the sound from outside faded, and the less important what was outside seemed. He noticed vaguely that someone had come into the room, but?

  Well, it just didn't matter.

  Marco found himself transported with the words of power; they carried him somewhere else, or perhaps it was that the interior of the circle became somewhere else. The air was not full of incense. Instead it was a smell he knew far better that: the smell of driftwood fires. Of the marsh-reed pollen. Of the delicate scent of water lilies, of marsh-mallow, of sweet-flag blossom. The air glowed with the thick, amber light of the sun cutting through the mist.

  Luciano beat on a drum; or was it a drum? It was more like his own heartbeat, but slow, slow, and full of heat. The air thickened until it was as sweet and heavy as honey, and Luciano's voice wasn't chanting words anymore, it was the bees that were droning the chant.

  Then came a rumble that built up slowly, and from a distance in the thick air. Thunder?

  No?not thunder. A roar. Marco heard a roaring echoing across the marsh, the last great refuge of lions in Europe. But no lion had ever roared like this, no lion he had ever heard of! This roar was thunder in the sky, from a throat like the mouth of a volcano!

  He glanced at Luciano for reassurance.

  But?Luciano didn't look right. He was pale and sweating, the hand that held the little drum shaking, and his breathing coming hard.

  "Chiano?" he asked?but Luciano didn't respond. The steady drumbeat faltered.

  The beater fell from Luciano's hand; a hand that clutched at the front of his own white robe, looking remarkably like a claw.

  "Chiano!" Marco shouted, panic in his voice.

  Slowly, Luciano's knees gave out and he sank to the ground. Slowly, the drum, too, fell from his hand, rolled across the floor, and overset a bowl of some dark liquid that had been laid aside when Luciano had completed the circles. And Luciano Marina toppled over onto his side and did not stir.

  And then Luciano was silent. The mists and brightness around him cleared and Marco understood why.

  Luciano Marina would not be summoning anything again. Whatever this was… it had been too much for him. His eyes were glazed, staring?and empty.

  The yellowed old book was still on the pedestal where Luciano had been standing. A long-bladed bronze knife was lying atop the open pages.

  Marco took up the book. It was only a book?but what was in it had killed Luciano.

  The circles of power still held, but the magic within them faded with every passing moment.

  I have to do something?

  But what? He was no magician. Besides, looking at what was said at the top of the page, this called for a willingness to make the greatest of sacrifices. What had Luciano said? "O
nly been done twice before. And two of the families listed are no more."

  Perhaps… perhaps it had been no token sacrifice. Valdosta… and Montescue were left. I am Valdosta…

  A faint sound penetrated the thinning circles of power, and Marco looked up. As if through a mist, or through frost-covered glass, he saw Lucrezia. Saw Rafael fall. He tried to push through the barrier that Luciano had raised. It was like steel. He beat at it. He might as well have pounded on a rock with his fists.

  They were watching him now?Kat, with one hand at her throat and the other clutching her medallion; and Lucrezia. Lucrezia had a cruel smile on her face and a long steel and silver dagger in her hand. The handle like a dragon, or a winged serpent, with eyechips of ruby. Marco's arms fell to his sides; he felt frozen with fear and indecision. They all seemed frozen in time, insects caught in amber.

  Something cold touched his foot, and he jerked out of his paralysis. He looked down. The puddle of spilled liquid oozed across the patterned marble and touched his foot, mingled with a thin trickle of blood coming from Luciano's outstretched wrist. And a mist passed over it for a moment, and Marco saw, as if from above, Venice burning. Children screaming, dying. And the body of Kat sprawled, abused. And then a sequence of people he knew, and loved. Gutted. Raped. Burned. And the face of Lucrezia…

  Laughing, with a great darkness behind her. He knew it for a true scrying vision of the future. A future which Luciano?his friend and in many ways, more truly a father to him than his own blood had been?had been prepared to sacrifice himself to prevent. Perhaps, when he failed, Luciano had dared use his last life-blood, the last of his own magical power, not to save himself, but for this vision. So that Marco would know the consequences of failure, and act.

  Marco took up the bronze knife, put it against his chest and began to read the words from the ancient book. From outside the enchanted circle Lucrezia gaped. If he read her lips aright before the brightness and mist engulfed him, she was saying "No!"