by Tim Powers
It proved impossible to raise an army, and so Bugge and twenty comrades, all unmarried or notably restless, had set off by themselves on the difficult land and sea journey. And here, he thought sadly now, our ill-considered quest ingloriously ends. Run aground on a clump of sewer weed in a Viennese canal, hailed by the citizens, who seem to think we're a company of jugglers or clowns. So much for our bid to thwart Surter and Muspelheim, and postpone doomsday.
Bugge shook his head disgustedly as he watched several of his men lower themselves into the canal, gasping and hooting at the chill of the water. We were mad to listen to the old fool, he told himself. It's obvious to me now that the whole tale was just a thirdrate wizard's beery dream.
Duffy' s scabbarded rapier knocked awkwardly against the back of his right thigh as he sprinted past St Ruprecht's Church. He had to slow then, for the street below the north wall was packed with a collection of festive citizens. Housemaids called lewd speculations to each other, young men crouched and flexed their sword arms with a just-in-case air, and children and dogs scampered about in a frenzy of unspecific excitement. The wail-top was just as crowded, and Duffy wondered how many people would fall off it before the day was over. A little fearful of seeing the moonlit lake again, he was consciously making himself pay exclusive attention to this Viking spectacle.
And how am Ito see what's going on? he asked himself, annoyed by the density of spectators.
He saw Bluto among the mob on the battlements, trying to keep children from uncovering the cannons. Bluto!' the Irishman called in his most booming voice. Damn it, Bluto!' The hunchback turned and frowned at the throng below, then saw Duffy and waved. 'Throw me a rope!' Duffy shouted. Bluto looked exasperated; but nodded and disappeared behind the rim. The Irishman shoved, slipped and apologized his way to the base of the wall. I hope I can climb a rope these days, he thought. It would never do to reach the halfway point and come sliding clumsily back down, in front of what must be just about the entire population of Vienna.
After several minutes a rope came tumbling down the wall, and Duffy seized it before two other viewseekers could. Then, bracing his legs from time to time on the old stones of the wall, he began wrenching himself upward. Below him, in spite of the gasping breaths that roared in his head, he could hear people remarking on him. 'Who's the old beggar climbing the rope?' 'Watch him drop dead after ten feet.'
Oh indeed! thought Duffy angrily, putting a little more vigor into each hoist of the arm. Soon he saw the hunchback's worried face peering down at him from the lip of the catwalk, and it grew closer with every desperate pull on the rope. Finally he hooked one hand over the coping and Bluto was helping to drag him up onto the Warming flagstones, where he lay gasping for a while.
'You're too old to climb ropes,' Bluto panted as he hauled the snaky length in.
'As I.. .just demonstrated,' the Irishman agreed. He sat up. 'I want to see.. .these famous Vikings.'
'Well, step over here. Actually, they're kind of a disappointment. A few are in the canal now, chopping clumps of algae, but the rest just sit around looking wilted.'
Duffy got to his feet and slumped in one of the north-facing crenels. Fifty feet below him was the Donau Canal, and a ship lay in the water under the Taborstrasse bridge, its red and white striped sail flapping listlessly.
'Are they real Vikings?' Duffy asked. 'What are they doing here, anyway?'
Bluto just shrugged.
'I'm going to get a closer look,' Duffy decided. 'Tie that rope around the merlon here and throw it down the outside of the wall. Or no free beer tomorrow night,' he added, seeing the hunchback's annoyed look. The Irishman pulled his gloves out from under his belt and put them on as Bluto dealt with the rope; then he stepped up on the crenellations - to the awe of several little boys - and slipped the rope behind his right thigh and over his left shoulder. 'See you later,' he said, and leaned away from the wall, sliding down the rope and braking with the grip of his right hand. Within a minute he was standing on the pavement next to the canal bank as Bluto pulled the rope up once again.
There were even people out here, elbowing each other and calling sarcastic questions to the dour mariners. Muttering impatient curses under his breath, Duffy walked west along the bank to a cluster, of wooden duck-cages that formed a sort of pier jutting out into the green-scummed water. He cautiously got up on top of the first one - and it held his weight, though the ducks within set up a squawking, splashing clamor. 'Shut up, ducks,' he growled as he crawled out along the cage-pier, for their racket was drawing the amused attention of the canal bank crowd.
When he reached the outmost cage he sat down on it, and was rewarded for all his efforts with a clear view of the grounded but graceful ship. The oars, several of which were broken off short, had been drawn in and stuck upright in holes by the oarlocks, and nearly formed a fence around the deck. Duffy was trying hard to be impressed by the sight, and imagine himself as one of his own ancestors facing such northern barbarians in Dublin Bay or on the plain of Clontarf, but these weary old men languidly hacking at the canal weed put a damper on his imagination. These must be the very last of the breed, he decided, devoting their remaining years to a search for a fitting place to die.
A sharp crack sounded under him, and his perch sagged abruptly. Holy God, he thought, I'll be dumped in the canal if I don't move fast. He shifted back onto another board, which gave way entirely, leaving him hanging by his knees and one hand, nearly upsidedown. There were roars of laughter from the bank. His rapier slid half out of its scabbard; he risked a grab for it, the last plank buckled, and he was plunged into the icy water in a tangle of boards and hysterical ducks. He rolled thrashingly over, trying to swim before his mail shirt could drag him down, and his sword caught against one of the floating planks and snapped in half. 'God damn it!' he roared, snatching the hilt before it sank.
He swam clear of the wreckage, and found the meagre current carrying him downstream, toward the Viking ship and the rippling sheets of green canal scum. None of the northmen had noticed him yet, though the citizens on the wall and the bank were absolutely convulsed with merriment.
Still clutching his broken sword, Duffy dived and swam a distance under the surface - he'd discovered his mail-shirt to be a bearable encumbrance - hoping to avoid the worst of the scum and mockery. It's just possible no one recognized me, he thought as he frogkicked his way through the cold water.
Bugge looked up when he heard splashing by the Larboard gunwale, and at first he thought some Viennese had fallen into the canal and was trying to climb aboard. Then, the blood draining from his wide-eyed face, he saw two slimy green arms appear at the rail, followed a moment later by their owner, a tall, grim-looking man covered with canal scum and clutching a broken sword. In a moment this ominous newcomer had clambered aboard and was standing in a puddle of water between the rowers' benches.
Bugge dropped to his knees, and the rest of the Vikings on board followed his example. 'Sigmund!' he gasped. 'My men and I greet you and await your orders.'
Duffy didn't understand Norse, but he understood that these Vikings had somehow mistaken him for someone -and who could that be? He simply stood there and looked stem, hoping some solution would present itself.
There was a commotion on the bridge above; several people shouted quit shoving! and then Aurelianus leaned out over the rail. 'What is this?' he called anxiously. 'I missed the beginning.'
Duffy waved at the kneeling northmen. 'They seem to think I'm somebody else.'
Bugge glanced timidly up, saw Aurelianus' white-fringed, eye-patched face peering down at him, and simply pitched forward onto the deck. 'Odin!' he howled. The other mariners also dropped flat, and the ones in the water, peeking now through the oarlocks, whimpered in the clutch of real awe.
'This is very odd,' Aurelianus observed. 'Did they say who they believe you are?'
'Uh. . .Sigmund,' said the Irishman. 'Unless that means who the hell are you.'
'Ah!' said Aurelianus after a mom
ent, nodding respectfully. 'We're dealing with the real thing here, beyond a doubt!'
'What the devil do you mean? Get me out of here. I'm a laughingstock - covered with filth and carrying a broken sword.'
'Hang onto the sword. I'll explain later.' With more agility than Duffy would have expected, the eternally black-clad old man vaulted the bridge rail and landed in a relaxed crouch on the ship's central catwalk. Then, to the Irishman's further surprise, Aurelianus strode confidently to the prostrate captain, touched him on the shoulder and began to speak to him in Norse.
Duffy simply stood by, feeling like a clown, as the Viking captain and his crew got reverently to their feet. Bugge answered several questions Aurelianus put to him, and then crossed to where the Irishman stood and knelt before him.
'Touch his shoulder with your sword,' Aurelianus told him. 'Do it!'
Duffy did it, with as much dignity as he could muster.
Very good,' Aurelianus said with a nod. 'Ho!' he called to the interested gawkers on the shore. 'Bring some sturdy planks here, quick! Captain Bugge and his men are ready to disembark.'
It was a bizarre parade that Epiphany saw marching up the street, heralded by the wild barking of dogs. She stood in the Zimmermann's doorway and gaped at these twenty-one armed Vikings being led by what appeared to be a revivified drowned man. Then, paling, she recognized him.
'Oh, Brian!' she wailed. 'They've killed you again!' Immediately Aurelianus was behind her shoulder, having somehow got into the building unnoticed. 'Shut up,' he hissed. 'He's in fine health, just fell in the canal. He can tell you all about it later. Right now get back to work.'
Duffy led his gray warriors around back to the stables, and said hello to Werner, who was fastidiously picking up some lettuce leaves that had fallen out of a garbage bin.
'What's this?' the innkeeper demanded. 'Who are these boys?'
Duffy answered as he'd been told to. 'They're twenty-one Danish mercenaries Aurelianus has hired to help defend the city against the Turks.'
'What Turks? I don't see any Turks - just a crowd of old vagabonds who'll drink up my beer. And what did somebody dip you in? This is too foolish. Get them out of here.'
The Irishman shook his head. 'Aurelianus is in the dining room,' he said. 'You'd better go talk to him.'
Werner wavered. 'You won't do anything out here while I'm gone...?'
'Well.. .he told me to turn the horses out of the stables so these gentlemen can sleep there. He said it's a mild Spring, and the horses ought to be able to survive the night air, and during any cold spells they could spend the night in the kitchen.'
'Horses in my kitchen? Vikings in my stable? You're out of your mind, Duffy. I'll -
'Go talk to Aurelianus,' the Irishman told him again.
The Vikings regarded the ranting innkeeper with great curiosity, and one of them asked him something in Norse.
'Silence from you, lout!' Werner barked. 'Very well, I'll go ask him about this. I'll tell him to get rid of the whole gang of you - including you, Duffy! My opinion carries weight with him, or perhaps you didn't know!'
'Good!' Duffy grinned. 'Go acquaint him with it.' And he gave Werner a hearty slap on the back that propelled him half the distance to the kitchen door. Actually, though, the Irishman thought as he turned to the stable, Werner is the only one that makes sense anymore. Why in hell should we take in these decrepit Danes? They're sure to be always either rowdy-drunk or morose; and either way we'll get no work out of them.
'Now then, lads!' the Irishman called, clapping his hands to get their attention. 'We movee horsies out of stable into yard, eh?'
The northmen all grinned and nodded, and even helped out once they saw what he was doing. 'Hey, Shrub!' Duffy shouted when all the horses stood looking puzzled on the cobbles. 'Bring us some beer!'
The boy peered around the kitchen door jamb. 'Are those friendly Vikings?' he queried.
'The friendliest,' Duffy assured him. 'Get the beer.'
'My men are not to be served alcoholic beverages,' came a solemn voice from behind him. 'The Irishman turned, and sighed unhappily to see Lothario Mother-tongue frowning regally at him.
'Oh, they're your men, are they, Lothario?'
'Indeed. It's been several lifetimes since we last met, but I recognize the souls behind their eyes. Bedivere!' he cried, attempting to embrace Bugge. 'Ow, damn it,' he added, for Bugge had elbowed him in the stomach. 'Ah, I see. Your true memories are still veiled. That will doubtless be remedied when Ambrosius arrives.' He turned to the Irishman now. 'You may even be somebody yourself, Duffy.'
'That'd be nice.'
'It carries responsibilities, though. Heavy ones. When you're a martyr, as I am, you must count your life a trifle.'
'I'm sure you're quite correct there,' Duffy told him. 'But surely there's a dragon or something that needs killing somewhere? I don't want to detain you.'
Mothertongue frowned at Duffy's tone. 'There are matters awaiting my decisions,' he admitted. 'But you're not to give these men alcohol; they're clean-living Christians.. .underneath it all.'
'Of course they are.'
A cask of beer was carried out a minute or so after Mothertongue's exit, and Duffy filled twenty-two mugs. 'Drink up, now, you clean-living Christians,' he told the northmen, unnecessarily.
* * *
Chapter Nine
By late afternoon the northmen were snoring in the hay, exhausted by their journey and made drowsy by the three kegs of beer they'd emptied. Duffy, nearly asleep himself, sat at his customary table in the dining room and watched the serving women ply brooms, mops and damp cloths about the walls and floor.
Presently listless footsteps dragged up to the front door and Bluto slouched in through the vestibule. He saw Duffy and started laughing. 'Poseidon! You've taken a bath, I perceive, but you still smell like the canal.'
The Irishman smiled sourly. 'Go ahead and laugh,' he said. 'Those northmen think I'm God or somebody.' He waved in grudging invitation toward the other chair at the table. 'How was your day?'
'Oh, not good.' Bluto sat down heavily. 'Beer here, someone! A kid stuck his head in one of my best culverins and threw up.
'That'll surprise the Turks,' Duffy observed.
'No doubt. Listen, Duff, do you really think it's likely Suleiman will be coming here? It's awful far north, in Turkish terms.'
Duffy shrugged. 'Unless Suleiman dies - and is replaced by a pacifist Sultan, which is nearly a contradiction in terms - I'd say certainly, the Turks will try to take Vienna. After all, why. should they stop now? They've been moving steadily up the Danube: Belgrade in 'twenty-one, Mohács, Buda and Pest in 'twenty-six . . .and it's not
as if Suleiman will be meeting a terribly-organized front. Charles is too busy fighting the French king, Francis, to send us any troops, and Ferdinand alone won't be able to do much. Pope Clement has sent the customary good wishes, and little else. And then we've got good old Martin Luther wandering around saying idiot things like "to fight against the Turks is to resist the Lord, who visits our sins with such rods." Two years ago I'd have said Zapolya was our firmest hope against them, and now of course he's signed up as Suleiman's lackey. Actually, the Holy Roman Empire, the whole West, has never been so ripe for overthrow.'
Bluto shook his head worriedly. 'Right, then, so they come. Do you think we can turn them back?'
'I don't know. You're the gunnery man. But I think if we do rout them it'll be mainly because natural circumstances have weakened them - the weather, overstretched supply lines, things like that. They'll be far from home, after all.'
'Yes.' The hunchback's beer was delivered, and he sipped it moodily. 'Duff, as my closest friend, will
'Hell,' the Irishman interrupted, 'you've only known me a month.'
'I'm aware of that, of course,' Bluto went on stiffly, making Duffy wish he hadn't spoken. 'As my closest friend, I'm asking you to do a favor for me.'
'Well, of course,' said Duffy, embarrassed as he always was by any manifes
tation of sentiment.
'If I should happen to be killed.., will you see to it that my body is cremated?'
'Cremated? Very well,' Duffy said slowly. 'The priests wouldn't like it, but I guess there'd be no reason for them to hear about it. You might outlive me, of course. Why do you want to be cremated?'
Bluto looked uncomfortable. 'I guess if you accept the charge you deserve the explanation. Uh. . .my father was a hunchback, like myself. The whole line may have been, for all I know. He died when I was two years old. A cousin told me the following story, late one night; he was drunk, but swore it was true, that he'd been there.'
'For God's sake,' said Duffy. 'Been where?'
'To my father's wake. Be quiet and listen. My father committed suicide, and the local priest said everybody's ancestors would be dishonored if my father was to be buried in consecrated soil. It was just as well - I don't think the old man would have wanted it anyway. So a bunch of his friends carted his body to an old pagan burial ground a few miles outside of town.' He had another pull at his beer and continued. 'There was a little house there, with a table, so they dug a grave right out front, broke out the liquor and laid the corpse out on the table. But he was a hunchback, as I've said, and he wouldn't lie flat. It wouldn't do to celebrate the wake with him face down, either - bad luck or something - so they found a rope somewhere, ran it over Dad's chest, and tied it under the table so tightly that he was actually pressed flat. So, now that the guest of honor was properly reclining, they hit the liquor. By nightfall a lot of other people had shown up; they were all crying and singing, and one of them was embracing the corpse.. .and he noticed the bowstring-taut rope.
'Uh-oh.'
'Right. Nobody was watching him, so he sneaked out his knife and sawed through the rope. My father's corpse, with all that spring-tension suddenly released, catapulted right out the window. It scared the devil out of the mourners until the knife-wielder explained what he'd done. They went outside to bring the body back in, and saw that it had landed just a few feet to one side of the grave they'd dug. So they dragged him back inside, tied him down again, moved the table a little, made a few bets, and cut him loose again. Boing. Out he went. On the fourth shot he landed in the grave, and they filled it in and went home.'
