Drawing of the Dark

by Tim Powers

  The two fallen segments of wall had left an unsteady tower between them, and for twenty furious minutes the

  fighting seethed around it like waves crashing around an outcropping in the surf, with no ground really being gained by either side. Presently, though, the Viennese forces managed to bring some bigger guns to bear - six ten-barrelled ribaldos adding their rat-tat-tat snare drum detonations to the din, and a dubiously moored culverin, on the southern edge of the solid wall, that every five minutes rocked back and sent loosened stones clattering down as it whipped charge after charge of gravel into the ululating mass of white-robed Janissaries.

  Through the early afternoon the Turkish troops kept advancing and falling back, and losing hundreds of men in a vain effort to summon up the impetus that would break the desperate ranks of Europeans. Finally at about three-thirty they retreated, and the Viennese forces took turns standing in the gaps, trooping outside to construct advance defense positions, and marching back in for a brief respite in which to sit and drink wine and croak queries and braggadocio declarations at each other.

  The sun was well down the western side of the sky, silhouetting in red the rooftops and steeples of Vienna, when several hundred of the akinji came. yelling down along the wall from the north, evidently trying to shear off the body of Viennese soldiers that was outside. Eilif's company was out on the plain when they came, and led the way in a counter-charge that drove the Turkish footsoldiers back up to the Wiener-Bach, the narrow sub-canal that flanked the north half of the east wall. The mob of akinji - for they were too undisciplined to be called troops - broke at the banks of the little canal, and only those who retreated to the outer side of it managed to survive and return to the Turkish lines. As night fell the guns of both sides set about making the plain a hazardous no-man's-land of whistling shot and rebounding iron balls.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The dirty water of the Wiener-Bach, agitated by the occasional spray of ripped-up earth or shattered stone, reflected the blasts of flame from the cannons on the battlements above, so that Duffy, standing by the bank a hundred yards north of the new gap in the wall, saw two flashes for each shot when he looked behind him. The Turkish guns returned fire, distant flares of red light in the gathering darkness.

  'Back inside, all of you!' shouted Count von Salm from the battlements. 'They won't be coming back tonight -it looks like we're just going to trade shot for an hour or so.' As if to emphasize his words, there came the jarring thumps of a couple of Turk cannon balls falling short.

  The three companies outside the wall trotted wearily south, and though Duffy tried to hold his position in the lead company, he fell gradually back and was among the last to stumble over the mounded jagged stones of the new gap. He heard a clanking, realized he was absently dragging his sword, and carefully sheathed it. It took some nicks today, he thought; I'll have to get them pounded out sometime.

  Inside the wall the soldiers were gathering around a fire. Hey, Duffy!' barked a tired, dust-streaked Eiif. 'It's past six, and Vertot's crew will stand in the hole for a while. Come here and have a cup of mulled ale. You're looking bashed-about.'

  The Irishman strode on stiff, aching legs to the fire, and sat down in front of it with a deep sigh. He accepted a cup of hot ale from someone and took a long sip, exhaled, and then took another.

  'Ah,' he breathed, stretching like a cat after a minute of letting his muscles adjust to the luxury of sitting down. 'Well, you know, lads,' he said expansively, 'I wouldn't like an easy defense. It wouldn't give me the feeling my capabilities were being truly tested.'

  The men paused from drinking and tying bandaged to laugh at that, for Duffy was paraphrasing an inspirational sermon a priest had made to the troops during a respite period that afternoon. There followed a few weak jokes speculating about the battle tactics that priest would probably employ, and how he'd be likely to disport himself afterward, and whether Suleiman's troops had to put up with similar speeches from God-knew-what sort of Mohammedan elders.

  'Dead!' came a call from up the dark, rubble-choked street, extinguishing the men's good humor like a bucket of sand flung on a candle. 'Night call for the dead!' A creaking, high-sided cart appeared from the shadows, and no one looked at the grisly cargo stacked in it. The driver was gibbering garbled prayers between calls, and his eyes glittered insanely between his tangled hair and beard. Somehow, though, Duffy thought uneasily, I think I know that man.

  A crew of anonymous laborers left off their attempts to clear the street of debris, and set about carrying the day's corpses to the wagon and flopping them into its bed. While this was going on the driver buried his face in his hands and wept loudly. Whoever he is, Duffy thought, he's clearly mad. The soldiers around the fire shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed and vaguely upset in the presence of lunacy.

  'Why can't they get a sane man to do that?' one of them

  whispered. 'We fight all day and then have to put up with this.'

  'Listen,' said Eiif, wiping dust and ale from his moustache, 'he may have been sane when he started.'

  The cart loaded at last, its tailgate was swung up and latched, and the vehicle squeaked and rattled away down the street, the driver once again voicing his melancholy cry.

  • Duffy knew he'd seen the man before, but these days he was not one to prod sleeping memories. 'More ale here,' he said. 'Top everybody up, in fact, and heat another pot of the stuff.'

  Gradually, with the telling of a few jokes and the singing of an old ballad or two, the group around the fire regained their cautions, fragile cheer. Most of the soldiers who'd fought that day had plodded away to the barracks immediately; but, the Irishman reflected, there are always a few who prefer to stay up and talk for a bit, and get some distance between themselves and the day's events before submitting to the night's dreams.

  After an hour they began to yawn and drift away, and a light sweep of rain, hissing as it hit the fire, sent the remaining men trudging off to their bunks. Duffy had just stood up when he heard a sharp call: 'Who's that? Identify yourself or I'll shoot!'

  A moment later he heard a scuffle, and then the bang and ricochet of a gunshot, and a burly, redbearded man burst out of a doorway under the wall and came pelting up the street, running hard.

  'Guards ho!' came a shout from behind the fleeing man. 'Stop him! He's a spy!'

  Wearily, the Irishman drew his sword and dagger and stood in the man's path. 'Very well, Kretchmer, you'd better hold it,' he said loudly.

  The bearded fugitive whipped out a sword of his own. 'Stand aside, Duffy!' he yelled.

  Two guards came puffing up from one of the side streets, and a sentry on the wall was taking aim with a smoldering harquebus the rain had not yet damped, so the fleeing spy ran directly at Duffy, whirling his sword fiercely. Just before they collided, the red beard fell away on a string and Duffy was surprised to glimpse the fear-taut face of John Zapolya. Knocked unharmed to the side, the Irishman mustered his faculties and aimed a backhand cut at Zapolya's shoulder. It landed, and the Hungarian gasped in pain as the blade-edge grated against bone, but he kept running. The wall sentry's gun went off but was badly aimed in the uncertain light, and the ball spanged off the street several yards away. Duffy started after the fugitive, but, off balance, he slipped on the rain-wet cobbles and fell, cracking his knee painfully on a stone. When he wincingly got to his feet Zapolya had disappeared up the dim avenue, pursued by two of the guards.

  'God damn it,' Duffy snarled, hobbling to the shelter of a dry doorway.

  Pounding hoofbeats echoed now from the same direction Zapolya had come from, and a moment later a horse and rider appeared and paused in the middle of the street. The' firelight was dimming in the rain, so it wasn't until the rider called for the guards that Duffy recognized him.

  'Hey. Aurelianus!' the Irishman called. Zapolya was just here! He ran away up the street.'

  The wizard wheeled his horse and goaded it over to where Duffy stood. 'Zapolya too? Mo
rrigan help us. Did the guards go after him?'

  'Yes, two of them.'

  'Did you see Kretchmer? I was chasing him.'

  'That was Zapolya! Look, that's his fake beard on the Street there.'

  Mananan and Llyr! I wonder if Kretchmer has always been Zapolya.'

  Duffy rubbed his knee and limped a step or two on it. 'Well, of course,' he snapped irritably. 'Think about it -remember, Werner said Kretchmer wasn't home, the night of Easter Sunday? That was the night Zapolya was at the Zimmermann with his siege bombard.'

  Aurelianus shook his head. 'A false beard of all things.' He spat disgustedly. 'Follow me. What, have you hurt your leg? Hop up behind me here, then, we've got to get out of the rain and do some talking.'

  Duffy swung up onto the horse's rump and they clopped down the street to the southern guardhouse, where they dismounted. 'Hey, Duff,' said the captain who opened the door, 'I saw you land one on that spy. Too bad you couldn't get some muscle into the blow, you'd have split him.'

  'I know,' said Duffy with a rueful grin as he and Aurelianus clumped inside and pulled a couple of chairs to a table in the corner. 'What was he doing when the

  -sentry challenged him?'

  'He was trying to open that old ferrier's door,' the captain answered. 'The one that crazy man sneaked out through this noon. They bricked it up, but apparently nobody told old Redbeard; he was trying to pull the bricks loose when Rahn saw him.'

  The Irishman and Aurelianus sat down and the captain returned with a jug of fortified wine he'd been working on. When he had left the room Duffy poured two cups and looked up at the sorcerer. 'What went wrong with your trap?'

  Aurelianus gulped the liquor. 'I should have had a whole Landsknecht company. Kretchmer and Werner came back to the inn just a few minutes ago, and I let them scuttle halfway across the dining room before I gave the whistle that brought two armed men out of every door. I called to

  the pair that they were under arrest. Werner just stood and shouted, but Kretchmer - Zapolya! - snatched up a chair and brained one of my men, then drew his sword and disembowelled another. The rest of them cornered him, but he jumped through a window and sprinted east, so I got a horse and came after him.' He topped up his cup. 'He's fast.'

  'I know,' said Duffy. The rain drumming on the roof had found a hole, and a drop plunked into Duffy's wine. He moved the cup absently.

  'Werner ran for the window when his mentor had gone through it,' Aurelianus went on, 'and one of my eager lads put three inches of sword into his kidney. I don't know if he'll survive or not.' He looked up at the Irishman, a hard speculation glinting in his eyes. 'There's something you have to do tonight,'

  'You mean catch Zapola? Hell, man, he could simply hide and sneak out through one of the gaps, or lower a rope outside the wall at some secluded -'Not Zapolya. He's a played card.'

  The roof-leak thumped its slow drum beat four times on the table top. 'What, then?' Duffy asked quietly.

  Aurelianus was picking at the candle on the table now, not looking at Duffy. 'This afternoon I got to wondering just exactly what spells were in Becky's book. I have a-'

  'What does it matter what spells were in it?' Duffy interrupted. 'You and Ibrahim have blocked all the useful types of magic, haven't you? That's what you keep saying.'

  Aurelianus shifted uncomfortably. 'Well, all the major types, yes. But not, I'm afraid, the kind of barnyard conjuring Becky dealt in. Hell, in a tense cease-fire, do warring kings think to forbid pea-shooters? Anyway, I keep a bibliography of all my books, so I looked up Becky's. I'd listed the entire contents page of the book,

  so I could see what each of her spells is supposed to do.' He looked at Duffy unhappily. 'One of them is how to fox beer.'

  Duffy was tired, and staring at the widening puddle on the table, and not concentrating on Aurelianus' words. 'So?'

  'So, you say? Are you even listening? How to fox beer! Have you ever seen - worse, tasted - foxed beer? It's ropy, thick, like honey; spoiled, undrinkable. Ibrahim, if he noticed that spell - and I think we'd better assume he did - can fox the Herzwesten vat, spoil the beer for decades, maybe forever! We might just be able to save the higher levels with hyssop and salt, but the bottom levels

  - the Dark, do you understand? - would be hopeless.'

  'Oh. That's right.' Duffy raised his eyebrows helplessly. 'I don't know what to tell you. Set up some shields against it now. Or draw a keg off and hide it somewhere. I certainly -'

  'It would take at least twelve hours to arrange counter-spells - you think Ibrahim will wait? And hiding a keg of it won't do. For one thing it has to mature, right there, over old Finn's grave, and for another, the spell will ruin any beer within its range - every drop of beer in the city will go foul, wherever it's hidden.'

  'Are you sure Becky's spells work?' Duffy asked, trying to be helpful. 'I've known a lot of country witches, and they were all out-and-out fakes.'

  Aurelianus shook his head. 'They work. Becky was the real thing. We have only one hook for hope. She was, as you say, a country witch, and her spells have a range of only about a mile. Also, nearly all of them have to be performed at precisely noon or midnight. The natural laws that must be overcome are weakest at those moments.'

  'So?' said Duffy stonily. By God, he thought, let him say it clearly.

  The sorcerer pursed his lips and spoke harshly. 'Ibrahim will try it tonight. He knows he can't delay - for one thing, the moon's waxing, and Becky's spells were all dark-of-the-moon ones. And because of the limited range, he'll have to come up quite close to the walls to cast it. What you'll -'

  Duffy swept the puddle on the table pattering onto the floor. 'You want me to go try to stop him? While you and the old King get ready to escape through the tunnels, I suppose, in case I fail. Well, listen while I tell you something: no. Think again. Get yourself another reincarnated hero.'

  The captain, who'd apparently been dozing in the next room, leaned his tousled head in through the doorway, wondering at the anger in Duffy's voice. Aurelianus waited until he'd returned to his bench before replying. 'That is not what I'm proposing,' he said quietly. 'I.. .have decided that it would be best to make our final win-or-forfeit stand right here, in Vienna. It would, I'm afraid, be madness to think of falling back and re-grouping somewhere and hope for even half the advantage we've got here and now. After all, the Turks are at least several weeks behind schedule, and Ibrahim has failed to acquire Didius' Gambit, and we've unmasked - unbearded, I should say - what must have been their chief spy.'

  Duffy refilled their cups. 'And on their side of the ledger: they can ruin the beer from outside the wall.'

  'Yes, but we know they'll have to be pretty close, for the Zimmermann is nearly half a mile into the city from the wall. And we know he'll do it at midnight. If this beer-fouling trick of theirs works, then I believe they'll have won even if we could physically retreat; and if it fails they'll go home and the Dark will be drawn on schedule. Therefore I attach a lot of importance to the outcome of tonight's venture.' His pose of calm rationality fell away for a moment and he banged the wet table top with a fist. 'Alone, or even with a body of soldiers, you couldn't go out and fight Ibrahim. For one thing, he's got personal bodyguards, of the species you saw when we fetched the King into the city - oh, that's right, Arthur had the reins in that fight, you wouldn't remember them; but they'd be something like the two things that tried to hypnotize you back in April. Anyway, they'd laugh at your swords and guns - if they were the sort of creature that ever laughed.' Though clearly apprehensive, the pale sorcerer managed to smile. 'It's a big wager, but I don't think we'll ever have better odds. I have decided to break the deadlock.'

  'Good God, you mean you'll use Didius' Gambit? Why, how can you even -'No. Since I choose to view this as the decisive incident

  in the question of any continuing lifeline of the West, I've decided to.. .do the other thing.' He sighed. 'The Fisher King and I will accompany you tonight.'

  Duffyfrowned. 'The three of us? An
d you and I holding either end of his stretcher? Not exactly an imposing attack force.'

  'It won't be quite that bad. Von Salm would never let me have any troops, of course, for an unexplainable midnight sortie, but he did say once that he'd be grateful if I'd take Bugge and the other northmen off his hands.'

  The Irishman stared at him in disbelief, then gulped some of the wine. He shook his head, laughing in spite of himself. His laughter grew like a rolling snowball, until he was leaning forward on the table and gasping, with tears running from the corners of his eyes. He tried to speak, but managed only, '...Parade. .. .damned clowns.. .funny hats.'

  Aurelianus hadn't even smiled. 'So we won't be entirely alone,' he said.

  Duffy sniffled and wiped his eyes. 'Right. And how many men will Ibrahim have?'

  'Aside from his.. .bodyguards? I don't know. Not many, since of course he doesn't want to be seen.' He shrugged. 'And after the deadlock breaks - who can tell? A lot of sorcerous pressure has built up on both sides; both of the forces will change, out there tonight, when the King of the West joins the battle.'

  After opening his mouth, Duffy decided not to pursue it. Instead he said, 'I'm not sure I'm even ready for these bodyguards.'

  'No, you're not,' Aurelianus agreed. 'But you will be, when you're carrying the right sword. That blade you're wearing now is fine for poking holes in Turkish soldiers, but if you're going to face.. .well, those other things, you need a sword they'll fear, one that can cut through their flinty flesh.'

  The Irishman saw Aurelianus' direction and sighed. 'Calad Bolg.'

  Exactly. Now listen - you get some sleep, it's only about a quarter of eight. I'll -,

  'Sleep?' Duffy's momentary mirth had evaporated completely. He felt scared and vaguely nauseated, and rubbed his face with his hands. 'Is that a joke?'

  'Rest, at least. I'll fetch Bugge and his men, and the King, and get the sword, and come back here. We'd better head out at roughly eleven.'