Burdens of the Dead Page 31

  It certainly killed him, but reflex must have squeezed that trigger. The hand-cannon boomed, sending its load ricocheting around, as Benito ran forward with one hand still supporting his daughter, his rapier already out.

  * * *

  The shot inside was heard outside the walls too. The small ram had beenmade ready while two of the scouts checked the walled compound. It had a gate to keep the house secure against bandits or a handful of raiders—not professional soldiery who had made something of a specialty of destroying small fortifications.

  Carlo pointed at the gate. “Take it down!”

  The ram—a brass-headed pole, slung on chains between eight riders—spurred at a gallop at the gate. The gate simply crashed open, almost knocking the men off their horses on the back-swing. The charge spilled into the enclosed villa’s yard.

  * * *

  Inside, in the corridor he’d sneaked up to fetch the pick, Benito Valdosta was aware of none of this. He just knew he had a passage to traverse to the yard, which had access behind him and in front of him—and that a number of men seemed set on stopping him from both directions.

  “Don’t shoot! You’ll hit the merchandise!” yelled someone.

  Well, someone was shooting outside all right. And Benito wasn’t going to give these bastards the time to think about the alternatives in a narrow passage.

  He had been trained by various very fine swordsmen, and there were none better than Giuliano Lozza on Corfu. These men were not of the same rank, not even close, and the passage confined them. Even carrying a child in one arm, he cut them down. And he had Maria to cry warning of someone behind.

  Still, as more men piled into the passage, he felt the exhaustion of the long and frantic ride pile on him. This not a winnable situation; somehow, he needed to change the odds.

  There was a solid knot of three in front of him. “’Lessi darling. I’m going to need two hands. Walk behind daddy.”

  He put her down and charged forward—and suddenly heard Maria shrieking “Alessia!” behind him.

  A brief glance and he saw that someone had come up from behind and had grabbed her.

  Fury lent him extra strength and reach. He slashed hard across the two remaining faces, and turned to plunge after Alessia and her new captor.

  And now, another foe. The tall man who was behind the scar-faced fellow with Alessia in his arms…

  Blocked the passage.

  Before Benito could decide which of them was the greater danger to ‘Lessi, the newcomer ran the scar-faced man holding Alessia through. He caught the toddler before she could fall, and stepped back.

  Benito, running into the fray with his sword ready, was desperately afraid he might cut her, as he leaped over the fallen scar-faced man. He already knew he was in trouble, deep trouble.

  That was a master-swordsman who had just performed that brutal but clinical thrust. He could feel strength running out of him like water from a broken barrel. He stopped, trying to assess the situation.

  And out of all expectation, like a miracle, the stranger lowered his blade. “I think she is yours,” he said calmly, setting Alessia down. “Go to your daddy, girl. It’s all right now.”

  Out of surprise, Benito froze. On plump little legs hius daughter charged over to him. Benito shook himself out of his shock and picked her up, still watchful, still wary. “My thanks. I owe you more than I can say for helping her.”

  The stranger’s face changed to alarm. “’ware behind you!”

  Benito turned. The scar-faced man he’d seen so efficiently run through was getting up, sword in hand.

  Benito was in a poor position for a thrust, but settled for a slash across the attacker’s throat, and stepped back as quickly as he could without stumbling.

  The scar-faced man staggered briefly…and the wound began to knit—and he came at them again.

  “Saints! I killed him!” said the stranger who had rescued Alessia. And proceeded to do so again, very clinically.

  To much the same effect. Only faster, this time. The stranger cursed, feelingly.

  He and Benito retreated back up the passage Benito had fought down, fending off the ever healing monster-man. “Hell’s teeth. Can we cut it to pieces?” asked the stranger.

  “I cut a finger off. Look, it regrows,” said Benito slashing at the arm-tendons. There was blood and then glutinous stuff oozing out of the wound, as the sword it was carrying fell. They both thrust into the undying body…and it fell, more blood and more ooze…and got up again, healing, with the sword. And where it had been cut once and healed, the flesh was almost impossible to cut again, short of a thrust.

  “If I call my men, they’ll not stop running this side of the Alps,” said Benito’s stranger-companion, fencing with the undying creature, trying to force it back. But it did not care if it was cut, and simply pressed forward. At this rate they’d find themselves trapped in Alessia’s cell.

  “Francisco! Francisco!” the stranger bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  “M’Lord?” called someone from up the stairs.

  “Down here. We have a problem for you.”

  A tall fellow with dark, thinning hair came in from behind the scar-faced undying man. “Ah. Poulo Borgo.” He thrust his sword neatly up from behind under the ribs and into the heart.

  And tried to pull the sword out, and failed. “God’s teeth!” the newcomer said, aghast. “He’s healing around my blade!”

  He turned and ran.

  Benito’s companion cursed. “So much for that. Look, boy. I’ll bring it down, and you try and get past with the child.”

  “He’s back!” said Benito.

  Francisco had returned—with a sack. “Cut him!” Francisco called. “Cut it as much as you can! And pray to God this works!”

  They slashed at the scar-faced monster, and Francisco threw handfuls of salt out of the sack.

  The blood still flowed but the clear ooze did not like the salt. It pulled away, the wounds gaped. “More salt!” cried out Benito’s saviour. “Again! I think we’re getting ahead of it!”

  They slashed and slashed and Francisco threw salt. Among all of their efforts, a wound was opened into the monsrer’s chest. Francisco poured salt into that.

  Poulo fell over. Several more men had come down and helped to slash. “Kitchen! Find more salt. Even salt fish!” said Francisco.

  Benito had another idea. He stepped back into the cell, slid his sword into its scabbard, and retrieved the pick-axe. Thensaid to Alessia’s rescuer: “Hold my girl for a moment will you.”

  The swordsman, a man of perhaps fifty summers, with a round, hard, muscular face and curly black hair with just a trace of gray at the temples, looked nonplussed, as he had not by being attacked by an undying monster. “Here, Alessia,” he said. Tentatively, he held out a hand.

  ‘Lessi looked at her father, and then leaned toward the stranger-swordsman. He looked oddly familiar, Benito thought, as he swung the pickaxe at the salt-covered writhing man’s scarred head.

  Unprotected heads are not intended to take a blow from the point of a pick-axe. And as Francisco poured salt into that gaping wound, it did not heal. The thing did not much resemble a man anymore, but a runny puddle of body-parts. Horribly, some of them were still moving, but more men were coming with more salt, and the one called Francisco was grimly casting it over the grisly object by the handfuls.

  “I think we can get past, and out of here now,” said the oddly familiar stranger.

  “I’d like my daughter back,” said Benito.

  The man nodded, kissed the top of her head, and handed her back. “Let us get out here, Benito Valdosta.”

  They stepped past the remains of Poulo. The man knew his name. How did the man know his name? “You have the advantage of me, Sir. I am in your debt. Who are you?”

  “Ah. I think we will leave the situation just like that,” said the older man, plainly amused. “On a different day you might have killed me instead. Let’s just say that someone wanted me b
lamed for this, and probably wanted you, in particular, thirsting for my blood. And, well, I will admit that I have kept something of a watch over her. I must tell you one of my first concerns for this little one, was that Venice is an unhealthy pest-hole, according to my experience and to Francisco. It’s him you owe this rescue to, really.”

  So the fellow was good for more than thinking quickly and coming up with monster-poison. Good God. Benito wondered just how many nightmares ‘Lessi was going to have over this. He hugged her tightly. She had her arms around his neck and her face pressed into his shoulder. “He has just to name his reward. If I can do so, I will give it to him.”

  “I’ll tell him that.” They had walked out into the courtyard, where men—obviously soldiers, but not ones Benito recognized—were rounding up prisoners, pushing them into the gate watchtower. There were a fair number of dead men lying around too. “Just one question,” said the older man. “I had been informed that you were on your way to Byzantium and expected to overwinter in Corfu. I didn’t believe that, but I expected you to be besieging Constantinople. You definitely were not in Venice yesterday. And if you came in yesterday, there’d be a lot more Venetians here right now.”

  How did this man know all this? Did he have more spies than the entire Council of Ten? “I flew in on a winged horse,” Benito said, before he even thought about it. Ah, he was tired, to blurt out such things. Dead tired, and now that it was all over, all he wanted was to sit down. The man would probably think him insane for blabbering about a winged horse. But there was just a germ of a worry that this might actually be worse trouble than he’d escaped from.

  “It was a winged horse. That is explained.”

  A rider came galloping in the gateway. “M’Lord! There’s a large party of horsemen approaching from Saletto!

  “Ah. Venice I think.” He turned to one of his men. “Sound the retreat, Alto.” He reached out and tousled Alessia’s hair. “To avoid any misunderstandings, we’ll leave you to greet them. I’d take one of their horses and get moved from here a little, just in case my fellows missed anyone.”

  Benito struggled to process it all. His brain was no longer working. He wasn’t thinking, he was just…experiencing. He didn’t even have the strength to react now. “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “Not exactly a friend of Venice,” said the stranger, swinging himself up into the saddle of a magnificent warhorse. A horse worth a duke’s ransom, Benito guessed, although he was no judge of horse-flesh. “Goodbye, boy. Take care of her.”

  Francisco stood behind him with a horse, already saddled and bridled. “Hello, ’cisco,” said Alessia.

  “Hello, poppet.” He held out his hands for the tot. “Here, Benito Valdosta. Let me pass her to you, once you’re in the saddle. And give my regards and apologies to your brother. Tell him I have taught him as much as he needs to begin with, anyway.”

  “What?” said Benito, letting himself be helped into the saddle. He then took his daughter and settled her before him. He was tired, and more confused by the moment. But no-one seemed to be threatening either him or Alessia.

  “He’ll understand.” Francisco gave the horse a slap on the rump, which started it toward the gate. Benito almost fell off.

  The soldiers—and they were plainly that—were either mounting up or already riding off, northward, toward Scaliger domains—or what was left of the Scaliger domains.

  So, blinking a little in the sunlight, with one arm around his daughter, Benito headed south towards the stream on the edge of the copse. Whatever happened, he could get help from the water-spirits for his daughter.

  “Well, Maria, we did it,” he said quietly.

  But there was no reply.

  Chapter 40

  The Veneto

  Marco Valdosta had felt the sudden terrible, horrible, outpouring of dark magics just a few minutes after dawn. They had changed horses and Marco had been assured they were getting close.

  His head went up, and his voice was the Lion’s growl. “We need to gallop. Now.”

  The captain demurred. “We’ve still got a few miles, M’Lord Valdosta.”

  Marco whirled to glare at him, and even in the dim pre-dawn light, whatever the fellow saw in Marco’s face, it made him shrink back. “If we don’t gallop now,” Marco hissed, “We will be too late.”

  With that look to spur them on, they did. But it was simply too far, the horses began to tire and balk, so they had to slow up again.

  Marco could barely contain his anxiety. If only…

  There was a distant horn-call.

  He put spurs to his tired horse, which lurched back into a gallop. The captain called out in alarm. “M’Lord…it could be trouble. You’d be a rich prize. We should hold back, scout.”

  “And my niece’s life may be at stake!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Ride, Captain, ride. And let’s have our banners and pennants out. If any attack us let them know that they attack Venice. We can’t have more than a mile to go. I just hope that is not them fleeing with Alessia.”

  * * *

  Benito saw the Winged Lion flag on the brow of the hill, before he saw the horsemen. The final relief was such that he almost fell out of the saddle.

  Or it could have been his daughter deciding to stand up, and dance, and yell: “Marco, Marco!”

  * * *

  Marco heard her little voice and then saw, of all mirages, his brother, with Alessia in front of him, on a horse riding towards them.

  He rubbed his eyes. It had to be an illusion. Benito was an improbable sight. Benito sitting on a horse, more so.

  It was only when the horse shied and Benito nearly fell off that he was sure that it was real. Benito, muddy, bloody and grinning, with his daughter yelling “Marco, Marco!”

  “Am I ever glad to see you big brother,” said Benito.

  Marco urged his tired horse to Benito’s side and steadied him in the saddle. “What in the name of all the Saints are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story. But you’d better send your men to that villa up there. There are some prisoners in the gate-tower we wouldn’t want getting loose.” He reached over, and squeezed his brother’s arm. “And I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. Even dressed up for war!”

  Marco didn’t know whether to weep with relief or cheer. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you too, ‘nito. And how glad I am to see ‘Lessi.”

  Benito passed her over to Marco, since she was trying to jump to him anyway. She was babbling something. Benito laughed, an exhausted laugh, but a laugh, and translated. “She says she needs breakfast, and I could eat an ox. It looks like you have three hundred or so men. Let’s keep half and send the rest on to clean up.”

  Marco nodded, and hugged his niece, who continued to babble in his ear. “I’ll definitely send a hundred and fifty back towards Venice with you. But I must go on. I felt some very black magic…”

  Benito nodded. “Ah. That. The monster. A fellow named Francisco dealt with it with a few bags of salt. He seemed to know you very well. I think it is dead, but we’d better check I suppose.”

  Marco gaped at him. “Francisco?”

  Benito nodded, and Marco noted that his words were slurring a little, probably from fatigue. “Yes, he was with the small army that rescued me. He said to give you his regards and apologies, and that he’d taught you enough to begin with. They left. Said they didn’t want misunderstandings.”

  Marco blinked. “He’s Carlo Sforza’s personal physician.”

  Benito was silent for a moment. “Well. Huh. That explains the other fellow. The one that looked…familiar. Hell of a swordsman. He said on another day I might have killed him.” Benito slowly blinked his eyes. “So that was Sforza. I think I knew. I just wasn’t ready to accept it.” He shook himself and reached for ‘Lessi, who was quite ready to go back to him. “Come on. Let’s deal with the mess in that Villa, make sure the monster is dead, and then we can ride back together. I rather fancy having several hundred me
n around us.”

  Marco was still trying to put all the pieces together. If Sforza had helped to rescue ‘Lessi, then who had kidnapped her? “Sforza is supposed to have about seven thousand with him.”

  Benito nodded, and yawned fit to crack his jaw. “I’d believe it. Let’s get on with it. I’m nearly asleep in the saddle, and for me…that’s saying something.”

  Well there was one thing for sure. Marco needed to let it be known that whoever their enemy was, it wasn’t the Wolf. At least, not this time. “Yes. Let us just send some messages back to Venice, post haste. I think avoiding misunderstandings is a good idea.”

  * * *

  Riding northward Carlo Sforza, the Wolf of the North, was in an unusually pensive mood. He’d thought the boy might have learned some strategy and cunning from Benito’s maternal grandfather; now he was sure of it. Carlo knew that Enrico Dell’este hated him—for Lorendana—with a passion, but he had some respect for the Old Fox. And it appeared that the Old Fox was doing right by the boys, which gave him even more respect for Dell’este.

  Which was more than he had for Duke Fillipo Maria Visconti right now. He had been considering a dangerous and potentially expensive break for some time now. Feelers had been put out, feelers that would have Visconti out to kill him if he’d found out. Well, maybe he had; maybe that explained what Visconti had been doing with him for a while. Nothing was ever truly secret in Italian politics.

  A rider came galloping toward him. “M’Lord. The San Salvaro stopper-group… they report sighting a large party of cavalry. M’Lord they are wearing Biscione on their livery.”

  The Biscione… the Serpent swallowing a child… the heraldic charge of the House of Visconti. The symbol of Duke Fillipo Maria. It seemed dangerously appropriate right now. “How many of them?”

  “It looks like about seventy or eighty, M’Lord.”

  “Right, Vichonta. We’re going to intercept some of the duke of Milan’s men,” said Carlo Sforza, his face setting into very hard lines. “And then there will be some questions asked. And then… it will depend on the answers.”