The Venetian soldiers paused, as did Manfred and Erik. The arresting unit was still some twenty yards from the Casarini house. There was a full moon out, this night, so the house was clearly visible.
"What's wrong, Eneko?"
The priest seemed unable to speak. Manfred could see that his face was tight with pain. It also seemed pale as a sheet, although that could have been the effect of the moonlight.
Erik waved to the sergeant commanding the ten soldiers. "Go on. There's no time to waste."
The sergeant and his men continued forward, two of the soldiers hefting axes while four others held torches aloft. Erik knelt alongside Eneko. Manfred couldn't, because he was wearing full armor. His Icelander bodyguard, as he usually did given the choice, had opted to wear nothing more than half-armor for the occasion. Erik had learned to fight in Iceland and Vinland, and never was really comfortable in the heavy Teutonic armor favored by the Knights.
"Can we do anything, Eneko?" he asked.
The priest shook his head. Then, slowly, withdrew his hands from his temples. When his eyes caught sight of the soldiers—now standing before the door, raising their axes—they widened. And his face, impossibly, seemed to grow paler still.
"Oh, dear God—
no.
Erik, get them away from that door! They will be no match for—"
It was too late. The door shattered from within, not a second after the first axe landed.
Something
erupted out of it. Because of the darkness, it was difficult to see it clearly. Manfred could only discern a thing of scales and wings and horns and talons, with a face like a gargoyle's, shrieking fury.
The soldier holding the axe was smashed aside, by a taloned paw that shredded his throat in passing. A backhand blow from the same paw sent the other axe-wielding soldier sprawling, knocking down two other soldiers with him, their torches scattering.
The monster took a stride forward and crushed the sergeant's skull, its talons stripping away the helmet as if it were a mere skullcap. Then, to Manfred's horror, seized the sergeant by the shoulders as he collapsed and
bit
his head in half. The fangs sheered through the poor man's skull and brains like a knife through cheese.
The creature flung the sergeant's corpse aside and spit out the top part of his head, then spread its huge arms and bellowed with rage and a kind of hideous, triumphant glee.
Still, the moments the demon had taken to kill the sergeant had given the rest of the soldiers the time to back away. Back away
frantically.
Two of them dropped their weapons and simply ran. The remaining soldiers stood their ground, more or less, but they looked about as confident as five-year-boys facing a tiger in full fury.
Manfred felt calm settling over him, a calm so profound it was almost serenity.
"There's always adventures when you're around, Eneko," he said cheerfully, drawing his broadsword. "Erik, get that creature's attention for me, if you would."
Manfred stepped forward, holding his sword in both hands, the huge blade gleaming in the moonlight. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Erik was hesitating. Not surprising, of course—the Icelander was supposed to guard the prince from danger, after all, not draw the attention of monsters upon him.
"
Now,
Erik." Manfred's voice was soft, but the words came like iron. The commanding words of a prince,
when all was said and done.
Erik stared at Manfred. And then, felt calmness coming over him as well.
He knew, finally, in that moment, what he had begun to suspect for some time. If Manfred survived his life—no telling
that,
of course—he would become one of Europe's great legends.
So be it. Erik Hakkonsen had been charged with guarding a prince, not just a man. He could hardly complain if, in the end, the man lived up to his station. A true prince was not simply an heir; he was also charged with protecting his people.
Erik drew his tomahawk, stepped forward and hurled it. Unerringly, the weapon flew toward the demon—unseen by it in the dark of night—and struck the creature between its horns.
Had Erik been using the proper Algonquin tomahawk he'd once had, that strike might well have felled the monster itself. As it was, the blade sank into the skull but didn't succeed in splitting the creature's brains. Not too surprising, of course. The thing's skull was considerably thicker than the little brain remaining within.
The demon screamed with pain and fury, its vaguely boarlike face swinging toward Erik and Manfred. Erik thought the eyes gleamed red; though it was difficult to be sure of color, in the dim moonlight.
Manfred took another step forward.
"Come to me, beast!"
Still screaming, the demon sprang off the stoop and hurtled down the street toward Manfred. Its wings were spread fully now, and flapping. They were not sufficient to lift the great, heavy thing off the ground entirely, but they enabled it to race forward at an inhuman speed.
An instant later, the horrible creature was leaping in the air, sailing down upon Manfred like a hawk stooping on a chicken.
A very large and dangerous chicken. Manfred's great shoulders hunched and he swept the sword across, chest-high to the demon.
"DIA A COIR!"
It was an incredible sword-strike. The blade severed the monster in half. The upper half, still screaming, bounced off Manfred's lowered helmet and shoulders and spilled on the street behind him, almost at Eneko's feet. The lower half, gushing ichor and intestines, flopped backward.
Eneko Lopez stared at the thing writhing in front of him, the boar's face with its tusks still gnashing, the taloned paws scrabbling at the cobblestones.
He raised his crucifix. "That which cannot abide the name of—"
He never finished the sentence.
THUNK.
Manfred's sword removed the monster's head entirely, sending it rolling down the street like a loose cannonball. Erik hurried after it, muttering something about lost tomahawks.
THUNK.
Manfred's sword, driven straight down with both hands, pierced the monster's spine and pinned the torso to the street itself. Whether by luck or simply the prince's great strength, the tip of the blade wedged itself between two cobblestones.
Meanwhile, working both fearfully and frantically, the soldiers were hacking the lower part of the demon's body into pieces. It was hideous work, if not particularly dangerous—though one soldier was knocked off his feet by a reflexive kick from one of the monster's flailing legs. Fortunately, the leg ended in a hoof instead of talons, so the soldier suffered nothing worse than a bad bruise.
The demon's torso was still twitching, but more feebly now. Eneko looked down the street the other way and saw that Erik was returning—his tomahawk in one hand and the demon's head held by one bat-shaped ear in the other. The head's maw was still gnashing, and, as the priest watched, made an attempt to bite Erik on the leg.
"Stupid," Manfred grunted.
Sure enough, Erik set the head down on a nearby stoop and proceeded to smash out all its fangs with the tomahawk. Three quick blows, delivered with all of Erik's skill with the weapon, and there really wasn't much left of the thing except blood and bone fragments, held together by strips of hide.
Not that Erik was probably planning to mount it as a trophy, anyway. Manfred glared down at his sword.
"Damnation," he growled. "It's going to take me
hours
to sharpen it properly. Eneko, sometimes I think you're more trouble than you're worth."
The priest rose to his feet, scowling. "We're not finished yet, Prince Manfred. This"—he pointed at the demon's carcass—"was just a tool. The real monster is still inside."
Eneko looked at the shattered door, feeling immensely frustrated. "Or not. Probably not, any longer. That's why the creature set this thing loose. I sensed the incantation—as horrible as any I've ever encountered—which is what sent me to my knees."
Manfred's bull-like strength was put to use again. Even for him, withdrawing the sword was a struggle. But, within a few seconds, he and Erik were pushing through the entrance into the house. Their weapons ready, with Eneko and his crucifix coming right behind.
And, as Eneko had foreseen, it was too late. Bianca Casarini was gone.
Within a minute, they'd found the escape route she'd taken. But the elderly couple living in the adjoining house seemed comatose, and their own rear entrance was wide open.
After looking down that street, Manfred stated the obvious. "It's nighttime. She could be anywhere, by now."
As soon as she entered Morando's cellar from the secret entrance, and closed the wall behind her, Bianca felt a thrilling surge of triumph. Her plans were working—and working perfectly!
She'd be safe from discovery here. The Venetian authorities in the Citadel had, weeks earlier, sealed the front entrance to Morando's domicile. They'd had to, in order to put a stop to the constant stream of curious visitors. That meant no one would even think of reopening the cellar and looking in it again.
Only one danger remained, and she'd deal with that now. Bianca went directly to the altar, not bothering to look around. The altar was a fake, true enough, but put to Bianca's use instead of the charlatan Morando's, it would serve her purpose.
Quickly, using the tools and ingredients in the bag she'd brought with her, she performed the necessary ritual. Not like the much more difficult scrying in blood she needed to use to speak with her putative mistress, this was a simple thing—communication by fire. Nothing that the powers of Corfu would be able to touch or hinder.
She kindled the flame of a candle made of the rendered fat of an unbaptized baby; then bent over the flame, cupping her hands about it, and whispered a single name.
This was a mild incantation, not something she had any fear that the cursed Lopez would be able to detect. In and of itself, simply a communication—and with someone whom she'd prepared long ago for the purpose.
In his cell, Morando suddenly awoke, gasping for breath.
"Bianca?" he whispered. "Is that you?"
He saw the image of her beautiful face emerge, seeming like an apparition in midair. She was smiling gently.
"It's me, Aldo. But keep your voice down."
"Thank God!" Then, speaking softly: "Listen, they still don't know anything about you—and they say they'll commute my sentence to ten years on the galleys. So with your help—"
"
Nothing,
Aldo? They don't know about the secret entrance to the cellar?"
He shook his head. "No, I kept that from them. The only—"
He got no further. Bianca said some words he didn't catch and a sudden sharp pain stabbed through his chest. He gasped, clutching his chest with both hands.
Dimly, through the pain, he saw Bianca's smile widen. "Poor Aldo," she said. "That's the needle you're feeling. The one I implanted below your skin months ago while you were sleeping—and then numbed the nerves in the area, so you'd never sense it."
Her mouth worked, speaking more words. He knew it was an incantation of some kind, though he didn't understand the words themselves. "It's working its way into your heart now. Don't be concerned, though. I don't have time to enjoy this properly. It'll all be over within a minute."
The agony was now too intense for speech, or even screaming; the shock, even more so. He simply gaped at her, until he died.
In Casarini's abandoned house, Eneko Lopez broke off his part of the search they were conducting. His hands started to fly to his temples, again. But, this time, his frustration and anger was so great that he slammed them against a wall instead.
"May the saints blast the monster! She's doing it again!"
He leaned against the wall, shuddering. His face full of concern, Manfred took a step toward him.
Then, suddenly, the priest whole body grew rigid. "Wait," he murmured. "Something is happening . . ."
Perhaps a minute later, Eneko pushed away from the wall and turned toward Manfred. To the prince's astonishment, there was a smile on the priest face.
A very, very, very grim smile. "I shall have to do penance for this, of course," said the priest. "Vengeance is, indeed, the province of the Lord. Still, I can't help but treasure this moment."
As she turned away from the altar, smiling broadly with satisfaction—treachery was
so
sweet—Bianca was startled by a sudden motion in the darkness of the cellar.
Sophia Tomaselli's face loomed in front of her. Bianca barely recognized the woman. The once-fastidious
Case Vecchie
looked like a hag. Filthy, her hair disarrayed—and with a hag's contorted grimace.
"You bitch! This is
my
refuge!"
Too late, Bianca saw that Sophia held a heavy candlestick in one hand—and was raising it to strike.
She threw up her arm to block the blow, but her recent use of two powerful incantations had left her very fatigued. She couldn't get the arm up in time. The brass candlestick smashed into her forehead like a mallet, sending her dazed and half-conscious to the floor.
Consciousness returned perhaps thirty seconds later, pain leading the way.
She couldn't breathe!
Her hands flew to her throat. There was something—
It was a silk scarf, she realized. Digging deeply into her throat, cutting off all air and blood. Somewhere behind her, Sophia Tomaselli was holding the thing, strangling her as Bianca had once strangled a niece.
"You stinking slut! Aldo's mine, not yours!"
Tomaselli's words came in grunts, sounding more like something uttered by a peasant than a noblewoman. "Besides," Sophia hissed, "there's not . . . enough food. I'll share it . . . with Aldo . . . when he comes . . . but not
you.
"
Bianca was frantic now. The situation was absurd. How could such a pathetic creature as
Sophia Tomaselli
possibly be a threat to her? But the fact remained that the hag was in such a frenzy that she'd kill Bianca if she weren't stopped.