Zaragoz

by Brian Craig

  There seemed to be no alternative but to wait for the man to stroll on, and so Orfeo and Falquero stayed quite still, but Arcangelo was agitated now and eager to begone. Instead of waiting, he moved forward, approaching the man from behind very stealthily, obviously intent on striking him down by magical means. As the spellcaster came near to his target, though, the man moved on again, heading in the direction in which they must go themselves, preceding them down the first of the stairways which they must traverse.

  Arcangelo looked around, as though alarmed to find himself alone and exposed beneath the weak light of the stars.

  Orfeo thought for just an instant that nothing was happening, but then he saw movement in the shadows beneath the battlements, and he knew that Arcangelo had seen the movements too. What it was that was moving Orfeo could not tell, but it was nothing human—it was as if the shadows themselves were taking on substance.

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  Arcangelo turned, briefly, to face his two companions, and though his face should have been all-but-invisible there was a brief flicker of light which illuminated his features, and showed how tormented they had become.

  "Go!" whispered Orfeo to Falquero. "Run for your life and stop for no man!"

  Half a dozen strides took them past Arcangelo, who did not try to follow them—instead the spellcaster turned to face those slow shadows which moved upon him from the looming walls.

  Orfeo did not look back to see what would become of him, for the only thought now in his mind was the determination to escape, if he could. While he and Falquero moved across each ledge they would be clearly visible to the sentries on the tower and the men-at-arms patrolling the ramparts—all the more so because of the lady's white gown—and now that Arcangelo's talents must be diverted to another battle his magic would no longer work subtly on the observers to make sure that their heads were turned away.

  In any case, there was the lone man ahead of them, who would surely turn to see them as they came upon him.

  Orfeo drew his sword, keeping the pincers in his other hand, for he knew that there must now be a fight.

  They rushed down the first stair, and were then within a dozen yards of the flight which was their next target, but they saw that the stroller had paused beside the head of that stair, and was already turning to see what was happening behind. Someone else had come on to the terrace too—a manservant, hurrying from the western tower to the east with two heavy buckets, his shoes rattling on the stone above their heads. The man, confused, did not know whether to look behind him or to the side, and while he hesitated Orfeo hurled himself at his back, striking out at him with the heavy pincers.

  By the light of the stars Orfeo could just make out the features of the other man, who now realized his danger and tried to bring forth his sword, but as Orfeo struck at him he turned his face away, and threw himself to the side. Orfeo took a step after him, letting Falquero overtake him and race down the stair with the girl in his arms.

  "To arms!" cried the man, letting loose the cry as though a convulsive surge of air had been released, with difficulty, from 142

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  his lungs. "Stop them!" He had nearly drawn his sword by now, though he had taken another step backwards in order to gain time to do it. Orfeo, instead of chasing him farther, hurled the heavy pincers at the man's broad chest. His aim was not perfect, but good enough, and as the other tried to ward off the missile with his right hand—it was his left which had plucked at his sword—he was knocked sideways, stumbling awkwardly. Orfeo ran down the stairway behind Falquero, taking the steps three at a time.

  Smoke suddenly boiled out of the pavement in great quantity, in front of them and behind, but Falquero did not pause, and Orfeo was overtaken by the most curious sensation as he looked at the dark, roiling clouds and saw both that they were there and not there. He knew immediately that the smokescreen was more of Arcangelo's magic—an illusion intended to cover their retreat.

  He did not try to look back to see where the spellcaster was, but ran in pursuit of Falquero.

  But the man he had knocked over had already come to his feet, and was bounding down the stair so quickly that he was almost at Orfeo's heels. He was too close for the smoke to hide Orfeo from him, and he was shouting: "The dungeons! To the dungeons with all speed! Semjaza! Semjaza!"

  As he bounded down the the next flight of stairs, touching stone only once as he leapt, Orfeo calculated that the main danger lay ahead rather than behind. The illusory smoke would slow pursuit, but if men-at-arms could be roused quickly enough by his pursuer's call to arms, which was now being relayed by many voices to every corner of the castle, they might easily find the way to the dungeons blocked.

  "Fly!" he cried to Falquero, as he almost caught up with his companion. "Stop at nothing, and I will cover your retreat as best I can!"

  His sword was in his hand now, and there was a high excitement surging in his body which was part fear and part exhilaration—for he loved to be in action once his blood was up, though he had the sanity not to let his blood boil too easily.

  They flew so fast that they came to the doorway to the dungeons when only two of the guardsmen had reached it—and both of those were fuddled by their rude awakening and bewildered by the smoke. Falquero pushed one aside without difficulty, and Orfeo 143

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  pricked the other one in the lower leg to make him fell. Then they were through the door and descending, and it hardly mattered that a dozen men were thundering at their heels, for the passage was too narrow to let them come two abreast, and Orfeo held his blade behind him as he hurried on, ready to lash out if the leader of the pack approached too close.

  In the torture chamber the massive guard was struggling to recover from the spell which had bound him. When Falquero came past him his great eyes blazed with anger, and he came slowly and awkwardly to his feet. Finding his own sword gone he snatched up one of the heavy irons which lay upon the table. A true blow from that would have knocked a man down, but even without the effects of Arcangelo's spell to trouble his movements the big man was a ponderous creature, who needed time and space aplenty to make best use of his strength. Orfeo's thin blade licked out with furious speed as he ran past, and though the man twisted sufficiently to save his throat from being speared the point went into the side of his neck and cut the artery there, so that bright blood fountained out.

  The giant howled in anguish, and tried with all his might to bring his clumsy weapon to bear, but Orfeo was too quick by far, and the rapier struck again, this time blinding the big man in one eye. Then Orfeo made shift to be gone, as other men came hurtling into the room, finding room to organize themselves for the first time.

  As Orfeo went through the tiny door he turned himself around in order to go backwards down the steps. This slowed him down considerably, but it meant that his long arm and sharp blade were behind him to fend off pursuers who might otherwise have found him an easy target for a thrown dagger or any other improvised missile. Though he was compelled to fence with his immediate pursuer that opponent had great difficulty making enough room for himself in the low-ceil inged passage, and though Orfeo had not the advantage of elevation he felt that he was in control of the duel. Furthermore, he knew that every second he used up was a further advantage to the fleeing Falquero, who could now draw clear of him. Every pause and clash of blades made their true mission safer, and the cost did not seem too high in terms of peril to his own life, for he was certain that he could defend himself 144

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  even more successfully once he reached the ledge which led to the magical bridge.

  As he danced down the first flight of stairs, and then the second, he found no real hazard in the clumsy blade which stabbed out at him. He was in near-darkness, though someone behind the manat-arms who harried him kept trying to hold a lantern aloft so that he had light to help him.

  There were too many pursuers in the passage, and every time the leading man tr
ied to balance himself for a blow he was buffeted from behind by those over-impatient for his further progress. First one man went down, then another—both knocked over by their friends, who then stumbled awkwardly over the fallen bodies.

  As they descended further Orfeo did not put in a single bloody blow, but he was not worried about that, and there seemed to him a pleasant justice in the fact that his immediate opponent was being battered, bruised and kicked by his friends instead of his enemy.

  There was a clash of swords at the second junction, where the available space was. greater, and again on the next stair as the pursuers realized what was happening and ceased to ruin the hopes of their own vanguard—but the man whom fate had now apopointed to lead the charge was no expert with the rapier he carried, and Orfeo quickly saw that there was an advantage to be gained by refusing to hurt the man, as he did not want someone cleverer taking his place. By skilful parries he kept the man's hopes alive while they passed another junction, and came all the way to the ledge beside the abyss. There the pursuer's own clumsiness betrayed him, and he failed to make the turn, tumbling over the edge and screaming as he fell.

  Orfeo heard the crashing impact below, and the shocked screeching of rats—which soon gave way to the scrabbling sound of a horde rushing to the feast.

  The man's screams continued to echo from the walls, for the fall had not killed him, nor even knocked him senseless. The horror of it made Orfeo pause, and he dropped the point of his sword momentarily—but he snatched it up again very quickly indeed, when he saw who it was that led the pursuers around the corner and on to the ledge.

  It was Estevan Sceberra who faced him now.

  Though the minister's features were in shadow the man behind 145

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  him held a lantern—and now could get it high enough to make good use of its light. Orfeo had no difficulty recognizing his enemy—and his enemy, undoubtedly for the first time, realized exactly who it was he had been chasing.

  "You!" he said, in a tone which mingled contempt with astonishment.

  Orfeo had begun moving again, but the contempt cut him a little, and the wound in his breast suddenly began to burn again as the memory of its infliction came flooding back. He did not move so quickly then, but backed warily along the ledge with his blade held very carefully at the ready. The men who had faced him so far had had no conspicuous skill in swordsmanship, but he could not doubt that Sceberra would be well-schooled. When this man thrust at him, he would have to be far cleverer than he had so far been. He knew Sceberra would not need to cut him—it would be sufficient to make him lose his balance, so that he followed the other man into the pit.

  Thinking that attack might be the best form of defence, Orfeo lashed out, making the minister parry—but the parry was good enough to ensure that Orfeo could not follow his blow, even though Sceberra was crowded from behind. The minister, in fact, called for his followers to give him room, and they hung back, letting their leader come forward alone. Orfeo knew that he must eventually continue his retreat, for his only hope of attaining eventual safety was to follow Falquero into the depths of the crag, but Falquero had gone a long way ahead of him now, taking the lantern which Arcangelo had left for them, and Orfeo dared not move too quickly into the darkness lest he miss the bridge and tumble over the end of the ledge. Sceberra, realizing that he had control of the light, followed him with greater alacrity, reaching forward as far as he could with the point of his sword, in order to force Orfeo back.

  The minister thrust forward once, and then again, and though Orfeo attempted a riposte his blade was very easily caught. He suffered himself to be pushed backwards, but went as slowly as he could while he tried to judge the distance to the other corner.

  He dared not look around while facing such an opponent as Sceberra, and he was forced to keep touching the wall with his left hand, tracking it until he reached the turn.

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  The turn came, or so it seemed to him, rather too soon—but when he was sure of his position he quickly backed on to the bridge, going three-quarters of the way across the abyss. Then he stopped.

  Sceberra had now to follow him on to the bridge if he intended to continue the pursuit, and he too would be exposed to the double danger, for if either of them lost his balance now, he would be dropped into the pit.

  Orfeo stood still, saying nothing. He had assumed the balanced position of a skilled fencer, tempting Sceberra to follow him on to the narrow causeway and engage him in combat.

  By the light of the nearest lantern, reflected off the wall behind him as well as the one above the ledge, he could see Sceberra's expression much more clearly now, and could see the wrath and hatred that were in it.

  "You dare!" said the minister, in a low hiss—and Orfeo realized that his opponent was genuinely surprised by his temerity in pausing to make a duel of it. He smiled, deliberately.

  "I had thought that there was not a swordsman in all Zaragoz,"

  he said. "Just daggermen whose experience was all in the carving of their food. But you hold yourself as if you know what the blade is for—though perhaps that is just show?"

  Sceberra reacted to the careftil insolence as Orfeo had hoped he would, drawing his mouth very tight and staring at him with hot fury. But Sceberra's stance was not all show, and the minister clearly knew better than to let anger impel him into a careless sweep. Sceberra had paused, perhaps striving to think of a suitably cutting reply.

  There was still much movement on the ledge behind Sceberra.

  One man was busy shoving others aside, apparently careless of the risk, in order to come to the head of the column of pursuers.

  It was the man at whom Orfeo had thrown the pincers. He, too, had a rapier, which he carried in his left hand—and like Sceberra, he carried it as though he had been carefully educated in its use.

  "Who is that man?" said the newcomer, so calmly that the words seemed very strange, echoing in that eerie darkness.

  "The player," said Sceberra, whose own voice was as harsh as ever. "The one who is too particular to call himself a minstrel."

  "But what quarrel has he with us?" asked the other, mildly.

  "I thought him a friend of Cordova's—and my daughter speaks 147

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  highly of his playing."

  Orfeo could see Sceberra's scowl, though the man behind him could not. That dark expression told him that Sceberra had acted entirely on his own authority in bringing him to the dungeons, and was now thinking that perhaps he had made a mistake.

  "I had him safe in irons," said the minister, sourly. "And now I wish that I had made a wreck of his clever hands after all."

  "That would have been a pity," said the other man—who could be none other than Marsilio diAvila himself. "For I have not yet had the chance to hear him play. Do you think he might surrender, Estevan, now that his friend has vanished into the bowels of the mountain?"

  "I have no quarrel with the di Avilas, my lord," said Orfeo, loudly,

  "now I know that you had no hand in my imprisonment. But I would not like to surrender meekly while I have a score to settle with your minister here. I would like to fight him—if you will grant me your permission."

  Sceberra's eyes flared again, and again Orfeo saw what Marsilio diAvila could not: an expression of animal hatred which would not be denied, whatever his master might permit or deny. Orfeo knew that if Sceberra quit this bridge alive, then he would not.

  But he was beginning to hope that if he could take care of Sceberra, he might yet save his own skin.

  He was pleased, therefore, when Marsilio diAvila said: "To be sure, Master Player, you have my permission. I am ever the man for a quick and violent settlement of quarrels, as anyone in my kingdom will tell you. Cut away!"

  Orfeo had not time to offer any thanks, because Sceberra had not waited for the speech to end—he had moved to action with all the expedition he could muster, and had darted a deadly thrust at the ve
ry centre of the bloodstain which marked Orfeo's heart.

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  Orfeo turned the thrust aside with his own blade, but once Sceberra had taken the offensive he was in no mood to yield the initiative to his opponent. His sword lashed out again and again, and each time Orfeo could do no more than parry. It would have been far easier for him to turn the advantage around had he been able to move sideways, but he dared not let Sceberra drive him to the very edge of the bridge—especially as the minister seemed uncommonly well-balanced for a fighter, coming forward and back very straightly, and very lightly on his feet.

  Orfeo quickly saw that the greatest advantage which he normally had in fighting—his unusually long reach—was here cancelled out by Sceberra's unusual speed and fitness. Orfeo was ordinarily both dexterous and supple, but the wound in his chest was only one of half a dozen bumps and bruises which he had taken of late, and his body was feeling the strain of much ill-use. As he pushed Sceberra's blade aside for the fifth or sixth time he knew that he would have to stretch his resources to the limit if he was to survive.

  In the past he had always found that the longer a fight went on, the more his advantages were magnified, because most men used a heavier blade than he, and therefore tired more quickly—but if Sceberra's sword was any heavier than his own, the difference was more than compensated by the minister's freshness and 149

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  freedom from minor injury.

  Sceberra drove him back, inch by inch, and Orfeo saw the grimace of concentration which the other wore take on a hint of satisfaction. The minister was confident now, and Orfeo could do nothing for the moment to dent that confidence—but he was already thinking ahead, and knew that when he was driven back as far as the arch, he would have more scope for a move that might turn the fight around.