by Ken Hood
—|—
Only two reserve battles of infantry remained near the Neapolitan camp. Voices were raised in alarm when the unknown horse materialized nearby, but a glance showed him that the war was not here, and he did not linger.
—|—
Smeòrach's hooves clattered on paving, and he neighed in alarm to find himself in the crowded street outside Giovanni's Inn. But this was home at the moment. It had oats. He neighed again, more hopefully. Other horses and even some people neighed back at him, alarmed at his mysterious materialization.
"Toby!" Hamish came plowing through the crowd like a mad bull. "Where have you been? Do you know what's happening out there?"
Toby lifted Sorghaghtani and more or less dropped her into Hamish's arms, then slid off Smeòrach's back. A wagonload of fatigue seemed to land on his shoulders, making his knees tremble. Hamish was never going to forgive him for keeping him in the dark so long.
"More or less. Is Diaz ready at the Porta San Miniato?"
"He says you were babbling about a suicide sortie."
"Well, it shouldn't be suicide now. The don's about to take the hill. Round up all the reserves we've got and get them over to Porta San Miniato to help. Tell Diaz he'll need... No, look after these two, and I'll tell him." Thrusting Sorghie at Hamish with one hand and the reins with the other, Toby turned and ran.
He had never tried the Unplace on foot before. The shiny surface was oddly bouncy and yet slippery, the mists more menacing, but in a few moments he returned to reality just inside the Porta San Miniato. Even from the street he could see that there was a battle in progress on the hill as the don tried to seize the guns and the Fiend's troops defended them. Diaz already had the gate open and was leading the infantry out at the double. Toby squeezed into the column and went with them, laughing at his neighbors' astonishment, shouting encouragement and promises that the Fiend was heading for defeat. Once outside the walls, he stepped aside and surveyed the scene. Things seemed to be going well, as was to be expected with the don and Antonio in charge. He could leave it to them, and the army of Florence would win its share of the battle.
A riderless horse came galloping down the slope in terror. It was not one of the armored chargers the knights rode, but its trappings were too grand for the nags that archers and pikemen rode to the field. Most likely it was an infantry officer's mount. It responded to his whistle—accompanied by some of this strange unconscious gramarye he could call upon now—and he sprang onto its back, not even waiting to lengthen the stirrups.
"Onward, Orphan!" he said, and rode into the Unplace.
CHAPTER NINE
Nevil had moved much less than half his forces across the Arno, so the battle would be decided on the north bank, where he had the advantage of numbers. Toby headed downstream again, to Ercole and his Milanese.
Set-piece encounters might last all day or several days while the opposing commanders maneuvered and countermaneuvered, and some condottieri were notorious for never coming to grips at all. Toby had broken the rules yet again by involving almost all of the forces right from the start, and furthermore most of the men and horses on both sides had just completed prolonged forced marches. The battle of the Field of Florence was likely to be brief, with one side or the other collapsing from exhaustion.
He emerged from the Unplace close behind the Milanese carroccio, which had come to a halt. No one even noticed him. The whole army had come to a halt, infantry and cavalry alike drawn up in battle order, cheering and roaring approval as the famous Genoese and Pisan crossbowmen poured arrows into the plunging chaos of the Fiend's forces. His infantry had been advancing to assault the city walls; his cavalry had apparently been caught napping or at breakfast, still in quarters. Now knights were struggling to don armor, squires were trying to saddle up horses, about thirty thousand noncombatants were milling around in panic, and the men-at-arms were fighting their way through the camp to face the threat from their rear—while all the time that deadly hail fell from the sky.
The archers would run out of ammunition very soon at the rate they were going, but the terrain here was flat and open, perfect for the cavalry charge Ercole was about to launch. The effort to imagine what would happen when that hit the massed disorder was enough to raise Toby's flesh in goosebumps. Obviously this part of the battle was proceeding satisfactorily, meaning there was going to be a massacre. With a shudder, he rode back into the Unplace.
Next port of call must be the upstream north bank, where Alfredo's Venetians were seriously outnumbered, but Orphan was not Smeòrach. Disapproving of the ringing mirrored surface, the pearly mists, and the looming darkness behind them, he was skittish and unruly, more inclined to go sideways than forward. Toby was so intent on controlling his mount that it took him a moment to realize that they were not alone. Something was tracking them, several somethings. The hob knew them better than he did—dark, low shapes bounding along, closing rapidly. He kicked Orphan into a gallop. Idiot! He should have remembered the Fiend's enormous stable of demons. He had been detected.
At least six of them. He sensed fangs and claws, giant nightmare weasels with eyes glowing green. Orphan had seen them, too, and needed no encouragement now, but his best turn of speed was not going to be enough. The monsters were closing in, claws skittering on the shiny dreamscape.
Spirits! How did one get out of the Unplace in a hurry? Even if he knew some way to jump back to reality, he might land himself in the middle of Nevil's army. Time was unrelated to distance, so changing his destination now might merely prolong his danger. Orphan was going flat out and had already worked up a fine lather, his eyes wide with terror, yet still the monsters drew closer—coming in on the left, where Toby could not get at them with his sword, even if a blade would be any use against discarnate demons. Or perhaps they were trying to drive him to the right. Right, left, front, or back all seemed exactly the same here, but he strongly suspected that once he let them choose the direction they could also choose the destination and force him to emerge where they wanted him to emerge, which might be right in front of Nevil himself.
Water! If the shiny surface were water, it ought to hinder those low-slung horrors more than it would hamper Orphan. He called for water. Orphan's hooves began throwing up splashes, and the surface rippled wildly. Deeper, make it deeper, up to Orphan's knees... Now the weasel-things were floundering, splashing, slowing down. But water had its own dangers. It continued to grow deeper of its own accord, and he could not stop it. Orphan broke out of his gallop, to a canter, then a trot, and the dark tide was washing at Toby's boots. The weasels had vanished. Something else was raising ripples behind him and drawing closer on his left. Water had not been a good idea. If he did not reach Fiesole soon, he wasn't going to reach it at all.
A spinning ball of flame soared in out of the mists ahead and plunged into the water barely a span from his left foot. Something huge and dark reared up, burst into flames, and screamed. Orphan plunged forward in terror. Another ball of flame, then more, all hurtling overhead to smite the unseen pursuers. When he glanced back, he saw six pillars of fire roaring in the water, boiling up columns of steam.
Orphan stumbled out of the Unplace onto grass, and came to a shivering halt, frozen by gramarye, with his eyes wildly rolling.
"That was excessively stupid, even for you!" Maestro Fischart had to shout over the shrieking wind that was thrashing his white robe around. The dozen or so adepts gathered behind him were similarly being roiled and buffeted, staggering as the gusts changed direction. The sky overhead loomed low, black clouds hiding the sun, but the storm was local, confined to the area between Fiesole and the river.
"What's happening?" Toby demanded. He had no time for recrimination or even thanks. The nightmares he would enjoy later, when he had leisure. And he could see what was happening. Alfredo's initial attack had been repulsed. Now his Venetians were being driven back toward Fiesole by sheer weight of numbers. He had dismounted his cavalry, making the knights fight on foot, two m
en to a lance. Nevil had done the same, but he had three times the numbers, and his advantage in standard infantry might be even more than that. The speed with which his forces here had rallied from their surprise suggested that Nevil himself was in charge of this sector.
"We're holding him in demons," Fischart shouted. "But we need more helmets." Lightning flashed overhead, thunder boomed painfully close.
"I'll see what I can do." In the end, all battles came down to the basics of steel and flesh.
"Wait! You need a guard." The hexer turned to his remaining supporters and shouted orders.
Toby did not wait. They could catch him. He urged Orphan forward, feeling the calming enchantment lift at his order. But he dipped only briefly through the Unplace, emerging alongside Alfredo, where he sat his horse with half a dozen officers and mounted squires around him. They were surveying the battle, and the faces showing under their raised visors were grim.
Toby gave them a big smile. "Stiletto! Are you enjoying this fine morning?"
Alfredo's return grin was strained. "It's good exercise! You want to bring some friends to join the party? We can make room for more."
"I'll round some up. How long can you hang on here?"
If the Venetian captain-general shrugged, his steel breastplate hid the gesture. "An hour at most. Fifteen minutes would be healthier."
"Don't go away!" Toby vanished.
Now the Unplace was populated. He rode within an escort. There seemed to be at least a score of them, but they were shadowy and indistinct, mostly mounted knights with their visors down, riding in silence on either side of him. Some of them—or perhaps all of them some of the time—had other shapes: centaurs with lion heads, dragon monsters with wings above their backs, even giant scorpions. He paid no attention. He had seen demons before, and what they looked like was immaterial. All that mattered was that they were conjured to defend him.
He crossed the river to join up with the Neapolitan forces, and there he found himself in a full cavalry charge, riding alongside Jules Desjardins, the captain-general. That was no place for a man without a lance and a complete suit of steel mail, but he had a few seconds before the thundering line met its approaching counterpart. He bellowed over the din.
"Captain-General! It's me, Longdirk."
The steel-clad figure showed no reaction, but that was hardly surprising. His hands were fully occupied with lance and reins. He could not move his helm, and he had very little lateral vision inside it. His opinion of Toby's timing for a chat was best left to the imagination.
"We need to reinforce Alfredo," Toby yelled. "I'm going to take Gioberti." The two lines of cavalry were closing fast. He had to leave or die.
He left.
Egano Gioberti was Desjardins's deputy. Busily regrouping two battles of infantry, preparing for a second assault, he looked up in astonishment as Orphan emerged from empty air beside him and shuddered to a halt. Toby barked orders: The Fiend's bridge was still standing, and if Gioberti could seize that, then he could start moving troops over the river to relieve the Venetians. He might not get very many across, and they might be slaughtered when he did, but he would at least distract the Fiend and relieve pressure on Alfredo. Gioberti was an experienced condottiere. He understood at once and began shouting orders of his own.
—|—
Florence was out of danger because its own army had taken the summit of San Miniato hill. Now the don was expertly supervising the hunting down and butchery of survivors and at the same time redirecting the guns to fire at the Fiend's forces. They were at the extreme limit of range, but a few balls bouncing along into their backs ought to distract them a little, enough to make Desjardins's work easier.
Master of Gunnery Calvalcante was there, too, chortling over the newfangled cannons. Nobody needed Toby's help. He left them all to it.
—|—
That left Bruno Villars and the Romans. The fight in the southwest was almost over, and Villars had enhanced even his reputation. Perhaps if he were a more pleasant person, he would not be so demons-take-it good at fighting. He had driven the Fiend's forces into the angle between the river and the city wall and was slaughtering them. Revolted by the sight, although it was what he had ordered, Toby went on without stopping.
—|—
Ercole Abonio again...
A score of the Milanese knights were standing around, or sitting on the ground, recovering from their exertions while squires fussed around them, tending them and their horses. One or two were being tended by medics. The old collaterale had removed his helmet and was seated on a low stone wall. His face was still flushed from the heat inside his armor; he had a wineskin in his hands. There was blood all over his surcoat, and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair was streaked by sweat, but he grinned when he saw who had arrived.
Toby leaned down from the saddle. "Can you spare a mouthful?"
"Only if you're sure you've earned it." He passed over the wineskin. A boyish squire came running with another.
"That isn't your blood, is it?"
"Isn't even human, I'm afraid. Horse."
Toby took a drink and surveyed the field. The makeshift bridge was a smoking ruin, but since the Allies were obviously winning on both banks on this downstream side, that was not overly serious. Now he could appreciate why Ercole had stationed his infantry on the left. Having broken the opposition with his archers and cavalry, he had deployed the foot soldiers to close off any possible retreat to the hills. Like Villars, he had pinned the Fiend's forces between the river and the city wall. He just had not reached the butchery part yet, and there was a lot of arquebus firing going on.
"How is the struggle going elsewhere, comandante?" asked a sweat-soaked face from inside a helm, a young knight Toby did not know.
"Very well on the left bank. Upstream, the Venetians are in serious trouble. Ercole? Can you—"
The old warrior brightened. "Certainly! Luigi, Giovanni—help me up. We can leave the infantry to clean up here, Tobias. If I take the cavalry around, will that be enough?"
Toby almost laughed aloud with relief. "You'd probably be enough all by yourself, you old scoundrel. Yes! By all means. But be as quick as you can."
Ercole opened his mouth and pealed like a thunderstorm over the noise of battle: "Fresh horses! Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!"
Toby went off to tell Alfredo that relief was on its way.
—|—
The Fiend's Brenner Pass army was pressing Alfredo hard when Abonio brought the Milanese knights around the city to attack on its left. Shortly after that, Gioberti fell on its rear. The Venetians took new heart and counterattacked. Even so, the fighting continued to rage under the howling demonic storm clouds. It seemed incredible that men could continue to fight for so long without dropping dead of exhaustion. Toby lost all track of time. More than once he found himself in the lines, fighting alongside Tyroleans, then mercenaries wearing Neapolitan insignia, finally Venetians. Later he discovered blood on his sword and had very little memory of how it got there. (The legends that grew up later had him fighting in a hundred places all over the battlefield, rallying defeated troops with rousing speeches, leading charges, slaying famous warriors in single combat, but the truth had to be much less that that.) Three times he was attacked by demons, but each time his demonic bodyguards drove off the assault.
The end came suddenly, when a fiery apparition in the shape of a phoenix swirled up from the knoll where Nevil's standard flew and sped away to the north. Everywhere Allied troops raised a mighty cheer, knowing that the Fiend himself had quit the field with his attendant demons. Then Maestro Fischart and his assistants were able to break the enemy forces' spiritual bindings. Their resistance collapsed at once; they threw down their weapons and fell on their knees.
—|—
"No Quarter" was the order of the day, and most of the officers made efforts to enforce it. They failed. With few exceptions, Italian rank and file flatly refused to slaughter their defeated opponents. This
minor mutiny had begun even before Nevil departed, and it spread rapidly over the entire battlefield, in a strange and spontaneous demonstration of mercy. If the invaders groveled convincingly and were willing to swear loyalty to Toby Longdirk, then their lives were spared. No one knew where that second condition came from, but possibly it was simply the most obvious way to dispose of the problem. No right-thinking Italian wanted his city to undertake the expense of maintaining a defeated army, but equally he did not want any of its neighbors to own it either, so he decided to give it to that young foreigner everyone seemed to trust. Let the comandante take it far away.
By the end of the day, the nightmare Toby had foreseen had come true, and almost seventy thousand of Nevil's troops were still alive. What he had not foreseen was that they had all sworn allegiance to him. They were all going to want to eat.
CHAPTER TEN
The continual booms and rattling of gunfire were apparently mere celebration. All the bells of Florence had been ringing for hours, while bonfires blazed in the night, and drunken mobs teemed through the streets. Even within the Marradi Palace, the few servants still around were unsteady on their feet and inclined to leer at their betters in ways that would not normally be tolerated. No family members were in evidence. Sartaq had advised Lisa and her mother to remain in their room and keep the door locked. Whether he was doing the same, they did not know, but he at least had a bodyguard and a couple of tame shamans around to look after him. The Fiend's defeat, in other words, was turning out to be little less frightening than his success might have been. It was after midnight when Lisa, supperless but exhausted, decided she might as well go to bed. Before she could say so, a thunderous knocking on the door almost sent her mother back into hysterics.
Lisa bent to shout through the keyhole. "Who's there?"
A blurred male voice said something about a lettera.
Even she could understand that word. "Um, sotto il porta!"