The Demons of Constantinople

by Eric Flint

  Annabelle would always insist that was why she missed.

  She fired again. And missed again. This time it was close enough to singe the Turk’s beard. And now she had all of his attention. Well, all the attention that he could spare from riding a bucking van.

  A third shot punctured the Turk’s breastplate, and he forgot all about holding onto Pucorl’s armor. Half a second later, he was on the ground.

  And a second after that he was roadkill.

  Annabelle slipped back into the van and with no buttons pushed at all, the window went back up.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Roger was almost out of the straps when the Turk went over the side, but he was bleeding from a wide gash in his right upper arm and a thoroughly busted nose. He flattened back onto Pucorl’s roof and pulled out his med kit, cursing a blue streak all the while. He was effectively out of the battle for now. There was no way he could shoot with this arm, and using Themis left handed wasn’t going to be easy.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  While they were fighting the Turk on the roof, the rest of the central Turkish column had turned into a raging mass of men and horses.

  Almost from the beginning, the front of that column wanted nothing so much as to get away from the armored monster and out of the rain of fire from the rooftops of Corlu. But they were blocked by the troops behind them. With the front pushing back and the back pushing forward, the whole column ground to a stop.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  On the rooftops of Tzouroulos, eighty men equipped with breech-loading demon-lock carbines laid down continuous fire on the writhing mass of Turkish cavalry. Most of them were good shots, and all of them were veterans of a kind of “up close and personal” warfare that left men completely inured to the horrors of killing. They aimed and fired, and not a one of them closed their eyes or aimed over the heads of the enemy.

  They still hit more horses than men, but that was because the horses were bigger targets. Actual misses were rare because when shooting into that sort of mass you almost had to hit something.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Gradually, as the realization reached the rear that things were not going well, the pressure on the front of the central column eased up and people started running. First a trickle, then a flood. Because, to the uninitiated, rifles really are a terror weapon. A loud noise and death from the sky that you can’t fight against. Skill doesn’t matter, courage and toughness don’t matter, the only route to safety is getting the hell out of there. And, unlike arrows or spears, you can’t even see it coming.

  Bang!

  You’re dead, or a cripple.

  Murad’s army, tough and savvy soldiers in sword to sword warfare, simply couldn’t face it.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Bill and his horse were in demon-enchanted armor. The enchantment made the steel breast- and backplate and the chain mail light as a feather and flexible as silk. Which, as it happened, was a good thing for Bill, because the left flanking force of the Ottomans was coming right at him and Andronikos. While Bill was on the phone to Bertrand to get instructions, Andronikos shouted, “Charge!” and five hundred Byzantine cavalryman rode out with lances high and pennants flying.

  Bill, perforce, went with them. Bill didn’t have a lance. Instead, he had a shield, his phone under the breastplate of his armor, and a six-shot demon-lock revolver.

  The two forces met and more of the Byzantines went down than the Turks.

  Bill, a couple of ranks back, wasn’t in the brunt, but he did take a few shots. He never knew if they hit anyone. The upshot was that the charge, after the initial clash, turned into a melee. Most of the lances on both sides were lost, and more of the Byzantine knights went down than the Turkish ones. They were getting pushed back and Bill saw that Andronikos was up against two Turks. He raised his pistol, but then a Turk was riding at him, so he turned his gun that way and fired. The Turk’s horse reared. Bill didn’t know if he hit the horse, the rider, or if it was the noise that caused the horse to rear, but he was pushed back and by the time he looked again he couldn’t see Andronikos.

  “Sherlock,” Bill shouted to his phone. “Get me the general. We’re being forced back.”

  Moments later Bertrand was on the line. “Try to delay them a little, Bill. The Turkish center is broken and we’re holding on the left. If you can keep them occupied for a little, I’ll get Pucorl to hit them in the flank.”

  “Right, General,” Bill said. Then to Sherlock, “Amplify. Pucorl is coming, men. Hold them a little longer and they’re toast.” Bill said it in French, but Sherlock shouted it in Greek.

  It seemed like it would work. The defenses stiffened. But they were still being pushed back.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  On receiving the new instructions, Pucorl made a sharp right turn and, external speakers blaring “Ride of the Valkyries” at full volume, he charged to the right.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jennifer’s phone, Silvore, shouted, “Pucorl’s going to Andronikos’ aid. Bill says they’re being pushed hard.”

  “Lord Demetrios,” Jennifer shouted in turn, “we need to help Bill.”

  Demetrios Palaiologos looked at Jennifer, then at the situation, and proved himself to be more competent than anyone had any real right to expect. He knew that if he didn’t go to Andronikos’ aid and the emperor’s son died, he would be in a lot of trouble, but he also knew that with Pucorl charging off to the left, the center was open if the Turks could recover from their rout.

  “No!” he said, “What we need to do is keep the pressure on Murad’s center.” He stood in his stirrups, waved his arms, and shouted, “Follow me!” then rode after the routed Turks in the center. His force was smaller, much smaller than the Turks, but it was fresh and not terrorized.

  Jennifer almost abandoned her post, but she knew that she and her six-shooter would be of little use to Bill’s force. She also briefly considered shooting Demetrios in the back, but that wouldn’t do any good either. Instead, cursing a blue streak, she rode along behind him.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Murad I saw his death approaching. Not in the enemy, but in his routed central column. Such a loss right now might shatter his still fragile nation, because it was held together mostly by his reputation. He already had a rebellion in Anatolia and if John Piss-his-pants Palaiologos could stop him here, his reputation was dead and gone. He was already in full armor. After all, he was the commander. He wasn’t in the front because that wasn’t where you commanded from. He mounted and in moments was charging with his personal guards at that routed column, swinging his sword, and bellowing at his troops to stop running and follow him. Surprisingly, some of them did. Not all of them, and he would deal with the cowards later. Right now, he needed to restore his troops to something like organization, and prepare to meet whatever was coming.

  That was half his problem. He’d seen some of it, and heard more. Even gotten a good view of the monster as it hared off to flank his left wing. He’d heard the crackling thunder and seen the puffs of smoke from the tops of the buildings. But he didn’t really comprehend what had happened. He only knew it was bad.

  By the time he had something that almost looked like order restored to what was left of his center, he saw them coming. A contingent of over a hundred Byzantine knights. Coming straight for him. His forces outnumbered them, but they were fresh and solid. Standing in his stirrups and swinging his sword over his head, he ululated to call everyone’s attention, then charged right at the oncoming Byzantines.

  He was almost surprised when what was left of his army followed.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Demetrios saw Murad, lowered his lance, and spurred his horse into a charge. He was going to face Murad I alone on the field of battle and, if he lived, he would be safe from whatever befell Andronikos.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Three ranks back in the Ottoman forces, Omar put an arrow into flight. It flew high and straight. He wasn’t the only one shooting, but it was his arrow that came down on the
neck of Demetrios Palaiologos’ mount. The horse stumbled, fell, and rolled on top of his rider. Demetrios’ neck was broken, along with his back, four ribs, one arm, and both legs. He was dead in moments.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jennifer almost came out of the saddle as her gelding leapt over Demetrios’ horse, and when she came down, she was facing Murad I, with his scimitar looking about fifteen feet long, as he lifted it up in preparation to take her head off.

  Not every panic shot misses. Once in a while, pray and spray works.

  This was one of those times. Jennifer fired six times, as fast as she could pull the trigger. Two of them hit, one the horse, and the other punched right through Murad I’s breastplate. It didn’t hit anything vital, but that didn’t matter. Between the horse’s stumble and the pain of his wound, Murad came out of his saddle and was trampled under the hooves of Jennifer Fairbank’s gelding.

  The men who were following him, not knowing she was out of ammo, scattered in any direction they could find, as long as it was away from the demon on the grey gelding, who threw thunder and lightning like some ancient god.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Meanwhile, back at the right flank, Pucorl charged into the rear of the Turks and the charge that was pushing Andronikos’ forces back faltered, then failed. Bertrand was still holding on the left, and then they heard it from the Ottoman camp. The drums changed their beat to a particular staccato rhythm, and then Wilber called, “It’s retreat.” But they already knew it. As soon as the Turks heard it, they didn’t retreat. They ran.

  Chapter 11—Battle Damage

  Location: Inn Converted into Hospice, Tzouroulos

  Time: 4:15 PM, November 22, 1372

  Andronikos had a broken arm. Which to hear him tell it was because of Bill Howe’s cowardice in failing to support him. He had lost almost ten percent of his knights, again the fault of the twenty-firsters, their cowardly demons, and Bertrand du Guesclin. This time because Pucorl was late in coming to his defense. His cousin Demetrios was dead because Pucorl had abandoned his duty and because, instead of defending him as was her clear duty, Jennifer had run off seeking glory. And Roger, with his famous Sword of Themis and almost as famous longrifle, had proved completely useless. Yes, they had won, but it was in spite of the French contingent with its twenty-firsters and its demons. It would have been a much greater victory with much less loss on their side if he had been placed in command as was his right by virtue of his birth.

  Roger, who was in the next bed having his arm and his nose looked after, heard it all for about the fifth time, and said, “You remind me a lot of Philip the Bold.”

  Andronikos looked at Roger in shock for a moment. “How dare you threaten me? You . . . you . . . peasant! I’ll have you whipped through the streets of Constantinople.”

  They were both in the hospice, not having been magically healed because their wounds weren’t severe and could wait. The triage imposed by Raphico and Monsignor Savona had much to do with severity of wound and gave short shrift to rank of the wounded. Raphico might have made an exception if Roger had asked. Roger had not only failed to ask, but had insisted that he be treated no differently than any other soldier in the army.

  Either army.

  The Turkish wounded were also being treated, without regard to their religion, through a combination of magic and modern knowledge of germ theory. There wasn’t enough knowledge of modern medicine among the twenty-firsters to produce much of anything like modern medicine in the here and now. The good news was that they were no longer strictly limited by the information brought back in the heads and the computers of the twenty-firsters. The University of Paris School of Medicine was a phone call away.

  Yes, it had only had the modern notions of medicine for less than a year, but it wasn’t one man studying on something for less than a year. It was hundreds, some clever, some not, some innovative, some hidebound, some trying to adopt all the innovations and find more, and others trying to justify throwing it all out and going back to bleeding, bad air, and balancing humors.

  All of which made for an often volatile mix, but one that was self-selecting toward the more accepting of modern concepts when consulting on the phone about wounded Turkish soldiers.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  In another room in the same hospice, six Turkish soldiers lay in bunked pallets with various injuries. Mohammed ben Sahid, born in Italy under the name of Giuseppe Caldrone, groaned under the pain of the compound fracture of his left humerus. The bone had been set, the wound treated with sulfur, sewn up and wrapped. The heathen healers insisted that it wouldn’t putrefy, but he had his doubts.

  They also said he was no longer a slave. For Mohammed was a janissary. He was taken as a slave from a trade ship out of Genoa, but that was fifteen years ago. For seven of those years, he had been a dockworker in Bandirma, then he was taken for taxes and made a janissary. The janissaries were a new unit introduced by Murad less than ten years ago. Mohammed was one of the first. They’d almost killed him, forced his conversion to Islam, and whipped or beaten him for the slightest infraction. You got tough or died, and a lot died. Mohammed got tough. So tough that he was one of those janissaries who was made cavalry.

  Mohammed wasn’t sure how he felt. By now he had fought in several battles and he was a tough man. Murad and his captains had done that. Mohammed was a janissary and that was a thing to be proud of. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to go back to being a Genoese sailor. And it was hard to concentrate with the pain in his arm.

  Then the priest came in. He was a tall, ascetic man with dark hair starting to go gray. He was wearing an alb and stola with fringes, but his alb had a pocket sewn onto its left breast, and in that pocket was the thing Mohammed had been warned about. One of the demon-enchanted slates.

  He made a warding away gesture and the slate spoke in Turkish. “You have no need of warding against me. I will do you no harm, neither your body nor your soul.”

  “Allah protect me!”

  “That will be up to Allah, I would imagine,” the slate said. “I am simply here to examine your wound and see if it is becoming infected.”

  That was a whole other fear, to be without his left arm. It would end him as a janissary, probably end him period. Fear for his life warred with fear for his soul, and it was fear for his life that won. He let the priest examine his wound with the phone.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “There is a bit of infection, but not much yet. If we treat it now and seal the wound, he should be all right,” Raphico said, and Monsignor Savona nodded, looking at the screen that showed a colored transparent image of the arm that showed torn muscle, blood vessels, and damaged bone.

  “You should bond the bone as well. Not fully heal it, but something to hold it in place while it heals.” He pointed at a bone chip that was away from the rest of the bone. “If you can put that back in place, it will speed the healing.” By now, Giuseppe Savona was familiar with the internal workings of the human body, and he had learned triage in more than one sense. He knew that he could spend every moment of his life healing the sick and still not make a dent in the problems of illness and injury. He knew that he, and even Raphico, needed to pace themselves and spend part of their time on other things. So they didn’t heal the Turk, but treated him enough so that he might, in time, heal himself. Then they went on to the next patient.

  Location: Prisoner Camp, Outside Tzouroulos

  Time: 4:25 PM, November 22, 1372

  After the rout, a lot of Murad’s army had surrendered. It was that or be ridden down, and most of Murad’s baggage train and camp followers were captured. The janissaries included cavalry. Murad’s entire force was mostly cavalry, but once your horse is shot out from under you, an armored cavalryman is only another foot soldier, and no more capable of outrunning a horse than any other. And the point of Murad’s central column was almost entirely janissary. They were his toughest, most disciplined troops, and the ones he could most afford to spend in forcing an objective. S
o more than half the captives were janissaries, and most of the rest were mercenaries. There were only a sprinkling of noble knights in his army.

  In a way, the mercenaries were the greater problem. They were willing enough to change sides, but they expected to be paid and John V didn’t have the money to pay them.

  The janissaries, as a relatively new Ottoman force, were not paid. Not in money. They were fed and equipped, trained and treated, even paid a sort of allowance, but that was the largess of their owner. The discussions among the prisoners were ongoing, and the discussions about how they were to be handled were ongoing as well.

  Location: Constantinople

  Time: 4:35 PM, November 22, 1372

  Pucorl was doing sixty kilometers per hour as he drove through the outer gates of Constantinople. He was then slowed by traffic, but he was still out-speeding a galloping horse as he pulled up in front of the royal palace.

  He opened his side door and Bertrand du Guesclin, general of the armies of Byzantium, hopped out and strode up the steps to the palace entrance to cheering crowds. Byzantium hadn’t had a victory against the Turks in a long time. After the reconquest of Tzouroulos and, more importantly, the defeat of Murad, Bertrand was the golden boy of the Constantinople mob. And the golden girl was right behind him.

  Jennifer Fairbanks, the girl who killed Murad in mortal combat. The fact that she was a woman delighted the mob. Not because of what it said about her, but because of what it said about Murad and his whole line. If he could be defeated by a mere slip of a girl on the field of battle, God must truly be on their side.

  Bertrand spent most of the trip here convincing Jennifer to let that part of it go, and not to go around explaining that she could defeat Christian nobles and kings as easily.

  Jennifer saw their glee as an insult to her. But they needed that glee and the adulation that came with it, to make the rest of their program more acceptable to the people of Byzantium.

  Location: John V’s Apartments, Royal Palace, Constantinople

  When Bertrand and Jennifer entered the emperor’s private apartment, they found a mob. A small mob, but a mob. Aside from John, there was his wife, who doubled as the royal treasurer, Manuel II, the co-emperor of Constantinople and a slightly larger chunk of what used to be the Eastern Roman Empire than they’d been emperors of a few days ago. Tzouroulos was back in the fold, and if they kept pushing they ought to be able to get back a lot more. That was why he was here.