by Ken Hood
Toby felt it take control of his feet, rushing him forward to his doom. Hamish was still rooted to the spot, still cursing Toby's folly.
The ghoul spread its arms to embrace its new victim. At the last moment Toby's arm brought up the sword. The hob must have revealed itself then, for the demon screamed, but it was too late to stop the blade. It slammed into the woman's chest, straight through the heart. Corpse and Hamish collapsed at the same moment. Toby felt his limbs returned to his own control and staggered, grabbing a branch to support himself.
His hose dropped around his knees, and he started to laugh.
Even after he had managed to choke down the laughter it was a few moments before he could do more than just shake. Then he pulled up his hose and retrieved both sword and staff.
Hamish had scrambled away from the dead husk. His face was chalky in the firelight. "You flaming fool! That was crazy!"
"Don't thank me, friend. Thank the hob."
Apparently not yet trusting his legs to support him, Hamish sat where he was and stared up incredulously. "I didn't know you could control it that well!"
"I didn't control anything," Toby said. "I just remembered how it hates demons."
"You knew there was a demon here, and yet you let me come?"
"I thought there might be, because of the vision. I didn't suggest it, because you don't believe in visions."
Hamish said something in langue d'oïl that did not sound polite.
CHAPTER FOUR
Toby wakened with the sun blazing down on his right ear. He had overslept, which was annoying but also confirmation that his sleepless night in the dungeon had not been pure hallucination. Not that he needed more evidence than his arms, which still ached all the way from wrenched shoulders to bruised wrists. And now was the moment to wonder what might have crept into bed with him: spiders, snakes, scorpions? He rolled over and heaved himself upright.
Hamish was reading, of course. Beside him lay a heap of oranges and two swords. He smirked with the smugness of the earlier riser. "Sleep well?"
"A few nightmares. You?"
"No. I had my nightmares before I went to bed. There aren't any more demons around. If there were, your snoring would have brought them running."
Since he was wearing nothing but his locket, Toby reached first for his clothes. "You found another sword."
Hamish nodded, closing the book. "I found eight bodies, too. There's other stuff on them, but I couldn'a bear to touch any of it. Yours is a demon sword, you realize?"
Of course. They were conventional, single-edged military swords, with simple L-shaped guards, probably of Spanish make, but one of them had slain a demon and so would have power against demons. That might be useful, for although incarnates were not exactly commonplace he seemed to have a knack for running into them.
Dressed, he reached for the oranges. "Any thoughts on my visions now?"
Hamish scowled. "No. That hob of yours breaks all the rules. And your prophecies aren't accurate—but they do seem to come close," he conceded.
Toby thought of Baron Oreste's dungeon and shivered.
—|—
As soon as he had eaten they set off northward, still carrying their staves. Having no scabbards, they tucked the swords in their bundles, hilts ready to hand in case they were needed. Westward lay the scrubby hills, and eastward the brilliant sea.
Amazingly, Hamish seemed none the worse for his horrifying experience with the ghoul. For a while he indulged in aimless chatter, explaining that the Mediterranean had been named by the Romans and meant Middle of the World but the Moors called it Bahr al-Rumi, the sea of Rome; that from the south coast of Castile you could see Africa; that it was only thirty years since the king of Castile had conquered Granada for the Khan; and that a tigress could outrun a horse, but the rider could escape it by throwing down a glass ball, which the tigress, seeing her own reflection in it, would think was one of her cubs and stop to suckle.
"What do you do about the tiger?" Toby asked. "Can't it run too?"
Hamish frowned. "The book didn't say. You suppose no one ever came back to tell them?" Then his eyes twinkled. It was never possible to tell how serious he was when he recounted a tale like that. He usually seemed to accept anything he read in a book without question, but he might have just been having fun with his big, stupid friend. Although his dark coloring made him look like a native, he was tall by Spanish standards and still gangly, so recently come to his full height that he had much filling out left to do. Fine-boned and yet firm, his features combined a pair of very solemn dark eyes with a mouth ever ready to smile. Dress him as a gentleman instead of a beggar and those long lashes would quicken every female heart in the land. If they didn't, it would not be for want of fluttering.
Suddenly he went to business. "What exactly did you foresee last night?"
Toby told what he could remember of the vision. "It's odd, but I don't recall much of what we said. Everything else was as vivid as real life, but the conversation's all fuzzy and patchy."
"Like the meeting in Valencia. You didn't remember what was said then, either." Hamish was wearing his smug expression.
"So?"
"This sounds to me like the hob's doing. It wouldn't care much about words, would it?"
"No it wouldn't. So, yes, you're right." Trust Hamish to work that out.
"Then what?"
"That's all. Oreste just went away and left me in the dark." For how long? All night? The soldiers had checked on him several times.
"Standing up? Chained?"
"Yes. Now you know everything. You're the scholar. Explain it."
Hamish scowled down at the trail. "I can't. It makes no sense. Déjà vu isn't usually so dangerous. If you're seeing the future—and you can't be—then how can you change it? But you mustn't go to Barcelona now. Even you can't be that pigheaded!"
Toby grunted.
"Well?" Hamish demanded. "We've got no reason to go to Barcelona. There are other ways out of Spain!"
Barcelona was the shortest, but the real reason Toby wanted to go there was to find a ship for Hamish. He had hoped to find one in Valencia, but the city was a graveyard and no ships came to El Grao. Hamish, although he hated to admit it, was bitterly homesick for Scotland. Hamish had done nothing to earn this endless, dangerous life as a fugitive except be loyal to his friend. It was time to repay the debt by sending him home. Scotland was a poor land with troubles of its own, but he had friends and family there, which Toby had not, and the sooner he was shipped back there the sooner he could start living the sane, ordinary life he deserved.
So Barcelona it must be, but that argument would not sway him, so think up another reason:
"You know I want more than anything to be rid of the hob. Didn't you tell me that Barcelona has one of the greatest tutelaries in Europe?"
"Montserrat? Its sanctuary is near Barcelona, yes. But the hob won't let you go near a tutelary. You know that."
"A hexer could exorcize it," Toby said cautiously.
"I expect so, but all hexers are evil, and how do you find one anyway? How do you bribe him or pay him?"
"The Khan must have hexers. He'd help."
Hamish groaned. "And how do you get to Sarois?"
That was certainly the problem and always had been. Ozbeg Khan was a thousand leagues away, beyond the Caspian Sea. He would love to have the amethyst, because that would give him the real Nevil's soul, and Nevil had known Rhym's true name, so the Khan could then conjure the Fiend and regain the half of Europe Nevil had conquered. That was why the Fiend had been chasing Toby so relentlessly for the last three years.
"I know a hexer in Barcelona—Oreste himself."
"What?" Hamish howled.
"He has dozens of trained demons. I'll offer to give him the amethyst if he'll take the hob off me."
"You have the brains of a field mouse!" Hamish yelled. "Oreste would hex you or turn you into a creature or just torture you to death out of spite. There is no way you can bargain
with Oreste! How could you trust a man so evil? He won't deal, he'll throw you in jail and torture what he wants out of you, or just hex you to obey him. You're joking, Toby, aren't you?"
"Suppose I send him a letter, offering him the amethyst in—"
"He'll trace it back to you by gramarye."
"Well, think about it," Toby said complacently. "I'm sure you'll find a way." And he would see Hamish safely on a ship before he tried it.
"You are deliberately being stupid!" Hamish said, sounding very much like his father had when little Toby Strangerson insisted that three and three made five. "Look at this country!" He waved at the desolate landscape, the burned houses and ravaged orchards. "Nevil marched half his army down this coast to Valencia and Toledo and back the same way. Oreste took the rest to Navarre. They destroyed everything. But somewhere in between there must be lands they never reached. There will still be people there, and food. I am sick to death of living on oranges and onions. I want to cut across country to Navarre. We have friends there, even if Nevil does rule it now."
Toby eyed the hills. "Cutting across country in Spain is like going through a city without using the streets."
"It's worth a try. Over there is a valley leading inland. Let's try it. Please, Toby?"
This was serious. Hamish never begged.
"If we go to Barcelona, I might be able to get my hands around Oreste's neck and strangle him."
"That's a beautiful idea. He certainly deserves it. When you have a vision of yourself doing it, let me know."
Toby shrugged. "All right! We'll head for Navarre."
Hamish looked at him incredulously and whistled. "Truly? Spirits! I'm going to write home and tell Pa that I managed to change your mind about something."
"He won't believe you."
"No. He certainly won't."
CHAPTER FIVE
At first the valley seemed as barren of life as the coastal plain. Towards noon, though, they sighted a little town on a hillside ahead, a speck of promise amid desolation, although the odds were that it had been sacked and burned like everywhere else. The trail led to it, so they pushed on, dispensing with a siesta. Toby's buskins were rubbing painfully on his raw ankles, but he saw no reason to mention it.
Hamish did not notice his limp. Mostly he prattled about things he had read, often years before, as he so often did. Toby listened in silence as usual. Only once did they return to the prophecy problem.
"Toby?"
"Hmm?"
"No spirit can see the future. The books all say the same—not even great tutelaries ever prophesy. All they can do is assess a person's potential, and they're not much better at it than mortals are. Remember back in Tyndrum? Everyone knew Vik Tanner was a no-good that would never amount to a heap of horse dung while Will Donaldson was a promising lad who would go far. But Will Donaldson fell off a roof and broke his neck. When we went to the shrine at Shira, the spirit said you showed signs of greatness. It didn't say you would live to achieve it. Bordeaux said much the same. It thought you might do remarkable things."
"Like seeing the future, you mean?"
Hamish growled angrily. "I still think the hob is playing tricks on you somehow. Let's just hope that it doesn't play any of them around the Black Friars, or you'll find yourself explaining things to the Inquisition."
Although the hob had no mind, no concept of right and wrong, and little akin to any human sense of purpose, it certainly had strong likes and dislikes. It would reduce a military band to screaming chaos in seconds, usually inflicting serious injuries, and it adored pretty things, which were liable to turn up later in Toby's pockets. When it got angry, people died. But none of that explained the visions.
"Ha!" Hamish peered down at horse droppings in the road as intently as Dougal the gamekeeper tracking the laird's deer.
"Not very recent," Toby said. "Two weeks?" He was guessing wildly. Dung had never been one of his most pressing interests.
"Hard to say in this heat. But it's on top of the tracks." Hamish looked up with his angular face twisted in a pout. "Don't think we're going to find anyone home."
"Let's go and make sure."
—|—
The town was larger than Toby had expected. It had no freestanding fortifications, but the outer houses faced inward and their backs presented an unbroken wall of masonry to visitors. The road led to a gate, which had been reduced to charred scraps of timber on half-melted iron hinges—obviously by gramarye, not cannon. Clutching his staff and peering around warily, he limped in behind Hamish, who strutted forward, all eagerness to explore.
No dogs came yapping, no chickens scurried, no goats bleated. The country trail became a steep and rutted mud-floored alley winding between tight-packed stone houses, two or three stories under red-tiled roofs. Most doorways stood open on dark interiors; most of the barred windows were shuttered. The ground was littered as if the contents of the houses had been thrown out into the street: broken furniture, smashed pots, rags, dead cats, shattered rain barrels. Seemingly the place had not been put to the torch, for the usual reek of ashes was missing. In its place was a sickly scent of decay that grew steadily stronger as the visitors advanced. They passed the remains of a body, then another, both far enough decayed for the bones to be visible. When they reached a fork, with neither branch providing a view of anything except another bend and flights of steps, Toby veered right and Hamish followed his lead as usual.
"May be able to find food here," Hamish whispered, "real food, not just zitty oranges."
The idea was mouth-watering. "If it's fit to eat. What's that noise?"
Hamish cocked his head and then shrugged blankly. "Starlings?"
Together they rounded a corner and reached a little open place, a cobbled plaza where four or five alleys met. Arcades of gloomy arches surrounded it, and on the far side stood the grandest building of all, the sanctuary, with a tiled facade, marble steps, and a little minaret. The jumble of litter was even thicker, comprised of broken casks, furniture, merchants' stalls, and general rubbish—and a heap of corpses in the center. Here the people had been rounded up and massacred. Bodies were piled head-high, distended like barrels by the sun, swarming with grotesque black shapes that were the source of the puzzling noise—crows and bigger things that might be kites or vultures. They squabbled and shrieked, crawling over their feast in search of juicy titbits.
The visitors' arrival sent them aloft in a wild flapping. Scores or hundreds of black birds whirled upward, raising dust, darkening the sky. Others, so bloated by their feast that they could not fly, flopped around amid the carnage, trying to escape, while a tide of rats swirled across the cobbles and disappeared into the arches and buildings. The airborne flock gradually settled on rooftops to scream at intruders like living gargoyles, nightmare guardians in a town of the dead.
Toby closed his eyes until he could breathe again and his stomach writhed less urgently. Then he risked another look. The carrion feeders had ripped the uppermost bodies to shreds of meat on white bone, but there were many layers underneath. He wondered if King Nevil himself had been here in this plaza, supervising the slaughter.
"Throats cut, mostly. It would be quick. We've seen worse." Impalements were worse—people left to die on posts. In some villages they had been burned alive, or hung up by their feet, or staked out along the road for miles, and there were other ways to inflict slow and painful death.
"Don't be so sure," Hamish mumbled through the hand he held over his mouth and nose. "Women on top, see? Children next, men at the bottom. How long do you think the women lived after they saw their children die? Hours? Days?"
"Too long, I'm sure."
Yes, the women were bad, but the children were worse—children with rotting green faces, eyes missing, teeth grinning maniacally where the lips had been torn away. There were dead animals in the heap, also, mostly dogs and cats, of course, because the victors would have driven off the livestock or just eaten it.
That thought of eating made his in
sides lurch again. This was the first settlement they had seen in weeks that had not been burned to the ground. He turned his back on the atrocity and spun Hamish around also, to face the alley.
"Let's explore." His legs were still stiff from his hours in Oreste's dungeon. He needed a rest from walking, even if it must be in these nightmare surroundings.
"As long as we're away before dark!"
"Obviously. I hate looting, but I'm going to take anything I can use."
"They have no more use for it," Hamish agreed.
"Let's start by seeing if we can find water and something to eat."
Hamish choked. "I'll eat outside the gate."
"If you want. We do need food. And clothes. Why don't you start hunting?"
"What are you going to do?" Hamish peered at him suspiciously.
"I'm going to visit the sanctuary."
"It won't be there!"
No matter what Toby ever suggested he could rely on Hamish to shoot back objections, usually very logical objections. Sometimes they were wonderfully sensible and he had to overrule them anyway, although he hated doing that. Hamish was an equal partner now, but he had always been senior deputy in charge of objections. Sure enough:
"The tutelary won't be there, and even if it is, what's happened to its town may have driven it completely insane, so it'll attack any stranger on sight, and even if it isn't, you know what the hob will do to you if you try this, but we can't risk having you injured here, so there's no reason to go there at all; it's pointless and dangerous, so I'm going to come with you, and why are you laughing?" He pouted, hurt and resentful.
"Just nerves," Toby said, for it seemed inhuman to be amused by anything in this terrible place. "Yes, it's a long shot, but worth a try. If there is still a spirit to tend the souls of the dead, then we can spend a night undercover for a change. I don't think there's any real danger. And if the hob gives me trouble, I'd rather you were out of it so you can come and pick up the pieces afterward."
He strode off around the plaza, holding a hand over his nose and trying not to look directly at the hill of rotting corpses. Soon he had to slow down, because the piled junk made treacherous going for a man whose buskins sported more holes than a lace shawl. He stepped between timbers with nails in them, broken glass, broken crockery, scrap iron. If the hob reacted to the spirit as it had in Bordeaux and other places, he would soon find himself rolling in all that. But even before he started he had been about as close as he had ever come to a sanctuary and the hob had raised no objection. Sometimes he could tell when the hob knew a spirit was nearby, although that did not always work—he had felt no premonition of the demon in the orange grove. He certainly felt none now. Almost certainly, Hamish was right and the tutelary was gone.