"No closer!" warned Ursula. She laid a hand on the casket's lid. "No closer or I will release the Woden."
Lopez walked forward, coming to stand next to Erik. He held a very small crucifix in his hand. "This is a fragment of the true cross, witch. Evil cannot prevail against it."
Lopez's words seemed to have no effect. Ursula's lips curled in what Erik would have called a sneer, had it not been for the emptiness of the face which framed it. A woman can sneer; a vessel cannot.
"Besides, if you open that casket," said Manfred, "your plot is at naught."
At that moment, Ursula's face underwent a transformation. A horrid one. The face thickened, grew heavy; the shapely cheeks sagged into jowls; the fair brow swelled, looming now over sunken eye sockets. Inside the orbs, a woman's dark eyes became slits of pure black. And now, for the first time, emotion filled the face. Anger and cruelty, overlaid by triumph.
Erik understood that the vessel was now filled to the brim, and overflowing. This was not Ursula; this was Chernobog himself, lurking inside her flesh.
The horrible face—half-man; half-woman—bared white teeth turning yellow as Erik watched. "Do not presume to instruct your betters, stripling. There are plots and plots. If the Woden cannot accomplish one task, it can certainly succeed in another."
Erik's mind seemed to be working much faster than his body. He understood Chernobog's new purpose, and desperately tried to reach Manfred—to seize the prince and hurl him back, out of danger. But some magic was causing his flesh to move like soft lead. The same magic seemed to have frozen Manfred and Von Gherens completely. Etten was no longer standing at all. The knight had crumpled to his knees, his head lolling.
Chernobog/Ursula's voice rolled on. "Here, fool boy—uncontrolled and unwarded—the Woden will kill and kill and kill. You will be dead, and your precious Empire left with one heir the less."
Ursula's hand had remained female. Now, even more suddenly than her face, the hand changed. Grew, swelled, became first the hand of a large man and then the hand—the paw, rather—of something still larger. The claws plunged into the wood of the casket lid and began to raise it. Heat and darkness spilled out of the crack like a flood. A horrible stench came with it.
Lopez stepped forward and met the surge of darkness from the casket with the tiny cross. He shouted some words Erik did not understand. In Greek, he thought, not Latin. Neither the action nor the words seemed to have any effect on the swelling darkness, but Erik felt the paralysis which had kept him almost immobile suddenly lift.
He could see the Chernobog/Ursula face open its mouth. The thick lips began to twist, began to utter words of their own—words which, Erik had no doubt at all, would counter those of Lopez. The Basque priest was still shouting Greek phrases.
But the paralysis was completely gone, now. Erik moved faster than he ever had in his life. The Algonquian war hatchet sailed across the distance and buried itself up to the wirebound hilt in his/her skull. Blood gushed. The obsidian eyes seemed to flame black fire for an instant, before the body toppled back and fell to the ground. As it fell, all traces of Chernobog left the face and then, more slowly, the hand. But the talons remained longest of all—long enough to draw the lid of the casket open as Ursula fell.
The hot, stinking blackness poured out like lava from a volcano, sweeping over Erik and Manfred and all the others. Erik could hear the gleeful shriek of a monster somewhere.
That shriek was immediately overridden by another. Etten's voice, that was, howling in agony. Erik turned toward the sound, his eyes tearing from the heat and the stench. The Woden monster had seized upon Etten, he knew. Etten, the weakest of them, was being consumed by fire from within.
Suddenly, Lopez's voice rang out more loudly than Erik would have believed possible, coming from such a small man. In an instant, the darkness vanished and Erik could see clearly again.
Etten was writhing on the ground, his fingers clawing at the straps of his helmet. Smoke was pouring up through the visor. Von Gherens, nearest to him, leaned over and began to help. A flash of flame seemed to leap through the visor and smite the Prussian knight in the face.
Now it was Von Gherens' turn to writhe on the ground, screaming in agony.
"Quick!" shouted Lopez. "Use your swords!"
Moving together, Erik and Manfred grabbed their swords by the hilts and held them up like great crucifixes.
"One over each," panted Lopez. Manfred stooped over Von Gherens, Erik over Etten. After a moment, the smell of burning flesh seem to ebb.
Slightly. Not much. Erik glanced at Lopez. The Basque priest's face was drawn and haggard.
"It is too strong," he murmured. "Too strong—and too attached to Etten." Lopez's eyes seemed hollow under the solid eyebrows.
But whatever weakness the priest might be feeling, none of it was apparent in his next words.
"Kill Etten. Do it now, while there is still time."
Erik stared at him. The Basque shook his head. "He is dead anyway, Erik. The burning has already destroyed too much of his body. But we can still rescue his soul, if we release him from the Woden in time."
Still, Erik hesitated. He glanced at Von Gherens. The Prussian knight seemed unconscious. Erik could see enough of his face through the visor to see that there was still a face there. Whereas Etten—
He looked through the visor of the knight below him. Through that visor he could see nothing but . . . burnt flesh. Like a piece of meat charred in a fire.
Still, he hesitated. "And then what? Do the same for Von Gherens? And then what? Cut our own throats?"
Lopez shook his head wearily. "I cannot fight this monster in salamander form. If Pierre were still with us—or, better yet, Dottore Marina—"
Again, he shook his head. "I can hold it at bay, for a time, but not combat it directly. You will have to do it, Erik—you and Manfred."
Manfred had said nothing, but he had apparently been following the discussion. "Fat chance of that, Lopez! What Erik and I know about magic wouldn't fill half a manuscript page. And all of it would be gibberish."
Lopez's laugh was more of a crow's caw than anything else. "Have no fear of that! I cannot fight the thing, but I can transform it into something which you can fight. But I warn you—it will be monstrous."
Erik's hands tightened on the sword hilt. "Something flesh and blood, you mean?"
"Heh. In a manner of speaking, yes. A particularly horrid form of it, you understand."
"Flesh and blood is flesh and blood," growled Manfred. He hefted the sword higher. "And steel is steel. Do it."
The last two words were spoken by a prince, and no one could mistake it. Erik hissed his own agreement, and Lopez bowed his head for a moment.
When the Basque's head came back up, however, there was not a trace of obeisance in his face. His was the face of a man born to command himself.
"Obey me, then. Erik, kill Etten. Manfred, stand back from Von Gherens."
Erik hesitated no longer. Using the hilt to drive the sword, he plunged the blade through the gaps in the armor into Etten's throat. Then, twisted it to open the wound before withdrawing the sword. Arterial blood fountained, for a moment. Not long. That wound would have killed an elephant.
He stepped back. Manfred had already done the same. Von Gherens began to writhe again as smoke, again, began to rise through his visor.
Lopez shouted something—again, in that odd language which Erik had thought was Greek but now suspected was something else entirely—and held the crucifix high. What seemed like a clap of thunder struck the world all around. Erik flinched; so did Manfred.
Von Gherens screamed and arched his back. A stream of black something spewed out of his gaping mouth and spilled onto the ground several yards away.
Another clap of thunder; a wave of darkness.
Then, for the first time since the battle had begun, Erik felt all traces of magic vanish. The sunlight was clean again, with no obscuring darkness. He felt enormous relief pouring through him and
took a deep breath.
And . . . deeply regretted it. The stench was worse than ever.
But at least now the source of the stench was clear and obvious. On the spot where the black something had spilled, a monster rose on its haunches.
It was huge; half again Manfred's size. Somewhere in its misshapen and hideous form Erik could detect the remnants of something which had once been human—or close to it. Mostly in the upper face, which still had a recognizable aspect. The one eye possessed by the monster—the other was scarred over, as if the eye had been torn out sometime long ago—was quite human in appearance. Bright blue; piercingly blue. The eyebrows were as blond as Erik's own.
The rest . . .
The lower face protruded in apelike jaws; though they bore a closer resemblance to those of an eel than those of an ape when the monster bared its teeth and roared its fury. A thick tongue writhed purple behind teeth that were not even remotely mammalian. They reminded Erik of shark's teeth more than anything else.
Everything about the monster had that bizarre, horrible half-and-half quality. The hind legs were those of a land animal of some kind. A giant wolf's, perhaps—except the skin was naked, almost scaly. The arched heavy spine was also that of a mammal, with a straggly mane that resembled human hair more than animal fur. But the heavy tail was purely reptilian.
The front limbs were perhaps the worst of all. Heavy, powerful arms—almost human, except for their size—ended in a demon's taloned paws. Except no demon Erik had ever heard of possessed suckers on its palms and forearms. As if an octopus were part of its ancestry.
Again, the monster roared. There was a peculiar glee to the sound. As if the creature had been forced into silence for so long that the mere act of making noise was a joy in its own right.
"Any advice, Lopez?" asked Manfred cheerfully. The big prince was holding his sword by the hilt, now, ready to fight.
Erik glanced at the Basque priest. But Lopez, he saw immediately, would be of no more further assistance. The man was clearly exhausted. Lopez simply shook his head and whispered, "This is your affair now, Prince of the Realm. I can do no more. God and the Right."
Erik felt a moment's dismay at the last words. He knew that Manfred would—
Sure enough. "Dia a coir!" bellowed the prince, striding forward two steps and bringing his heavy sword down on the monster with a great two-handed swing.
Reckless idiot! Erik lunged forward.
The monster squalled—half in fury, half in glee—and evaded the blow deftly. The sword sank into the soil. An instant later, spinning, the Woden's tail lashed around and knocked Manfred's legs out from under him. The prince landed on his back, his sword flying out of his hands. Fortunately, Erik's training in wrestling enabled Manfred to break the fall by slapping down his arms.
But, for that moment, he was helpless. The Woden charged forward like a crocodile, great jaws gaping. A taloned and suckered hand raised for the death blow.
This time, it was the monster's turn to misgauge. Erik moved far faster than the Woden expected. His sword met the downstrike and removed the hand at the wrist as neatly as a carrot top removed by a knife. The hideous thing went sailing through the air and plopped into some nearby bushes.
The Woden shrieked in agony, black blood pumping from its severed wrist. The jaws lunging at Manfred's throat veered aside and snapped at Erik.
Another mistake. Again, the monster was caught by surprise. No human it had ever faced moved as quickly as the Icelander. Erik sidestepped the snapping jaws; then, as they gaped wide again, his sword slid through the teeth, mangling the great tongue.
The Woden squalled in pain and fury and twisted aside, blood gushing from its maw. The tail lashed around, striking at Erik's legs. But the blow was blocked. First, by Erik driving his sword into the soil; then, by Manfred lunging forward and grappling the monster's hindquarters. The prince gathered his legs under him, ignoring the claws scrabbling at his armor. Then, with a grunt, heaved the monster completely off the ground and slammed it into a nearby tree. The tree—a sapling, really—broke under the impact. So did the Woden's ribs.
Erik was astonished. He'd always known that Manfred was far stronger than the average man. But he realized now that he'd never really seen Manfred exert his entire strength. This was—almost superhuman. The monster must have weighed at least four hundred pounds.
Again, the Woden lashed its tail; and, again, knocked Manfred down. This time, however, the prince had been expecting the blow. So he was simply staggered to his knees rather than upended.
Desperately, Erik raced forward. As badly injured as the Woden was, the horror was still alive and still quite capable of wreaking havoc. And Manfred—his charge and responsibility—was facing another attack. Unarmed, and on his knees.
The Woden sprang at the prince, using its hind legs to drive and its remaining forelimb for balance. The jaws opened like a shark's—and if the tongue was a ruin, the teeth were not.
To Erik, everything seemed to move as slowly as ice. The jaws were approaching Manfred faster than his sword could intervene. Jaws now gaping wide enough to close on Manfred's entire head, helmet and all—and Erik didn't doubt for a moment that those jaws were quite capable of crushing the helmet like a snail.
Manfred broke its jaw. One punch, with an armored fist, skewed the Woden's bite into a harmless snap. The monster coughed blood, half-stunned. But its forward momentum knocked Manfred on his back again, this time with the Woden sprawled across him.
Erik hesitated, unsure where to strike with the sword that wouldn't risk hitting Manfred.
Then—
"Gah! What a stink!"
The monster's head and back suddenly lurched up. Manfred, lying beneath the creature, was holding it up with his big hands clamped firmly around its gullet. Holding it up—and steady.
"Do me the favor, would you?" hissed the prince. Erik's sword drove into the glaring blue eye and deep into the Woden's brain. The monster twitched and shuddered. And kept twitching and shuddering, after Erik jerked the sword loose from the skull.
With another great heave, Manfred tossed the thing off. Soaked with blood, he rose to his feet and stalked over to the place where his sword had been sent sailing. Then, stalked back. The Woden was lying on its side, still twitching and shuddering.
* * *
Manfred spent the next considerable period of time hacking it into small chunks. He didn't stop until each single piece of the monster was lying motionless and the blade of his sword was as dull as a table knife.
Erik tried to restrain him, early on, so that he could examine the prince for injuries. But Manfred would have none of it. "Dia a coir!" was repeated perhaps two dozen times, intermingled with other expressions which were vulgar and profane beyond belief.
Eventually, Erik gave up and went to help Lopez, who had begun tending to Von Gherens. The Prussian knight was alive, though still unconscious. But now that the Basque priest had removed the man's helmet, Erik was relieved to see that the burn marks on Von Gherens's face were not as bad as he had feared.
"He'll be all right, with a little rest," murmured Lopez. "The facial scars will be bad, but—at least he's a Prussian. They treasure the things, so there should be no really adverse consequences."
He glanced at Manfred, still furiously dismembering the already-dismembered carcass of the Woden, and smiled slyly. "Unlike your friend, who—I daresay—is adding years in purgatory with every oath that comes out of his mouth."
Erik wasn't quite sure how to respond. Lopez shook his head. "Not your problem, my fine young Icelandic friend. You are not responsible for protecting the Hohenstauffens from God, after all."
Erik couldn't help grinning. "True enough." Seeing that Lopez needed no further help with Von Gherens for the moment, Erik went over to retrieve his hatchet from the corpse of Sister Ursula.
But . . . there was no corpse; just a burned piece of grass.
And there was no hatchet, either. Only the wirebound shaft rema
ined.
* * *
After a time, Erik fell silent. Lopez clucked his tongue. "And I daresay you've just added as many years. Where did you learn to curse like that, anyway?"
Stolidly, Erik stared at the priest. Then, pointed at Manfred, who had finally left off with his hacking.
"Oh, sure," grumbled the prince. "Blame everything on me!"
Chapter 89
Erik and Manfred stood in one of the bastions of the northernmost of the Polestine forts, watching the Venetian cannons finish pounding the last of the Milanese galleasses into rubble. It seemed a somewhat pointless exercise, since the galleass had ceased being a water-capable means of transport quite some time ago. But a quick glance through the gunports in either of the bastion's retired flanks was enough to see the reason. The ditch in front of the curtain wall was a charnel house, with nothing more to fire at beyond a relative handful of wounded and maimed soldiers in Visconti colors.
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