Much Fall Of Blood hoa-3

by Eric Flint

  Benito was sure by now that wherever this man had lived-and he'd bet it wasn't just in the mountains of Illyria-that he was anything but ignorant. "We talked about the Swiss mercenaries once. He said the greatest warriors came from places where nature shaped and honed the men from birth, and frequent combat had tempered them. Harsh places. He also said that the people of such places win battles, but lose long wars."

  Iskander raised his eyebrows. "While I accept the first part of his statement-my people have to be as hard as the rock of our mountains or they would die, and they spend what spare time they have in feuding-I do not intend to lose my wars. All our wars here are long. So why does the Old Fox say that we will lose?"

  Benito knew then that he had been right to bring his grandfather into it. Enrico Dell'este would be taken seriously on this subject, by such a man. Benito Valdosta would not be. Not yet.

  "Two things. Firstly, numbers. The warrior of the harsh lands can kill five times as many soft lowlander soldiers-but there are fifty men from the fat fertile lowlands to one from the harsh mountains. And the other factor is money. It is hard enough to scrape a living off these bare hills, let alone buy good weapons or keep a large standing army. The second sons of the mountains, and cold northlands too, go off raiding or as mercenaries because there is not enough food or land."

  Iskander grunted irritably. "I accept that the Old Fox is right on this. But I have a people and a land to hold, and, yes, to reclaim that which was taken from us. We shape our fighting around harvests and fieldwork. Short sharp raids are our way."

  "And you need the grain and cattle and sheep of the lowlands to keep your people alive in winter. But you cannot press your advantage, because the food needs to get home. So, you win each battle… and lose the fertile valley lands, because you cannot hold them. Or if the tribe moves to soft lands, they too become soft and lose their battles."

  Iskander raised his chin, and stared down at Benito, eyes narrow. "So, Benito. The Old Fox's grandson does not lead me down this path only to tell me that I cannot win. How do we avoid this trap?"

  Benito smiled. "I told you. You sit astride a trade route. In the long term, trade will bring your people far more than the loot from one raid, or even from one trade caravan. You can keep the second and even third sons home, as warriors. There will be fighting on the borders."

  "More when there is a rich prize like a trade route to be seized, or competition to be blocked," said Iskander.

  Benito drank some of the plum liquor. "Nothing is for nothing," he said with a grin.

  Iskander nodded. "You speak very persuasively. What does Venice gain from this?"

  "A route around Alexius. More traffic. And someone who will lose much trade if they go to war with us," said Benito.

  "Clever, " said Iskander.

  "It's this stuff we are drinking. Enough of it and anything sounds clever." Benito swayed to his feet. "I just hope Taki really does sail better when he's drunk or we may end up in Vinland instead of Corfu."

  Chapter 2

  "Magic is not some cheap fairground trick, for the entertainment of fools, easily done and cheap in the price it asks," said Eneko Lopez, calmly but firmly. "And you know we do not act for earthly thrones or powers."

  "This isn't exactly an earthly power," said Manfred wryly.

  "It still means mixing in the affairs of governments, princes and kings, to say nothing of emperors."

  "And what are the alternatives, Eneko?" asked Manfred. "That we should all sit on our hands waiting for the lightning to fall? You know as well as I do that Jagiellon has motives which reach far beyond mere geographical conquest. At least you should know that, seeing as you have told me so."

  Lopez lowered his heavy brow and peered at Manfred from under it. "Don't play your semantic games with me, Manfred of Brittany," said the cleric grimly. "God gave us responsibility, so that we might use it. Not so that we could rationalize doing just what we wanted to do."

  "Well," said Manfred, "At the end of the day it is your decision." He turned and walked out.

  Eric followed, looking rather bemused. "I thought that you were going to make sure that he sent a message to the emperor?" he said, once they were outside.

  "I have," said Manfred grinning, showing his large square teeth. "You cannot force someone like Eneko Lopez to do something by telling them that they must."

  Eric raised an eyebrow, "So you tell him that he must not? That's Kari-level logic."

  Manfred shook his head. "I set it out with impeccable logic and then leave it him to sort it out with his own conscience. I am pretty sure that in the next few minutes he will be consulting with those brothers of his, and will be in magical communication with Rome. Word will spread very rapidly from Rome. We have a good network that picks up information from there. I can pretty well guarantee that word will be carried both to Mainz and to Venice within the next two weeks if not sooner."

  "Where did you learn to be so devious?" said Eric, shaking his head, "The right knightly behavior is to have threatened to knock his head off and then to have a good half an hour argument and shouting match about it."

  "Would that have achieved anything?" asked Manfred, grinning. "I mean, it sounds like a lot of fun and very traditional, but Eneko is really not someone you can force to do anything. What we really wanted was for him to contact Mainz magically. He's not going to do that, no matter how we try, but this way we might get him to at least tell Rome."

  "If it catches on, we could have the development of a new age of reason," said Erik dryly. "But I don't think the knights of the Holy Trinity are quite ready for this."

  "It's the weight of all of that armor," said Manfred. "It weighs down on their heads-"

  "And stops the brain from working," finished Erik. "It's an interesting theory, Manfred, but I know as many hidebound warriors on the plains of Vinland as I do among the knights of the Holy Trinity, and they don't wear armor."

  "A good thing, too. Next thing I know you'll want me out of my armor. And I'm built to carry it. I must admit I really feel more comfortable in it. But I thought I'd beat you to your favorite argument about steel affecting our brains."

  "I detect the fell hand of Francesca," said Erik with a wry smile. "I wonder how long the effects of her training will go on affecting you?"

  "She is not someone that I am going to forget in a hurry," said Manfred, quite somberly.

  "True," agreed Erik. Privately, he thought that his task was going to be considerably harder now. But there was also no doubt that Manfred was considerably wiser than he had been when he had first encountered Francesca, both about intrigue and in dealing with people. Much to his surprise, Erik regretted that she was going to be going to Alexandria and would not be continuing to journey with them. He had come to accept that she was an ally, and in her strange way, a kind of friend. But all he had said was that they had better tell the knights of Manfred's escort that they would be leaving Jerusalem quite soon.

  Manfred nodded. "Eberhart is just waiting for some letters that will accredit the Mongol tarkhan as a diplomatic emissary of the Ilkhan. The Mongols are very stringent about the way that diplomatic missions are treated. I gather that the protection afforded to him would even extend to us if we were caught up in some fracas in their territories."

  "Mighty generous of them," said Erik sardonically.

  "It harks back a long way," said Manfred sententiously. "Apparently some minor emperor sent back the head of a tarkhan to Genghis Khan. Genghis declared war and hunted the emperor down, finally killing him on some remote island in the Black Sea. Believe it or not, I actually read about it. If they knew about the reading back in my father's court I would be a laughing stock. It's all the fault of you and Francesca. You have rotted my brain and kept me from the strong drink that would have preserved it. I need some wine to set this right."

  "Any excuse," said Erik, "but I must admit that I am fairly dry, and the water in this town would give a camel the flux."

  "Excellent," sai
d Manfred. "Let us go and find Falkenberg. That way we can combine drinking with telling him that Eberhart is going to have us escort a party of Mongol diplomats."

  "I am sure that will delight him," said Erik, grinning wryly.

  "Well, I suspect the drinking part will."

  In the cell that he had been assigned in the Hypatian monastery, Eneko Lopez might well have guessed that he was being manipulated. He was an astute man and had much experience of the ways of the world. However, Manfred's predictions were quite correct too. Eneko had very little option but to warn the Grand Metropolitan in Rome that the earthly arm of the spiritual evil to the east was going to threaten the entire Mediterranean.

  Soon he and his brothers were busy setting up the candles for the wards. In reality, this was neither the most demanding nor the most difficult of magics. However, he did believe that magic should not be used lightly under any circumstances. Kings and princes seemed to have trouble understanding that every little thing they wanted done was not of the greatest urgency.

  The monks chanted in unison, raising the wards. Eneko wondered whether this development should change the way that he saw his future duty. Perhaps Rome would see it that way. On the other hand, Alexandria was as much a city of the Mediterranean as was Venice or Rome. Unless he misread the intentions of the demonic force that had possessed Prince Jagiellon, it only sought geographical dominion in order to gain control over other things which were not of this world. What it sought could as easily lie hidden in the myriad scrolls and ancient books of magical lore in the great library at Alexandria. Eneko did understand that power left its mark on the very stones of places. It was almost as if the magic leached out into the surroundings, polluting them and changing them. Sometimes for the better, or, depending on the nature of the magic, the worse.

  He shook himself away from these thoughts. It was his turn to perform the rituals. He could ill afford to be distracted. Even thus protected by Angelic wards the practice of magic reaching across great distances was still a very dangerous pastime, in which the practitioner was at great risk of interception and harm by hostile magic workers.

  Chapter 3

  "We must hurry," said the blond woman. She seemed not much older than Vlad himself, and was extraordinarily beautiful.

  The door to his gilded cage swung invitingly open. The prince hesitated. "Who are you?" he asked.

  She curtseyed. "This is no time for formal presentations, Your Highness. I am countess Elizabeth Bartholdy of Caedonia in Valahia, as well as of estates in other lesser places such as Catiche. I have come to save your life. I will explain once we are away from here."

  It sounded tempting. But King Emeric had himself explained that Vlad was more in a protective custody than just being a mere hostage. "The guard?" he asked, looking at the fallen man, sprawled at the doorway.

  "He is drugged. I am afraid I had to put something in his wine."

  He looked very dead to Vlad. Death always had an odd fascination for him. He curbed the desire to bend down and feel if the man was cold. Dead animals were.

  "Your Highness," said the beautiful young countess, with just a hint of asperity. "Your father is dead. You have no further value as a hostage. The only reason that you are still alive is because King Emeric is away on a military adventure. I know that messages have been dispatched to him, asking for orders about your future. And even if the king decides to keep you alive, your principality will no longer be yours. In the Duchy of Transylvania, the Danesti prepare to put a pretender on the throne. Your loyal boyars need you."

  Father Tedesco had said that Vlad's fascination with death was unnatural, a recurrence of the evil that had haunted his grandfather. Sometimes Vlad thought that was true. That he was the Dragon, reborn.

  She touched his hand, her hands soft and cool. He had not been touched by a woman who was close to his own age for many years now. It sent an odd frisson through him, not wholly pleasant, yet compelling.

  "We must go now. The carriage is waiting," she said.

  He followed her out of the doorway and into the passage. She locked the door, and dropped the key onto the sprawled guard. It was all strange and dreamlike. He'd imagined walking down that passage. He found imagination had deserted him. Left him numbed, and a little afraid.

  "Where are we going?" he asked nervously. He'd dreamed of fleeing his captivity often. But it had been a vague, nebulous dream, based on the geographical knowledge and observations of a ten year old boy. He wasn't even sure where home was, now.

  "First, we flee Buda," she said. "We will go north to my castle in the little Carpathians. We can find shelter in several of the nunneries I have founded, on the way."

  Nunneries. Well, she must be a good woman then, thought Vlad, trying to quiet his unease. The unease was not helped by the fact that she had taken his arm and was walking so close that her hip brushed against him.

  She led him to a small door, which opened at her touch. Vlad had lived in near isolation since he was a young boy, but he was sure that such a portal should be locked and guarded in any castle. This one appeared to be guarded by a solitary shoe, lying on its side next to the doorframe.

  It was very bright outside. Vlad blinked and screwed up his eyes. The sun on his skin was hot. It had been years since he'd last felt that sensation.

  "I don't like the sun much myself," said the countess, pulling a soft lace veil over her face and urging him forward with a gentle tug. "So bad for the complexion. But we shall have to do something about your pallor. Only a prisoner or a bled-out corpse is that white-skinned, and it will not do to have you too obvious. We have several days of travel ahead of us. The roads, alas, are not something Emeric gives a great deal of attention to. I have one of the new enclosed carriages from Kocs. It will help to hide you from the sunlight."

  Vlad's mind was still tumbling along with his emotions. Part of him wished to scream and dance. Another part suggested that it was all very big and open and bright, and he should turn and run back to the tower in Buda castle that had been his world for so many years. But bright and hot or not, the sun felt wonderful.

  Nervously, he walked down the narrow path, away from the castle. Away from the wide Danube and the row of pikes and the flesh-tattered bones of the impaled victims that Emeric ornamented his view with. That was something Vlad's grandfather had also been infamous for. Vlad wanted to turn and stare, but she led him onward, walking calmly, until they came to the first houses, set along a narrow street. Already Vlad was aware that his boots hurt. He exercised regularly and vigorously, but only with the armsmaster in the confines of his prison. He had not walked so far since he had been a child. There were horses waiting, held by a terrified-looking groom. Horses too had grown smaller, thought Vlad bemusedly, although he knew that this simply could not be case.

  Fortunately, he had not entirely forgotten how to ride. Looking at the strange world he found himself in, Vlad was desperately glad he was not attempting this alone. He had absolutely no idea where he was going, except that it was downhill and away from the castle.

  It just felt wrong. He should be going east, or at least following the river. The Danube would lead him to Valahia, to his father's duchy. His now, he supposed. But surely his rescuer knew where she was going? He would just have to put his faith in her.

  They rode on, keeping in the shadow of the houses.

  The wind carried a shred of strange lilting music to him from the open door of a tavern. His head said he must stay close to the countess. But his heart wanted to dismount and find that musician. He had not heard anyone play that tune since he had been a child, carefree and happy with his mother in Poienari castle. He could not remember where he had heard it there, but he could remember the tune clearly, and he also remembered that it was important, somehow. Terribly important.

  His companion must have heard it too. She turned and looked, and although the veil hid her features, he could sense her anger. "We need to ride faster," she said.

  This already felt fa
st enough to someone who had not ridden since he was ten. But Vlad gritted his teeth and urged his mount to a trot behind her.

  The music still echoed in his head. It was still there when a footman helped him to dismount in a very ordinary courtyard, where four horses were already poled up to a large-wheeled carriage. At first he thought that it must be a huge vehicle. But then he realized that the man holding the door and bowing to them had an out of proportion head and was very small. He was child-sized, although bearded.

  The countess gave Vlad no time to marvel at the fellow, but had him join her in the carriage. Her strange little dwarfish servitor lifted the steps, closed the door, and then made the carriage sway as he climbed up onto the box. The curtains-a rich, dark red velvet, were drawn closed. The coach clattered and swayed out of the yard. The interior felt as claustrophobic as his prison had. Vlad reached to open a curtain, to see the wonderful world out there. She put a restraining hand on his arm. She had a very strong grip for such a slight thing, Vlad noticed.

  "I would like to see. It has been so long since I last could see any other places."

  "Later, Prince. For now it is not safe. Now you can simply enjoy being alone in the darkness of my carriage with a beautiful woman." She gave him a sideways look, smiling. "I am sure you would like to kiss me, now that we are private and together."

  The idea seemed both delicious and dangerous. Except… he was not all sure how to do this. She was very soft and scented against him. "We must not go too far," she said throatily. "Yet."

  "It is as you said, Angelo," said the saturnine man. "She has him in her clutches. She takes him north, to her lair. But he heard the call. I saw him turn when you played it."

  Angelo nodded. "It is in his blood, and that blood will answer. Now, somehow, we have to get him loose from her. We have only three days. Tonight she will stop at her nunnery. She needs her blood."

  "We need blood too, Angelo," said Grigori with a toothy grin. "At least meat. A cow or a sheep."