This Rough Magic

When someone's head is more or less summarily removed by a hatchet, they bleed. A lot.

But understandable as it might be, she was probably telling everyone within a mile that there was a woman here. Even the Croats' horses were shifting nervously. Benito shoved Erik aside, hauled her up by what was left of her blouse, and slapped her. 'Shut up!' he hissed. 'We're rescuing you. You want others to come?'

She shut up. Erik cut her hands free. 'Now we'd better run. Someone must have heard that scream.'

'What about taking their horses?' asked Benito. 'They're tied over there.' He pointed with his chin.

Erik looked. 'Good. That's the first bit of luck we've had.'

The horses still had their tack on. It was plain that the two soldiers had slipped off from somewhere else for a little private pleasure. 'You're lighter than I am. You take her,' said Erik, pushing the staggering woman toward Benito.

'Uh. I don't ride so well, Erik.'

'Oh, hell. She'd better come with me, then. Help her up behind me.'

Benito did. She clung to Erik like ivy. It was just light enough now for Benito to see her huge, terrified eyes. He was then left with the difficulty of getting onto the horse himself. It kept moving every time he put a foot in the stirrup. Finally, in desperation, he jumped. He nearly went clear over the other side, but did manage to cling to the saddle. He pulled himself upright into it. He managed to find one stirrup. It was too long. This was a whole continent away from the Haute Ecole Equestrienne Petro Dorma had sent him to. There, he'd been surrounded by respectful grooms, docile mounts and mounting blocks.

But he had to try. Erik was already out of sight. The horse plainly knew it had a total amateur in the saddle. It was being as balky as only a horse can be, when it knows it has mastery of the rider.

There was a clatter of hooves behind him. Benito prepared to jump. Only his foot was now stuck in this damned stirrup. If he jumped he'd drag . . . He hunched in the saddle and struggled with his foot.

'Get a move on, Benito,' snapped Erik. The clatter had come from him, returning to see what had happened to Benito. He slapped the rump of Benito's horse and the vile animal took off as if someone had shoved something red-hot in an unmentionable spot. With Benito swearing and clinging to the saddle, they headed upward into the rougher terrain. At least his horse was following Erik's now.

* * *

By the time they reached the ridgeline, the sun was just burning its way through the clouds. Benito had long since abandoned any pretense of 'riding.' He was just trying to stay on the Godforsaken animal. It took all his finely honed burglar's acrobatic skills to do so, and all his strength, too. He'd managed to get his foot free of the stirrup, at last. That meant when he fell off—not if, but when—he could try to fall clear.

When they got up to some pines on the ridge, Erik called a halt. More precisely, he pulled his horse to a halt, and Benito's horse stopped also.

Very abruptly. Benito continued for a few yards without it.

He got to his feet, to find the Icelander looking at him, his shoulders shaking with laughter. 'Why didn't you say you couldn't ride at all, you crazy kid!'

'Uh. I have been to classes. Case Vecchie can all ride, but, well, I was a bridge-brat, Erik.' Defensively: 'I've only ridden a horse about five or six times before this, you know.'

Erik snorted. 'Well, you can't count this as another time. I've seen a sack of meal do a better job of it. And those things hanging down are stirrups. You are supposed to put your feet in them.'

'I couldn't reach them.'

Erik shook his head. 'We'll shorten them now. Help this poor woman down, Benito.'

Benito did. She almost fell off the horse—and then pushed away from him. 'Who are you?' she asked warily, her eyes darting looking for a place to run. There was naked fear in that voice.

Benito waved his hands at her, trying to look helpful and harmless at the same time. 'We're Venetians.' It was easier than trying to explain. 'You're safe now.'

The young woman crumpled and began to cry. Then she started speaking Greek. At speed.

'Whoa.' Benito squatted down beside her; it seemed it was up to him to try to calm her down. Well, he was smaller than Erik; maybe that made him look less threatening. 'We don't speak Greek,' he said gently. 'I can't help you if I don't understand.'

'They killed Georgio!' she wailed—but softly, hardly more than a whisper. 'They—they—' she dissolved into tears, and Benito patted her shoulder, thinking that trying to hold her would probably be a bad idea at this point.

She got herself under control, a lot faster than he would have thought. 'What happened?' he asked. 'Why did you come down out of the hills?'

She gulped for air. 'See, some of the goats were missing. He thought they'd gone home. So he went down to the house. And when he didn't come back I went down to look for him. He was . . .'

Her eyes were round with the memory of things Benito didn't want to think about. 'They were torturing him. Burning him to get him to tell them where he'd hidden the money.' She shuddered, then said, plaintively, 'We don't have any money. Just a few pennies. We've only been married for two months.'

She began to cry again; great heaving sobs, wringing her hands together so hard that her knuckles were bone-white. Then she caught her breath. She seemed determined to tell them; to get the vileness out. 'I ran in to try and help him. The one . . . the one who . . . he said: 'Here's the bitch. We'll get it out of her instead.' They cut Georgio's throat. They cut my man's throat like you would butcher a hog.'

'Here.' Erik had produced a small, squat bottle. 'Manfred gave me some of his armor polish. Give her a drink, Benito.'