This Rough Magic

Benito did. She choked, but then drank some more. The woman looked at Erik. 'At least you killed them.'

Erik looked decidedly uncomfortable. 'Look. Is there anyone we can take you to? Somewhere safe where they'll look after you?'

She laughed bitterly. It was a horrible, tragic sound. 'Safe! Safe like you Venetians sitting in your fortress. There is nowhere safe for the poor peasants. We must hide in the hills.'

'So . . . there is no one we can take you to?' Erik persisted, but without much hope.

She shrugged. 'I have a brother on a galley at sea. Georgio's parents are somewhere in the hills.' She looked at both of them with resignation, as if she was perfectly prepared for them to abandon her.

Erik cleared his throat, and looked worriedly back down the hill. 'Look. We have to get on. I've got to get to Count Dentico's villa. My . . . my . . . a lady . . . I must go and see if she's all right. But we can't just leave you here.'

'I have nowhere to go,' she repeated tonelessly.

Erik cocked a wary ear toward the slope. 'Then you'd better come with us until we find a place for you. Benito, let's shorten those stirrups. And try holding on with your knees.'

Benito shook his head. 'Erik, the only thing I wasn't holding on with were my teeth. And that was only because the mane kept bouncing around when I tried to bite it.'

The Greek peasant woman managed a tremulous laugh. 'I can ride. My uncle was a groom for Count Di Valva. The Count wasn't there very often. Where is this place you wish to find? I can probably get you in the right direction, at least.' Underneath her shock and her grief, she was recovering some hope, and only because they had not offered to abandon her.

Erik nodded. 'You ride, then. Benito can cling on like a tick behind you. The estate is somewhere near a place called Giannades. Do you have any idea where that is?'

She nodded. 'I haven't been there. But it is to the west of Kerkira.'

She went over to the horse and shortened the stirrups quickly and efficiently; clearly she knew what she was doing. Then she hitched up her skirts in a most unladylike but very practical way, and mounted with an ease that Benito envied.

'It's best that she does something,' Erik said, quietly. 'She's ready to go to pieces, Benito. She's like a glass that's cracked to bits; one touch, and she'll shatter.'

'I'm not surprised.'

Erik sighed worriedly. 'That could be what happened to my Svanhild. Come on, let's go. If you look over at Kerkira, you'll see Emeric has troops coming in by the column. That's a good few thousand men down there. We should move before they get too organized, never mind before they notice a couple of missing Croats.'

* * *

Caesare Aldanto's body slept. Long, long ago Chernobog had learned this was a necessity. They died quickly if you did not allow them to rest.

Caesare lay on a cot in the tent that had been allocated to him, and twitched occasionally, as a dog might when dreaming.

Chernobog's other dog, yellow and feral, prowled the hills. The shaman had been told to look for holy places, to sniff them out so they could be rededicated.

It should have been easy. It was proving impossible. The smell of magic was easy enough to find. The trouble was . . . everywhere reeked of it. Up in the wind-tumbled sky his two aerial eyes flew hither and yon, looking for groves. Or temples. Or even standing stones.

So far, all he'd seen through their infinite detail-seeing eyes were churches. The shaman-dog shivered, thinking about those. His master could and no doubt would rededicate some of those to his purpose, but it was a dangerous process, and there was that about them which struck at him. He could, of course, strike back . . . but that could easily draw the attention of the master's adversary. And the shaman was not ready for that.

The shaman-dog stumbled and sneezed. Pollen. It seemed as if every plant on this accursed island was flowering. Like the magic of this place, the pollen was in the air everywhere.

He left the roadway in haste. Horses, and a double-span of donkeys struggling to drag a heavy cannon, were coming along it. Horses took a great aversion to this body-form. They would smell him out and chase and kick him if they could. This road was busy with troops and cannons coming along it. By evening at least a third of the guns would be in place. Already the pounding thunder was beginning. The shaman wrinkled his nose in distaste. He didn't like the smell of gunpowder either. It was a new thing. The shaman hated new things.

 

Chapter 44

'It's not that serious, Hildi!' Bjarni's voice was gruff, but underneath the impatience was affection, she could tell. 'Just a few fragments of rock knocked off by a bullet. Head wounds always bleed like mad. Don't fuss about it. Just bandage it up so that when Kari or Gulta come back with a way out of here for us we can go. We might have to leave the horses.'

'But they are such beautiful horses!' Svanhild protested, wrapping a torn section of her petticoat around her brother's head and ear. Now she was glad she had some of those travesties of Venetian gowns that her brothers had insisted she have made up. The masses of petticoats made excellent bandages. 'If we leave them behind— those Magyars—'

'They won't be hurt. It's us they're after, not the horses.' Bjarni managed a strained chuckle. 'Actually, those brutes treat their horses better than they treat their wives. The horses will probably be better off with them.'

Gulta and Kari scrambled down into the cave mouth. 'There's only one other way out, like I said, Bjarni. And they've got people up there. Rolled a rock down on us.'