This Rough Magic

enabled it to race forward at an inhuman speed.

An instant later, the horrible creature was leaping in the air, sailing down upon Manfred like a hawk stooping on a chicken.

A very large and dangerous chicken. Manfred's great shoulders hunched and he swept the sword across, chest-high to the demon.

'DIA A COIR!'

It was an incredible sword-strike. The blade severed the monster in half. The upper half, still screaming, bounced off Manfred's lowered helmet and shoulders and spilled on the street behind him, almost at Eneko's feet. The lower half, gushing ichor and intestines, flopped backward.

* * *

Eneko Lopez stared at the thing writhing in front of him, the boar's face with its tusks still gnashing, the taloned paws scrabbling at the cobblestones.

He raised his crucifix. 'That which cannot abide the name of—'

He never finished the sentence. THUNK. Manfred's sword removed the monster's head entirely, sending it rolling down the street like a loose cannonball. Erik hurried after it, muttering something about lost tomahawks.

THUNK. Manfred's sword, driven straight down with both hands, pierced the monster's spine and pinned the torso to the street itself. Whether by luck or simply the prince's great strength, the tip of the blade wedged itself between two cobblestones.

Meanwhile, working both fearfully and frantically, the soldiers were hacking the lower part of the demon's body into pieces. It was hideous work, if not particularly dangerous—though one soldier was knocked off his feet by a reflexive kick from one of the monster's flailing legs. Fortunately, the leg ended in a hoof instead of talons, so the soldier suffered nothing worse than a bad bruise.

The demon's torso was still twitching, but more feebly now. Eneko looked down the street the other way and saw that Erik was returning—his tomahawk in one hand and the demon's head held by one bat-shaped ear in the other. The head's maw was still gnashing, and, as the priest watched, made an attempt to bite Erik on the leg.

'Stupid,' Manfred grunted.

Sure enough, Erik set the head down on a nearby stoop and proceeded to smash out all its fangs with the tomahawk. Three quick blows, delivered with all of Erik's skill with the weapon, and there really wasn't much left of the thing except blood and bone fragments, held together by strips of hide.

Not that Erik was probably planning to mount it as a trophy, anyway. Manfred glared down at his sword.

'Damnation,' he growled. 'It's going to take me hours to sharpen it properly. Eneko, sometimes I think you're more trouble than you're worth.'

The priest rose to his feet, scowling. 'We're not finished yet, Prince Manfred. This'—he pointed at the demon's carcass—'was just a tool. The real monster is still inside.'

Eneko looked at the shattered door, feeling immensely frustrated. 'Or not. Probably not, any longer. That's why the creature set this thing loose. I sensed the incantation—as horrible as any I've ever encountered—which is what sent me to my knees.'

Manfred's bull-like strength was put to use again. Even for him, withdrawing the sword was a struggle. But, within a few seconds, he and Erik were pushing through the entrance into the house. Their weapons ready, with Eneko and his crucifix coming right behind.

And, as Eneko had foreseen, it was too late. Bianca Casarini was gone.

Within a minute, they'd found the escape route she'd taken. But the elderly couple living in the adjoining house seemed comatose, and their own rear entrance was wide open.

After looking down that street, Manfred stated the obvious. 'It's nighttime. She could be anywhere, by now.'

 

Chapter 93

As soon as she entered Morando's cellar from the secret entrance, and closed the wall behind her, Bianca felt a thrilling surge of triumph. Her plans were working—and working perfectly!

She'd be safe from discovery here. The Venetian authorities in the Citadel had, weeks earlier, sealed the front entrance to Morando's domicile. They'd had to, in order to put a stop to the constant stream of curious visitors. That meant no one would even think of reopening the cellar and looking in it again.

Only one danger remained, and she'd deal with that now. Bianca went directly to the altar, not bothering to look around. The altar was a fake, true enough, but put to Bianca's use instead of the charlatan Morando's, it would serve her purpose.

Quickly, using the tools and ingredients in the bag she'd brought with her, she performed the necessary ritual. Not like the much more difficult scrying in blood she needed to use to speak with her putative mistress, this was a simple thing—communication by fire. Nothing that the powers of Corfu would be able to touch or hinder.

She kindled the flame of a candle made of the rendered fat of an unbaptized baby; then bent over the flame, cupping her hands about it, and whispered a single name.

This was a mild incantation, not something she had any fear that the cursed Lopez would be able to detect. In and of itself, simply a communication—and with someone whom she'd prepared long ago for the purpose.

* * *

In his cell, Morando suddenly awoke, gasping for breath.