Erik was tired and irritable. It had been a long night. 'She'll have picked up an escort, probably from the Scaligers. Possibly arquebusiers. Think, Manfred. And this casket--how do you think she plans to use it?'
Lopez, who had been riding beside them as if he'd been born in the saddle--quite unlike his two companions--turned slightly and answered. 'She and the Servants will probably abandon their escort, and head for the fort posing as distressed holy pilgrims. The fort will let them in, particularly when they see one is a woman and there are only five of them. Then I imagine they will release the Woden from the casket. They alone will be protected. When everyone is dead--or flees, which most of them will--the troops will come up and turn the cannon in this fort on the other. And then the enemy will sail through to attack Venice.'
Erik nodded. 'That's what I'd do, I suppose, if that monster in the casket is so powerful. And what would you do about meeting the Knights and the escort?'
'It would depend on the terrain and the light,' answered Lopez. 'Arquebuses are inaccurate at the best of times and pretty useless at night.' He eyed the large prince. 'Or was the question aimed at you?'
Manfred sighed. 'Erik's trying to get me to say a double feint or something, Senor Lopez. And then he'll say 'no, keep it simple, stupid. Always flank them.' He's a blasted teacher born.'
There was a flash of teeth in the half-dark from the Basque. 'A good one too, then. Simplicity is usually best--in war as in all things.'
Their guide rode up. 'There's a party of soldiers ahead. A barricade. Look like mercenary arquebusiers.'
'Can we go around?'
The guide looked at the heavily armored Knights; shook his head. 'Too swampy.'
'They're not Venetians, are they?' asked Erik.
The guide shook his head again. 'Scaliger colors.' Erik was not surprised by the answer. The Scaligers were the ruling family of Verona; traditional allies of Milan and supporters of the Montagnard faction in Italian politics. Since they controlled the Adige route from Venice through the Brenner Pass into the Holy Roman Empire, they had been expected to intervene in the war in alliance with Milan.
'And how far are we from the fort?' asked Manfred.
The guide shrugged. 'Half a league. Maybe less.'
'I think we've got to move fast, Ritters,' snapped Manfred. 'I'll bet they've left their escort and are advancing on foot.'
Erik shook his head. 'Scout it quickly first. It shouldn't take ten minutes, it'll rest the horses, and it may spell the difference between success and failure. Ursula must plan to arrive when the fort's defenders can see them easily. That gives us a few minutes.'
They halted. The guide slipped forward on foot. He returned to report that there were some hundred or so cavalrymen breakfasting on the edge of a field of peas.
'Right.' Manfred took a deep breath. 'We don't want to lose the time fighting the troops and let Ursula get into that fort. If we defeat every one of them and she and her henchmen get in . . . we've failed. Remember that chapel. That is what we're dealing with, not some Italian mercenaries. Erik, you tell them how you want to run this. That way you can't complain if I get it wrong.'
Erik nodded. Skirmish combat against wild tribes in Vinland was something he had three years of experience with. And more than that in the similar type of warfare which plagued clan-ridden Iceland.
'Knight-Proctor Von Oderberg, you are going to take care of the troops. Manfred, Von Gherens, Etten, and I will keep riding, with Lopez and his companions. Don't get your horses among the peas--you'll lose mobility. If you keep those Scaliger mercenaries dismounted and busy, Von Oderberg, that'll be fine. You don't have to do more than that. Try to tell our fellow Knights you have orders from Sachs to turn them back. But if need be, cut them down.'
* * *
They caught sight of the little band bearing the casket not three hundred yards from the fortress's walls. By the sounds of it, Von Oderberg was butchering the escort. Or being butchered. Erik didn't turn around to look; he just bent low over his horse's neck.
One of the monks did turn, perhaps alerted by the sudden thunder of hooves. He shouted something.
The monks and sister Ursula stopped. Erik could see that Sister Ursula was scrawling something in the dust with a long staff. Wind, laden with grit and debris leapt at them. Horses reared and screamed. Ritter Etten and Father Diego fell. Erik struggled to stay on his horse. Hastily, almost falling himself, he managed to dismount. The horse fled.
