Nothing alive, at least. The ditch was mounded with shattered bodies, all that was left of the Milanese mercenaries who had stormed the fortress thinking a quick rush would be enough to overwhelm the few surviving defenders. The rising sun cast a pale reddish glow over a landscape which seemed red-soaked already.
The mercenaries trapped at the curtain wall had tried to surrender, soon enough. But the Venetians were in no mood for terms. On this day, at least, the normal conditions of Italian condottieri warfare had been suspended. Milan had tried to destroy Venice; the city of the winged lion was returning the compliment. The gunners in the bastions had kept firing on the men piled up along the curtain wall until they had been turned into so much ground meat. Then, still raging, turned their fire onto the grounded and crippled galleasses. There too, clearly enough, they would not be satisfied until the ships had been turned into so much kindling.
Manfred squinted into the distance, where the retreating Milanese army could be seen frantically trying to build fieldworks. Their galleasses destroyed and the assault on the forts having been driven off with heavy losses, Sforza had led the Visconti forces into a retreat along the river. Had tried to, rather. Now, finding that Enrico Dell'este had cut off his retreat with a far larger army than anyone believed Ferrara could possibly put into the field, Sforza was doing what he could to prepare a hasty defense.
'No 'Old Fox' out there today,' mused Manfred. 'He's looking for Sforza's blood, or I miss my guess.'
Erik did not argue the matter. That was his assessment also. He thought the Duke of Ferrara was behaving foolishly, but given what he knew of the personal history between Dell'este and Sforza he was hardly surprised. The Old Fox had waited for years to obtain revenge on Milan, and now that the day had come he clearly intended to show Carlo Sforza who was really 'the Wolf of the North.'
They heard footsteps behind them, clambering up the stone stairs to the bastion with an oddly arrhythmic pace. Before they even turned their heads, they knew it was Lopez. The Basque priest had been tending to his two companions in the fort's infirmary below. Diego and Pierre had both survived the encounter with Ursula and the Woden monster, but they had been badly shaken.
Lopez limped over to stand next to them. He spent no more than a moment or two studying the distant scene, with eyes which had clearly seen more than one battlefield in times past.
'Stupid,' he pronounced. 'We have no idea what is transpiring in Venice itself. While Ferrara obtains his revenge here, the city may still be lost.'
That neatly summed up Erik's assessment. Manfred's also, judging from his nod.
'Come,' commanded Lopez. 'If we can reach Dell'este in time, we may still be able to convince him to forego his pleasure.' He turned and began limping off.
'What can we--' began Manfred, but Lopez's impatient wave of the hand stifled the rest.
'You are the Emperor's nephew, young dolt! And I have a certain talisman which may help. Now come!'
* * *
'I'm not entirely sure I care for that man,' said Manfred sourly, as he and Erik followed the Basque toward the fort's stables.
Erik smiled. 'And I, on the other hand, am entirely sure that Father Eneko Lopez doesn't care in the least what you think of him.'
'He should,' grumbled Manfred. 'I'm the Emperor's nephew, dammit!'
* * *
By the time they reached the Ferrarese lines and were able to negotiate their way through to the duke's presence, the battle was well underway.
Not that it was much of a 'battle' yet. Clearly enough, from what they had seen as they approached, the Old Fox hadn't lost any of his tactical acumen. Since he had Sforza trapped, he intended to bleed him with gunfire as long as possible before ordering any direct assaults. Dell'este's own soldiers were mercenaries, for the most part. Professional soldiers--highly experienced Italian ones, especially--had little use for commanders who wasted their lives in premature assaults.
The duke's field headquarters consisted of nothing more elaborate than a simple open-air pavilion erected on a small hill overlooking the battleground. They found Dell'este standing just under the overhang, studying Sforza's lines with a telescope. Like all the optical devices of the day, the telescope was a heavy boxlike affair mounted on a stand. The old duke was slightly stooped, peering through the eyepiece.
Hearing their footsteps, he stood erect and turned to face them. He gave each of them a quick study in turn. Perhaps oddly, he spent most of his time studying Erik and Manfred, the two men he had never met before.
'Knights of the Holy Trinity?' he asked, his lips quirked into a wry smile. 'Not wearing full armor? I think you might be excommunicated, if you're not careful.'
Manfred frowned; Erik chuckled. 'I'm from Iceland, Your Grace. Spent time in Vinland also. Full armor, in
