Demon Knight

horde, a sack of jewels so heavy that even he could barely lift it single-handed.

CHAPTER SIX

Without warning the mists wavered, and the hoofbeats lost their odd metallic note. Trees came into view, at first like wraiths and then more distinct. A wall, a gate… reality returned at the wooded uphill edge of the muddy, disfigured slope where the Don Ramon Company had camped for half a year.

Smeorach rarely made a fuss entering the Unplace, but coming out of it was another matter. There were dangers in the real world, in this case shrubbery, walls, many men on horses, and a foul reek of burning. He brayed, bucked, and kicked up his heels. Toby was no Don Ramon. He was an adequate horseman at best, and he had no saddle. He hit the real world with a crack that blew all the air out of his lungs. Chabi went in search of a tree. Demons! That was not exactly a dignified way to begin a war. His linen armor had saved him from serious hurt, but he needed a moment to let the sky and branches stop spinning.

A banner bearing the winged lion of Venice came into view, being carried by a puzzled-looking young gonfalonier on a white horse. A knight in full armor on an armored destrier appeared beside him.

'Hawking with an owl?' inquired the mocking tones of Captain-General Alfredo. 'In daylight? How many mice today, messer?'

Ignoring the scorn for the moment, Toby sat up and took stock. The villa had been sacked the previous morning — he had seen the smoke then, and now he could smell it and view the charred remains. But the Fiend's troops had moved on, and in the night Alfredo's had come, the army of Venice that had been treading on Nevil's heels all the way from Bologna. The wood was full of knights and their warhorses, and there would be companies of infantry behind them. This was a small host compared to Nevil's multitude, although it included men of Padua, Verona, Ferrara, and many humbler towns. Even villages and hamlets had sent their youth to Florence to fight the Fiend.

To his left, the dozen or so hooded figures in white robes were Maestro Fischart and his hexers. Downslope, Smeorach was still playing the fool, and no one had dared to go after him because they all thought he was demonized. Toby put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The first edge of the sun blazed on the horizon, but there was still time, for Fiesole was very high. Dawn would come later down on the plain, where Florence glowed pink in the morning light, with no sign of war yet. Two hundred thousand men — it was a shock to realize that Nevil himself must be down there, too. For the first time in his life, Toby Longdirk was within reach of his implacable foe.

The Fiend had walked into his trap. That felt very good.

Feeling ready to face Stiletto's mockery, he scrambled to his feet. 'Good day to you, Captain-General. Last night the darughachi appointed me comandante of the armies of Italy.'

A careful smile appeared under Alfredo's visor. 'Officially at last? Congratulations! Well earned. And what orders have you for us today, Your Excellency?' As if he did not know.

'Just one, messer.' Toby pointed to the enemy. 'Kill!'

Alfredo's grin became more convincing. He raised his silver baton in salute. 'It shall be done, comandante. Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!'

Toby turned to give Smeorach a pat, then heaved himself onto the big oaf's sweat-slick back. Chabi wheeled down to his shoulder as he rode over to the waiting hexers. Volunteers they all were, officially, and he had not asked where Fischart had found them, but he was confident that most of them were skilled adepts, so he had already bent his oath to the cardinal very badly. He intended to break it into tiny fragments shortly. Four of the thirteen were women, and two of the others seemed barely more than boys. Most were keeping their hands out of sight inside their sleeves, but he knew that their fingers were weighted with rings, and they had chains of assorted gems hung around their necks under their robes. With this huge spiritual artillery they had concealed an army of more than fifty thousand from the Fiend's demons.

Fischart hurried forward to meet him, white robe swirling around his ankles. For once the grim old man was smiling, if that wolflike snarl could be called a smile. Nothing in his world mattered except fighting the Fiend, and he was about to inflict on that monster the worst shock he had ever had.

'Success!' he shouted as he approached. 'We did it! Not a sign of alarm. No gramarye yet.'

Drums were beating, bugles sounding, as the army of Venice prepared to move out down the hill.

'Magnificent! My congratulations to your associates. Lift the shield when the sun is one fingerswidth above the hills.'

'The men won't be in contact with the enemy by then.'

'You heard my order. Use no more gramarye until battle is joined or the enemy looses his demons.'

Still panting from his run, the hexer scowled up at him. 'You are hiding things from me!'

'I am comandante. I'll hide anything I want from anyone.' Including, reasonably enough, himself. 'I don't explain orders on battlefields, Maestro. I trust you to obey and do your best.' He saluted the line of hexers, wheeled Smeorach, and urged him forward into the Unplace.

* * *

After the morning light, the Unplace seemed like a fog at midnight. Smeorach's trotting hooves rang in a steady refrain.

'How do you know where you are going without a guide?' asked Sorghie's voice.

'I don't know. Don't know how I know, I mean. I seem to be my own familiar.'

'And what secrets are you keeping from the man in the white robe?'

'The same ones I am keeping from you.'

His helmet saved him from suffering a bitten ear at that point. Instead, the owl leaned under the brim and nipped his nose, which was no improvement.

'Stop that!'

'Will you tell me now, or must I hurt you more?'

'Well. It's a long story,' he said. He did not know what the truth of it was. The cardinal had no reason except personal spite to want him dead. The hob probably would not have tolerated a real death hex. Enchantments on people faded quickly, and it was more than two months since his second trip to Tivoli — although Marradi might have renewed the gramarye when he was in Florence in March.

Before he had to answer, Smeorach left the Unplace, trotting out of the mists onto green pasture. This time Toby calmed him and kept him under control, although he could no more have explained how he did it than he understood his own navigation. It seemed his wishes were commands now.

They were on the north bank of the Arno, a league or so downstream from Nevil's invading army — less than a league, for he could make out individual tents in the Fiend's camp. But vision could be deceptive here, for when he looked around, he was only a bowshot away from another army, already advancing at a slow march to the beat of a drum, and obviously the enemy had not seen it, nor the camp behind it. He turned Smeorach and cantered to meet the vanguard. His appearance had coincided with the moment when the first sliver of the sun's disk peeked over the ridge, and a great cheer went up to greet him.

Wonderful, wonderful sight! This was to be Longdirk's day even if it killed him, as it might do very shortly. Here was an army larger than the one he had led at Trent, yet still merely a quarter of the forces he was now sending into battle. Even if he lost, he would be remembered for having achieved one of the greatest surprises in military history, while if he won… Time enough to think about that when he did.

He was surprised that Ercole had put his cavalry squadrons on the right and the infantry marching in six battles on the left. He would have placed the men-at-arms on the other wing, so the river would protect their flank, but doubtless the old warrior had his reasons. Out in front rumbled the carroccio, a flat- bottomed, rectangular cart, garishly painted and drawn by two armored oxen. Traditionally the hexers rode in this absurd battle wagon, but it was also a mobile headquarters and a symbol of sovereignty. The finest troops in the army would guard the carroccio and perish to the last man around it if need be. Above it floated the serpent banner of Milan.