Demon Rider

his feet by lightning bolts more often than he could remember.

Just he and two landsknechte remained, one in red, one in green, leaning on their pikes and staring at him with wary interest. They were far enough away to be out of reach, but close enough that any aggressive move against one would get him stunned or hamstrung by the other's pike. Everyone else had gone, and their baggage also.

He located his companions, sitting in a row at the far side of the camp. They were still guarded and apparently forbidden to speak.

So he would be the next. They had saved the best for last. Moving with deliberation, he rose to his feet.

'Sit!' barked Red.

Toby turned to face the hedge and unfastened his codpiece. 'Boys do it standing up.' After a moment's satisfaction he pretended to be surprised that they were still watching him. 'This interests you?' he inquired of Green. The man flushed, but he did not stop staring.

Making himself respectable again, Toby moved to a dry spot and sat down, wishing he dared do some limbering-up exercises. When he got his chance at that pretend-clerk, if he did get a chance, he would have to move very quickly. Revenge! He would not think of it as a murder, although it would be treated as one. That did not matter, because he was going to die anyway. Undoubtedly he would still be taken to Tortosa and tortured, but one of the actors in that sordid drama would be replaced by an understudy. Yes, yes! And there was always the chance that he might win a quick and easy death in the resulting fracas.

Time passed. Fires in the kitchen area streamed banners of flame in the wind. Thunder again, closer. It felt like rain. Red and Green moved a little nearer to the prisoner as the light faded, never taking their eyes off him.

Even in a fair fight he wouldn't bet very much on himself against either of these two, for they were both almost as big as he was and the padding in those foppish-seeming garments was actually linen armor that would block any but the surest sword strokes. Behind him was a dense wood, with thick, thorny undergrowth, so the only way he could make a run for it would be straight through the camp. They had horses, they had dogs. Escape was impossible, submission unthinkable, so only revenge remained, right?

Thunder rumbled again. The wind had died away, but the air was suddenly cold. For the first time in months Toby wished he had a warm cloak — or was his shivering triggered by fear? Fear might rouse the hob, Brother Bernat had said. So might thunder. Rousing the hob might be exactly what was needed under the circumstances. Even if it became too engrossed in the storm to pay much heed to him or recognize that he was in danger, a hob rampage would be a welcome distraction.

The troop of six landsknechte that he had seen depart earlier came riding into the camp. That must be all of them, and the day's patrolling was over.

A soldier led Pepita out of the tent and took her over to the others.

More waiting.

Then, at last, the clerk emerged with another landsknecht and came strutting across to the last prisoner.

'Stand up!' said the guard in guttural Castilian. 'Bring your belongings and come with us.'

Toby rose reluctantly. The clerk had not come within reach. He was standing a pace back from the landsknecht and coldbloodedly assessing Toby — perhaps measuring him for the rack or judging his capacity for the water torture. Smiling!

'You're not going to hurt me, are you?'

Eagerness gleamed in the tormentor's eye. 'Why do you ask, senor? Have you committed some crime worthy of punishment?'

Not yet, sonny, not yet! But I will.

Lightning flashed.

Toby strode over to the inquisitors' tent with his bundle on his shoulder and the guards at his heels. As he reached it, thunder rolled overhead.

CHAPTER FOUR

Deja vu! The tent was about three spans square, with a familiar smell, stale and sour. Lanterns hung on the ridgepole cast a pale light on a floor of elaborately patterned carpets, whose beauty stood in strange contrast to the starkness of the only furniture, a trestle table facing the door. It held two plain wooden candlesticks and the same green crucifix he had seen in his vision. The soldier went to stand at one end, and the stocky tormentor to the other.

Three Dominicans sat on stools behind the table. He remembered none of them from the torture chamber vision, but they were all vaguely familiar, memories of memory. The one in the center was a plump-faced, slug- shaped man in his forties who looked weary, as well he might after so many hours of interrogation. To his right sat an older man, gaunt and ascetic; he would go till he dropped. The one to his left was younger with freckles and a red tonsure. Those two each had a thick book and an inkwell with a quill standing in it, so they must take turns at recording the proceedings, and it was the younger man's turn now, because his book was open. (Was that, just possibly, a change from last time?) Another landsknecht came in and stood behind Toby, meaning he now had two armed and capable fighters to evade, but he still thought he would be able to kill the tormentor when the moment came. He must not show any interest in him until then.

Silence. A flash gleamed through the striped linen of the walls. More silence. Thunder, not so near as last time. Horses whinnied in fright and the hounds began baying, until men shouted at them. More silence. The friars stared steadily at the prisoner, but he recognized the intention to disconcert him and ignored it. He knew many ways to slay a man with his bare hands, especially one he outweighed by half. At the first distraction he would kill the little bugger and hope one of the landsknechte would panic and shove a sword through his heart.

Still more silence.

He returned the inquisitor's gaze as calmly as he could and thought he was doing quite well at that, although one of the lanterns was uncomfortably close, illuminating his face clearly but also dazzling him. The crucifix was worrisome, because any of those colored-glass jewels on it might harbor a demon, and Brother Bernat had said that the Inquisition must use gramarye of some sort. So it was possible that the hob was helpless already, or could be quickly curbed if it started anything.

Flash!

Rumble.

'Does the witness understand Castilian?' asked the slug. The redhead reached for his quill to record the question.

'I know some Castilian.'

'Does the witness agree to be questioned in Castilian?'

'I do.'

'The witness will state his name and birth date and place of birth.'

'Tobias Longdirk.' That was not the name on the poster, but they weren't going to mention the poster. 'The seventh day of September, 1501. I was born at Tyndrum, in Scotland.'

The recorder did not ask to have the names repeated; he must have heard them several times already.

'The witness is traveling with certain other persons. The witness must list their names.'

And so on. Where had the witness come from? Where was the witness going? Why? 'I am a retainer of Don Ramon.' Was the witness a deserter? This was how they had managed to waste a whole afternoon and half an evening. More trivia — what was the witness going to do in Barcelona? 'Senor Brusi has offered me employment if the don does not wish to extend my service.' Thunder, much closer, so close that he had to ask for a question to be repeated. Hob! Come on, hob! Do something! What languages did the witness know? (Why should that matter?) Why had the witness come to Spain? Could