Demon Rider

Then he stamped on the man's throat. There were no rules in this fight.

Boom! The hob lit another candle in the woods.

Snatching up the landsknecht's sword, he stumbled in the direction of the pilgrims. Before he took ten steps their guards identified him as a problem and four pikes came charging toward him. He pointed the sword at them and covered his eyes with his left hand. Hob! There! The flash shone red through his flesh, and thunder struck him like a flying anvil. There were real things flying, too, nasty hot wet things. The wind stank of roast meat. He was wielding the lightnings.

Boom! The hob was in full rampage now, methodically blasting the surrounding forest. He ran to join the pilgrims with his ears singing. Count up the score… one and three and one and four… nine, meaning about eighteen landsknechte left to go. Still not good odds. Boom!

The pilgrims were all on their feet and shouting, although he could not make out their words. They must be as deaf and dazzled as he was, but some had run to save the baggage, which lay close to one of the hob's giant candles. Here came another landsknecht.

Toby parried a downward cut and instantly the damned blade came at him from the left — demons, this one was fast! He jumped back, parrying frantically, and the tall German came right after him, blade flashing like a dragonfly. Then Hamish kicked him in the kidneys, which distracted him enough to let Toby's sword into his right eye. Ten down. Sixteen or seventeen to go. Another Boom! from the hob.

Gracia was standing with her mouth open in an endless scream. Toby thrust the bottle at her. 'This is yours. Take care of it.' She probably did not hear, but she clutched it to her. 'Hamish! Get the horses. Get lots of horses.' He could barely hear his own voice.

No. The horses were churning in frenzy. So far they had not broken out, but they could never be saddled up in that condition, so flight was out of the question. The landsknechte would give no quarter now, no matter what the Inquisition told them. It was a fight to the death.

Two more of them coming. If they were as good as the last one, he was finished. Then a maze of multiple shadows rushed in from the side and became Don Ramon, who tossed a sword at Hamish's feet and waded into both the advancing landsknechte with his broadsword whistling. While he had them distracted, Toby circled around and stabbed one in the back. The don showed no signs of being offended at this breach of chivalry, for he yelled in delight.

By then Hamish had taken on the second, driving his opponent like a herd of sheep — although the German was a much larger, heavier man — and all the time screaming curses in Gaelic. His Campbell blood was up. The brief struggle was no courtly ballet of rapiers but a two-handed slugfest, and the more experienced landsknecht was probably just summing up his man and biding his time. Unfortunately he backed into a thorn bush, and Hamish's blade went right through him. The victor barely had time to pull it free before Eulalia hurled herself upon him. If the good folk back in Tyndrum could see the lad now…

Fourteen to go.

Everyone was shouting, but Toby could not make out a word over the singing in his ears and all the other noises of horses and dogs and burning trees.

This was taking too long. If the landsknechte had time to organize, they would wipe the table clear in minutes. Six of them had lined up near the kitchen fires and were going through the cumbersome drill of loading their arquebuses. Toby pointed again. Hob! This time there was no lightning stroke but a wild explosion as the powder horns blew up. Shattered corpses flew apart in a black mist and billows of white smoke rushed away on the wind.

The collapsed tent was on fire. Friars in roiling black gowns were trying to extricate the occupants, aided by a couple of landsknechte. The dangerous crucifix was in there somewhere. Why should the Dominicans be spared? They were murdering, merciless swine. Hob! There! Kill!

Boom! The blast of another bolt of lightning hurled bodies aside and sent flames leaping to the next tent.

A solitary landsknecht ran across Toby's field of vision. He pointed his sword and blasted the man out of existence. It was as easy as stamping bugs.

The captain had rallied the last of his men into a squad, and the rest of the friars and civilians had gone to them for protection. The first heavy spots of rain splattered on Toby's bare shoulders. He started forward, and hands grabbed his arm. It was Brother Bernat, wailing or shouting inaudibly, looking aghast.

'Can't hear you!' Toby bellowed.

The old man pulled closer, straining up to reach his ear. 'Tobias! You must stop! What are you doing?'

'Administering justice, Brother. Let me go.'

His words might not be audible, for the Franciscan's haggard face remained distraught. 'No, no! Don't you see what's happening to you?'

'I know what was going to happen to me. It still may, but this time I'm going to earn it. Out of my way!'

Toby pushed the old man aside roughly. With Hamish and the don at his heels, he started to run toward the assembled landsknechte. Then he realized that they had turned themselves into one big target, friars and all. Fools! He stopped and pointed his deadly lightning-bringing sword. Hob!

Nothing happened. Demons! There were still enough armed mercenaries there to chop the pilgrim band into mincemeat, and they would show no mercy. Besides, there must be no witnesses. Only one side could have survivors now. He felt a stab of cold panic. Rain pattered faster on his skin.

'Hob!' he screamed. 'Blast them! Them! There!'

Flash! Boom! Bodies flying.

That should be it, everyone accounted for. The skies fell in a flood of icy water, beating on him like freezing whips. Roaring flames sputtered, dwindled, and died; blackness swallowed the world. The hob swatted some more trees but failed to start fires.

'Don Ramon, Hamish! Get them under cover! That tent!' He must have made himself understood, because the other two ran to collect the pilgrims.

Toby walked all around the camp, hunting for survivors. One of the dogs had slipped its collar and disappeared. The others were howling madly, fighting their chains, and he killed them. He found two men badly burned but still showing signs of life, so he slaughtered them also, and later he made certain of a few who showed no visible injuries. By that time the ground was a morass of puddles and mud, and the storm was moving on. He owned the camp. Its original owners were all dead, and good riddance. The only thing he could not locate was the sword he had brought with him. He found several so similar he could not tell if one of them was his demon sword. Well, whoever had need of a demon sword?

As the last drops of the rain spattered on his bare chest and shoulders, he shivered in the night and felt the glory of omnipotence turn sour. The taste of revenge was never as appealing as its smell.

He went to the heap of baggage and found the don's tattered old saddle. He retrieved the locket he had slipped in through some torn stitching when he first saw the landsknechte.

Now he had time to ponder Brother Bernat's question: What had he become?

CHAPTER FIVE

A tent designed to sleep four men along each side was a tight fit for fifteen people. No fancy carpets here — the pilgrims sat or sprawled on a litter of straw bedding in the uncertain glimmer of a single lantern, with the odor of wet people almost masking a basic reek of barracks. Toby left his sword outside and went down on his knees as soon as he entered, so he would not tower over them all. They must be terrified of him, a half naked giant, soaked, streaked with watery blood, possessed by a demon, a monster who had called down thunderbolts to destroy a troop of the finest fighters in Europe.