Ariosto (26 page)

“He tells me,” Falcone explained to Lodovico when the priest from Annouaigho had spoken, “that he does not know if he can do anything in this instance. He says that Cifraaculeo is stronger than he, and more advanced. Also, he says that his spirit has been gone so long, it would be difficult to follow. He has agreed to do what he can, but doubts that it will accomplish much. He says that so far, there is no way to tell what has happened to Cifraaculeo, and that the prolonged trance may have done no harm.”

Lodovico gave, a cautious nod. “Is that all he can tell us?”

“At the moment, it is all he knows.” Falcone turned away slightly and continued, in something of an under-voice, to speak to Lodovico. “He is very frightened by what he has seen. He has mastered his fright, but he cannot endure more very soon. Believe me, he does not want to pursue the matter at any length. I think that perhaps it would not be safe for him to do so. If there is another way to get the information, I think that is the way we should use. A man driven by fear, as he is, will have his sight clouded. He has admitted that, and I know it is true.”

“Yes” Lodovico concurred. “But if this other cannot help us, the Cicora wizard, then we must convince Nebbiamente that he will have to aid us, for then we will have no choice. No matter how terrified he is, no matter how great the risk, he will have to do all that he can, or we will be all of us at the mercy of our enemy.”

The priest had been listening attentively, as if concentration alone could give him understanding of the Italian language. Suddenly he interrupted and spoke to Falcone quickly, excitedly.

“What is it? What has he said?” Lodovico asked when Nebbiamente was silent once more.

Falcone had a measuring look in his eye, and he fingered his lower lip thoughtfully. “He says,” he explained after a moment, “that while he does not want to pursue Cifraaculeo into the realms of the spirit, and has made it clear why, for he does not want to be caught in the snares of Anatrecacciatore he is willing to send his spirit over the forest to find the surest and most direct route to the Fortezza Serpente. He thinks that if he does that, he can give you directions so that you, on Bellimbusto, may take us directly there and we will not have to wander through these forests until we die from exhaustion and suffer the attacks of wild beasts sent by Anatrecacciatore to prey upon us. He is confident that he can do this much and not expose himself or the rest of us to the worst of Anatrecacciatore’s wrath. However, he warns us that the nearer we come to the Fortezza Serpente, the stronger Anatrecacciatore’s power will grow, for that is the land of his creatures, and they are all bent to his will. He says that once the Fortezza Serpente is in sight, we must ignore anything he tells us.” Falcone said a few words to Nebbiamente in his tongue, expressing genuine thanks that Lodovico needed no words to comprehend, then once again turned the Italian hero.

“It may be possible,” Lodovico allowed. “If Cicora wizard is no help…”

“Fumovisione is known for his great talents,” Falcone said quickly. “He is also known for his temperament. There is no way to anticipate what he will do.”

Nebbiamente interrupted them with a few words to Falcone, his manner somewhat vague.

“What did he want?” Lodovico inquired impatiently when Falcone had finished talking to the priest.

“He’s going to enter the spirit form, as he said he would. He asks that he be left to himself for a few hours. I have told him it will be as he wishes.”

“Certainly there is no harm in it,” Lodovico allowed. “Anything we learn now will have to help us.” He had dressed in a leather guarnacca that was sewn with metal plates, affording some protection against arrows and other weapons. He had developed the design himself when he had found that Bellimbusto could not easily fly with a man in full armor mounted on him. This was the best compromise that Lodovico could devise, and since that terrible battle with birds, he had determined never to take to the air without wearing it. He had been told that in sunlight he glistened, like Bellimbusto’s wings.

“Will you be aloft today, then?” Falcone asked.

“Not until I learn more. I don’t want to make myself a target a second time. If we can learn from Nebbiamente or this Fumovisione, then it may be a wise course to take. The forest is vast, and it would take little for the warriors of Anatrecacciatore to hit us on the flank or from behind. We cannot allow that to happen.” He touched the steel plating of his guarnacca. “You arm yourself with bone, and I with metal, but we fight the same enemy. We must be armed against more than the weapons that will be used against us: we must be vigilant against the wiles and the sorcery of Anatrecacciatore.”

Falcone had taken a few steps back toward the tent where Cifraaculeo sat in ghastly, untenanted silence. “This may be the least of it,” he remarked without looking at Lodovico.

“I realize that,” Lodovico responded at once. He felt his scabbard across his back where Falavedova hung. “Armor is not enough. Watchfulness may not be enough. Never have I known so despicable a foe. He is without honor, and cares only for dominion.”

Falcone reached the tent flap and looked in. The fires in the braziers were dying and the cloying resins were less apparent, though still strong enough to be offensive. He pulled the flap open a little farther and looked at the high priest. “We must keep this a secret for as long as possible. Once the camp knows of this, many of them will lose heart. I do not wish to be disparaging of my own men, but it is true.”

“There are those among the Lanzi that would not fight if His Holiness the Pope said that such battle was ungodly. I know your reservation and I respect it.” Lodovico stared at Cifraaculeo. How could anyone determine what had become of the high priest of the Cérocchi? That deathly stillness that was not death. Those closed eyes that did not move behind the heavy eyelids. He realized that the high priest had, in some unknown way, exceeded his powers and was now constrained, by a potent, arcane spell, to deal with horrors that Lodovico could not possibly imagine.

“We cannot wake him. It would be disastrous to try. His spirit might never again find his body, and he would be in this state until his flesh began to rot.” Falcone closed the tent flap abruptly and looked away toward the camp.

The men were starting to waken. There were the sounds of voices and scuffles growing steadily louder. The night guards came in from their posts along the perimeter of the camp and called to their morning counterparts, a few making coarse jokes, others demanding food before they could seek their mats for an hour of rest.

“You had best tell them that we do not march today, at least not at once. Put them to work on their weapons. It will not be wasted effort. I’ll have my Lanzi check all their saddlery and other tack. That is also necessary and will occupy them well.” Lodovico was about start across the camp when Falcone’s hand on his arm detained him. “What?”

Falcone nodded toward a strange, portly figure coming through the camp beside Lincepino. He was dressed entirely in clothing made of bark and as he walked, he gestured extravagantly, almost, Lodovico thought to himself with barely concealed amusement, as extravagantly as an Italian.

“Fumovisione,” Falcone said quietly, indicating the bizarre little man.

Lincepino, a resigned, respected expression on his face, led the wizard up to Falcone, and waited for a break in the stout man’s stream of words to present him to the Prince. At last Fumovisione’s ramblings came to an end and he looked expectantly toward Falcone and Lodovico.

“This,” Lincepino sighed, “is the wizard of the Cicora, Fumovisione, and this is Falcone, Prince of the Cérocchi.’’

At once the voluble man began again, waving his arms, his voice rising and falling as if in endless song. His face was cherubic though his bright eyes were old.

After a bit, Falcone interjected a few terse questions and held the flap of Cifraaculeo’s tent open for the wizard to enter.

“Does he always talk?” Falcon asked Lincepino. and was answered with a nod.

The flap rose again and Fumovisione bustled out. He had left his enthusiastic manner in the tent with the silent high priest. Now the childish face was somber and the voice forceful. Even his gestures had changed characteristics and were direct. He began to pace, and now that rotund body was not comical. He spoke at length, answering the occasional questions that Falcone put to him. Lodovico recalled the Mongol general he had fought many years ago, and found the similarity between Fumovisione and that general unnerving.

When the talk was finished, Falcone motioned Lodovico to come closer. “He will help us.” This terse announcement was unnecessary, but Lodovico made no retort. He glanced toward Fumovisione and gave him a short bow.

“That was well done,” Falcone said, then changed his tone. “Fumovisione has warned us that Cifraaculeo is indeed becoming a pawn of Anatrecacciatore. He told me that it would be useless to kill him because the spirit would not die with the body and might be greater danger if the man is dead. He has seen ghosts and other phantoms bring madness to an entire city. He has declared that he will not permit that to happen here. He is going to perform a rite that will protect Cifraaculeo. When he awakens, he will have no memory and be like an infant. We will have to give him constant care. But while he is so, he can do little to hurt us or to aid Anatrecacciatore. You must understand that Fumovisione does not wish to do this, and has informed me that he finds the task repugnant, but the alternative is too dangerous to allow it to occur. He has also said that he will make special amulets for all the men on guard to wear that will give them the gift of sight and enable them to know which animals are possessed by the magic of Anatrecacciatore and which are only animals.”

Fumovisione was following this, nodding and giving occasional emphatic grunts accompanied by sweeping gestures. There was mud on his squat, muscular legs and his bare arms were beaded with dew, yet he seemed unaware of this, his whole attention on Falcone.

“I would not mind having such an amulet,” Lodovico said, half in jest.

Falcone relayed this request and waited while Fumovisione considered the matter and then made a terse statement on the question.

“He thinks it would be unlikely,” Falcone interpreted for Lodovico. “Your gods are not our gods, and your vision is not as ours. He said he would not know what to invoke for you.”

“Well, it was a thought.” Lodovico straightened himself and looked toward the camp again. “I must inform my men that we won’t be breaking camp this early, and set them to work on their tack.” He nodded toward Falcone and Fumovisione. “Tell me any progress you make. It is crucial now, I think.” He left them before they could protest and walked quickly to the Lanzi.

It was midafternoon before he saw Falcone again. The Cérocchi Prince came striding through the clusters of men, stopping now and again to address a few words to one of the warriors. He was regal in his Cérocchi armor and bearskin leggings, and his proud head was carried erect, confident. It pleased Lodovico to see Falcone so much the master of this situation.

“How is it?” Lodovico called from the temporary stables where he had been rubbing Bellimbusto’s black-and-bronze wings. He had taken off his guarnacca and was wearing only his shirt, hose and calzebrache. Amid the tight, dark curls on his chest there lay three medals on a narrow gold chain.

“Good news, I think,” Falcone announced loudly enough for the men nearby to hear.

“Good news is welcome,” Lodovico agreed and stood aside for Falcone to join him. Once in the shadow, he asked softly, “How bad is it?”

Falcone shook his head. “Bad enough. Cifraaculeo has not yet…returned. Fumovisione has not been to find or free his spirit. He has said that it will take longer. He has indomitable will, that strange little man. If I were to fall in battle, I could find many worse leaders for my men.”

Lodovico, too, had sensed the power in the Cicora wizard, and gave him due respect. “A good man in a fight. Well if he cannot master this sorcerer, then we are most vulnerable. What about taking away your high priest’s memory? Is he still going to do that?”

“What choice is there? Otherwise we are certain to have a spy in our midst, and one with so high a rank. Fumovisione will begin the rite before sundown.”

“That’s something. I have been thinking this afternoon, what a wretched state we would be in now if Cifraaculeo’s spirit had returned to his body, the slave Anatrecacciatore, with no one aware of it.” He had taken time to say thankful prayers for this deliverance, but the magnitude of the danger still impressed him. God had been merciful and Lodovico hoped that He would continue to guard him and his men—all of his men.

Falcone shuddered and the breastplate clicked a rattled. “Yes, that occurred to me, too. I felt my heart go numb in my breast with the realization of what might have happened.”

The two men stood silently together, each lost their private reflections. Falcone was the first to break the silence.

“I have one thing that should please you.” He held out a roll of white birch bark which he had carried here.

“What is it?” Lodovico took it and pulled it open. There were a number of charcoal lines on it, forming a crude picture.

“Nebbiamente sent it to you. For your flight. This, he tells me,” he said, pointing to a number of connected humps, “are the hills where we are now camped. He says that these two hills are at either end of this ridge. These valleys, the long narrow one, and this broader one, are a day’s march from here, and the water there is pure and there is game to hunt. Beyond, he says that this is a river, and these, smaller rivers that feed into it. And here is another range of hills.” His finger pointed out these features, and slowly the drawing took form for Lodovico.

Falcone indicated a long sinuous shape near the top of the drawing. “And this…”

Lodovico’s veins filled with pride, with the confidence that had been draining from him for the last two days, since that disastrous battle in the air. He smiled and his chestnut eyes glowed. “I know what that is, he said in resonant tones. “That is the Fortezza Serpente.”