Rogue Sword (26 page)

Orio peered ahead. The lanthorn was closer now, but only one man could be seen, in cuirass and helmet, and a hint of others. “Shall we rush ’em?” he asked.

“Wait,” said Lucas. “Let them debouch down here. The path’s so narrow they could hold us off for a long while.”

His glaive slid forth. He heard the clack of crossbows being wound.

The Catalans stepped onto the beach. Now Lucas could count six. The big man in the lead cupped hands to mouth and called, “Who are you? Why’re you landing armed?”

“Fire!” cried Orio.

“Stop, you fool--!” Lucas’ protest was too late. The bowstrings twanged at his back. He heard the quarrels go by.

Someone bellowed in pain. The leader’s voice lifted: “You sneaking dogs! St. George for the right!”

“God’s wounds!” Lucas yanked Orio around. “Have you a fever? Or did you never own any wits?”

“Should I stop and parley?”

“It’d be more honorable. . . . But did you think we could hit anything at this range in this murk? Your archers winged a single man. And now they’re warned!”

Lucas raised his sword and broke into a run. “Charge!” he shouted. “Cut them down before they get away!”

The crew howled and swept after him.

The Catalan leader snatched the lanthorn from its bearer. Light streamed over his face, bearded, broken-nosed, scarred and pocked. So Asberto Cornel came back to the master I forsook, thought Lucas. Then there was no chance to think. Asberto flung the lanthorn. It struck one pirate on the breast. Burning oil splashed over his skin. He screamed. The moon burrowed into a cloud and darkness blew over the world.

Lucas reached the bottom of the path. Steel clashed above him. He lifted his targe. A blow shocked his arm. He struck back. One man stood across the trail, a vague hairy shape. Dimmer forms stirred behind. To the left the cliff rose straight; on the right, a slope overgrown with brambles plunged downward.

“Desperta ferres!”
shrieked the Almugavare. Asberto rapped at his back: “Up to the house, Juan, and tell them. The rest of you, stand fast with me.”

The Almugavare dodged Lucas’ sword and glided in. His knife flickered. Lucas had expected the tactic. He guarded himself with his buckler. His long blade chopped at a leg, struck leather and flesh and bone. The Almugavare lurched off the path. Orio, pressing close behind Lucas, assailed him. The Almugavare invoked his patron saint, stood swaying, and fought till he was killed.

Lucas was already beyond him, up to the next man. He couldn’t make out that face either, but the size and the hoarse breathing told him who it was. A monstrous blow crashed on his shield. He felt his arm go numb, heard the wooden frame splinter. He staggered. The Catalan broadsword swung high again.

The moon broke free. “Do you know me, Asberto?” Lucas called.

It was done with unmerciful deliberation. Cornel almost dropped his sword. “Greco!”

In that unguarded moment, Lucas hewed, once, twice, thrice, with all the speed and power he owned. Blood sprang from Asberto’s thigh and left arm. He stumbled backward, off the trail and down the thorny slope. Lucas pursued, his iron belling on cuirass and helmet and defending sword.

“You swine of a sorcerer--!” Asberto groped with his feet, seeking a firm place to stand. “You put that spell on her!” he screamed. “You took away her soul! Satan rot me if I don’t kill you! “

The mariners went past, thrusting with pikes, battering with axes, pushing back the last three Catalans by sheer weight. But the work was slow and savage.

Asberto recovered himself. His weapon blurred. The edge flew past Lucas’ face, chopped at hands and knees, stabbed at his mouth. He parried, riposted, driven yard by yard down the hillside. Only his armor saved him. But when Asberto nearly fell in a rabbit hole, Lucas attacked once more. For a space their swords raged against each other.

They broke away, panting in the wind and the moonlight. Lucas dropped his ruined buckler. Asberto clutched his haft in both gashed hands; the blade trembled. “Where’s Djansha?” Lucas demanded.

Asberto did not hear. “She gives herself to all who’ll ask,” he said. Tears mingled with the blood and sweat on him. “Violante who was so beautiful is any dirty soldier’s who’ll give her a bottle of wine. Each night when she’s senseless drunk, she mumbles about her father. What have you done with her soul?”

“Where’s Djansha, you creature?”

Asberto darted forward. His sword rose and fell. Lucas twisted aside. The steel buried itself in the ground. Lucas’ glaive took Asberto across the wrists.

The Catalan fell on his face in the brambles. He rolled over, sat up, and raised his arms. Both hands were gone.

Lucas stood aside and sobbed for air. When he regained awareness, he saw Asberto still seated among the thorns, under the moon, rocking back and forth. Blood spurted from his arm stumps, which he had folded into a cross on his breast. He would quickly die, Lucas thought. Certainly that was best: death for the warrior who was crippled, and for the knight’s daughter whose mind was drowning.

There was no more hatred in Lucas, nor even the revulsion he once knew. He thought, Christ have pity on them, whom the Grand Company also destroyed.

The path seemed empty. He plowed back through the brush and hurried upward.

The three Catalan guards had not had time to close the rear gates. The raiders forced them into the garden. But there they counterattacked so ferociously that forty corsairs scattered, giving them a chance to join their aroused comrades at the house.

Lucas followed the rising terraces to the courtyard. There was more light here, not only the weak moon but candlelight glowing in the villa windows. He could see a few men, hastily equipped, behind the colonnade at the top of the staircase. Orio’s band had formed ranks. Just as Lucas arrived, the pirates charged.

“Stop!” yelled Lucas. “You utter idiot! Stop!”

None heard him above the war whoops. Orio’s burly form got almost to the stairs. Pikes and axes seethed behind him.

Then the crossbows spoke.

A sailor, running, took a quarrel through the breast. The force raised him on his toes. He seemed to dance before he flopped over backward. His pike clattered down on top of him. Another man cursed, his collarbone shivered apart. A third fell with a pierced belly. The charge broke. The Catalan archers put down their bows, drew sword, and made a rush.

“God send the right!” En Jaime de Caza led them. No mistaking the tall spare form, the pointed beard and graying temples. He wore formal black clothes, but a shield was on his arm, its bearings weirdly gay-colored.

Orio met him. Their blades crossed. Sparks sleeted. Deadly fast, the
rich hom
eluded the captain’s awkward defense. Red streaks appeared on Orio’s face and arms. He turned and ran. His crew bolted with him, into the garden. Half a dozen of them lay dead or dying below the stairs. En Jaime took his own seven men back up onto the portico.

Lucas called from the hedges: “Will you parley?”

En Jaime’s panther-like ease of posture turned rigid. “Who is that?” he answered uncertainly.

“Will you talk, Jaime?”

“Yes. I will. Hold your fire, lads. Come forth, out there.”

Lucas came into view. En Jaime’s weapon drooped in his grasp. “Is that indeed you?” he said, so low that the wind in the trees nearly smothered it. He came down the stairs and met Lucas on the flagstones.

They regarded each other, unspeaking. The moon vanished again. Lucas was glad of the dark across his countenance.

“I would not have expected you at the head of this gang,” said the Catalan dully.

“I had no choice,” said Lucas. “Is Djansha here?”

“Yes.”

Lucas had never before been humble. “Father,” he said, “I am not worthy.”

En Jaime pondered until, with a sad little laugh: “I believe I understand. The Venetian is here too, did you know? He came by horse from Rhedestos this very evening. I had delayed and objected as long as possible, but En Berenguer Rocafort finally ordered me, on my oath as a soldier, to give the man his chattel. You see, Reni offered us valuable trade agreements.”

“Would you indeed give her up to him? You promised me--”

En Jaime’s interruption came strident. “I tell you, I was under orders! And the welfare of the Company was involved! I did all I could. Tried to buy her myself, bid ten prices, but Reni wouldn’t sell. He said she’d taken the fancy of a nobleman in Constantinople whose good will was worth more to him than all my gold. I knew you were fond of her, but not that you cared this much. It was doubtful that you were even alive. Is the life of a pet concubine so bad?” “Gasparo lies. He wants her simply as the means of his revenge on me.”

Breath hissed between En Jaime’s teeth. “Impossible!”

“Why else should I come to you like this, you who were always my friend? I could only get a crew by promising them loot. Djansha’s life, and our child’s, are worth more than some boxes of metal in your cellars.”

“I didn’t know! How could I? I’d have smuggled her away if--Were he not my guest, I’d kill that fat ruffian!”

“Well, then, yield to us. We’ll do no further harm, only take the girl and the treasure and begone. I’ll repay you someday, somehow.”

The wind skirled.

“Well?” Lucas’ voice cracked over.

“No, I cannot.”

“In the name of mercy--!”

“Two faithful men are missing; slain, I have no doubt. They trusted me as their lord. The treasures of all my people are stored here, as well as my own. I cannot betray them.”

“But let me have Djansha, and enough of your own wealth to satisfy the corsairs, and--”

“Now you are asking me to commit treason,” said En Jaime. He drew a signet ring from his finger, put it back on, drew it off, put it on. “I’m to compromise our honor by yielding with no more fight than this, and our interests by surrendering one person who could buy supplies needed by our entire host. . . . No. If you don’t care about me, Lucas, or my name, remember that I too have a woman and a child, who must also bear the consequences. The gold you may have, everything I possess. But as for the Circassian, all I can do is appeal once more to Rocafort.”

“You know how little can be expected from that! You spoke of smuggling her away. Could you not--”

“Reni has already taken formal possession. He’s returning to Gallipoli and his ship in the morning. I believe he really is going on to Constantinople, even if his tale was a lie. But perhaps you could take him in the Marmora?”

“How should I persuade my men? They’ll go straight home if they get the plunder, and slit my gullet if they don’t. Jaime, you must let me have her, now! What’s all your damned murdering Company worth, against an evil such as this?”

“Silence!” the Catalan yelled. “Who are you to preach, you and all your faithlessness?”

It was like a blow across the eyes.

“I am a captain of the Grand Company, sworn to the service of Aragon and my own honor,” said En Jaime. “We do not yield.”

Lucas found slow, clumsy words: “But I am in the service of my lady.”

A warmth returned to the knight. “We’ve sent a horseman off to Muntaner,” he said. “Troops should arrive in two or three hours. Your rabble can’t take the house before then. Forget the woman. I’ve had her christened, her soul is safe, you’ve done what you can. Escape now while you’re able.”

“I never was able.”

“Nor I. Well--” The moon came back. En Jaime extended his right hand. “So be it. I was happy to know you, Lucas.”

“And I.” The other went to his knees. “Master, give me your blessing.”

The Catalan touched his helmet. They went their separate ways.

Lucas found the corsairs huddled behind the stables. Orio lumbered from their indistinct mass. “Well?” said the captain. “Will they make terms?”

“No. They’ll stand us off. Help is expected from Gallipoli.”

Oaths ripped through the wind. A few weapons were pointed at Lucas. “By the guts of Mahound,” said Orio, “if you’ve led us here and gotten our friends killed for nothing--”

“Be still!” Lucas lifted his sword. Moonlight touched his mail; he stood as if clad in gray ice. The pack retreated from him, bristling.

“Your own slewfootedness brought this trouble on you,” he told them. “But we’ve still two hours or more to capture the house, load the gold, and put out to sea. If you’ll heed me, we can do it. Otherwise, you can skulk off without me, and Satan gobble you down!”

“Well,” sulked Orio, “what d’you propose?”

Lucas went around the corner and looked across the yard to the villa. “Stout doors and shutters,” he mused. “We outnumber the Catalans three or four to one, but they can defend any entrance with ease. Wherever we attack, even if it be on several fronts at once, a few crossbowmen can shoot us from the windows. Or they might sally. We couldn’t stand against them in open combat between ordered ranks.”

“If you’re through proving how we can’t get in, would your majesty please to tell us how we can?”

Lucas ignored that. All shutters had now been closed; the house was a pale block, with golden streaks where light seeped through cracks in the wooden panels. Behind those walls, Djansha lay. And Gasparo. Lucas knew he was going to get in. As if it were some problem in planetary motions, he calculated how.

“Listen to me,” he said.

He asked a few questions and gave rapid commands. Then he took a pair of helpers into the stables. The air inside was warm, full of hay and horse smells. Briefly, dizzily, he was a boy again, riding across the Asiatic plains . . . summer, the sky enormous, raining sunlight, mile upon mile of grasslands rippling in the wind, like an ocean, like a heaven of stars, for the cornflowers were blooming and all the earth was blue with them. . . . Grunting and swearing, they bridled a dozen animals and led them out, strung together in a fan-shaped formation by cords between the harness.

A clangor lifted from the front side of the house, where Orio with ten men had started a diversionary assault. The horses skittered about, neighed and snorted. Lucas spoke to them, stroked a neck, smoothed a mane. “So, so, so. Easy, boy. There’s a good boy. So-o-o-o.” With a practiced tug on the lead horse’s headstall, he brought them up to the villa.