The Damiano Series (28 page)

At close range it was the same, or worse. “At least there is no stink of burning flesh,” said Ogier aloud, in order to be saying something.

The dead face peered down. “Mutton is what I smell,” it said in tones unexpectedly mild, and with a strong Italian accent to its French. Its voice gratified Ogier, who had always suspected the Devil was Italian.

It slid down from its seat of bare ribs, and for a moment the Savoyard's vision wavered, and he thought he saw an ordinary fellow (though rather small) standing next to an ordinary horse. But that glimpse was gone in a wink, and Ogier could not be sure he had ever seen it.

“You are the commander of these men?” the apparition inquired casually.

“Ogier de Savoy,” he found himself saying, and he executed a precise, ceremonious bow. Somewhere in the crowd of soldiers one man cried out and clapped his hands. Ogier smiled tightly to himself, thinking this interchange would do his reputation no harm, assuming he lived through it.

When the apparition returned the bow, flames hissed like a flung torch. “Well met, Marquis. I know well the House of Savoy.”

Ogier raised one eyebrow and tilted his head. He was not a marquis, but it did not seem necessary to correct the thing. “So? I hadn't thought my family had lived so ill. But no matter, Monsieur Fiend, I stand here at your service. For what have you come so far?”

The creature sighed and patted his skeletal horse. “I would like to talk to you in private, Marquis. It is to both our benefit.”

Ogier's other eyebrow joined the first. “The only private place in the camp is my tent,” he said. “And I greatly fear you'll burn it down.”

The cadaverous head jerked around. “Burn… ? Marquis, I promise wholeheartedly I will not burn your tent down. Why did you think… Am I glowing red in your eyes, or something like that?”

A smile twitched over Ogier's long face. “Something like that,” he admitted, and he led the apparition through the hushed camp to where his blue tent flapped and fluttered in the wind.

“Leave the horse alone,” said the creature unnecessarily, but as it stepped away from the structure of bone, that monstrous steed wavered, and in its place stood a black gelding of good breeding, wearing no trappings of any kind. “Stay,” the apparition commanded, as though the horse were a dog.

Ogier and the fiend disappeared into the tent of blue silk, which shone then like a lantern in the gathering dark.

“You have men from Partestrada in your army, my lord Marquis,” Damiano noted. As there was only one seat in the tent (the folding leather campstool), he settled himself upon the dirt.

Ogier also sat, his face expressionless, his eyes watchful. “I have men from all over the Piedmont in my retinue, good Devil, but only the ones I brought over Mont Cenis are soldiers.”

The witch nodded appreciatively. To Ogier the effect was like that of paper shivering in the blast of a flame. The Savoyard sat bolt upright and suppressed a shudder.

After a meditative pause, Damiano spoke again. “Am I correct in assuming you are pursuing the condottiere Pardo and have him cornered in San Gabriele?”

Ogier sucked his cheek before answering. “Aside from the fact there are no corners left in the village you speak of, the situation is as you say. May I inquire, Monsieur Demon, how it is you involve yourself in this matter?”

Ogier found himself confronted by two earnestly gaping eye sockets, filled with night. “I, too, am hunting General Pardo. I think you and I can save each other both time and bloodshed.

“In fact, my lord Marquis, I was promised I would find a tool to my purpose, and I believe your army is the very thing.”

Promised? Ogier's mind raced, and the hair on the back of his fair neck stood on end. He repeated to himself “Jesus, Marie, et Joseph,” three times. “I regret, Monsieur, that I am not empowered by the count to make treaties, neither with man nor with man's Enemy. I do not wish to offend a being of your evident grandeur, but…”

Two arms rose, leprous white and burning, burning… Damiano slicked his hair back from his face. “I do not ask you to make a bargain with the Devil, Marquis. Nor with me, if there's any difference there.

“I am merely explaining to you that I need your men, or at least a goodly portion of them. I am going into the village tonight, and once I have captured the general, I will need troops to keep his own men from causing trouble.”

Ogier started, snorted, and then thought better of it. “You are going to kill General Pardo, spirit? Tonight?” As if by chance, the blond shuffled his left foot forward until it almost touched the flickering figure:
no heat.

Damiano frowned. “If need be. I had hoped to deliver him to you, though that would be hypocrisy on my part, eh? Since you would, in turn, slay him.”

There was a moment's silence, broken by Ogier. “Why do you seek the Roman's life? What could he have done…”

“I was born in Partestrada, Marquis,” answered Damiano.

Ogier leaned forward on the stool, his revulsion tempered by sudden interest. The lace of his limp collar hung in the air before his coat of sky blue. “So you were mortal once, Monsieur Demon?”

Damiano blinked in surprise. Feeling a chill, he drew his soot-colored mantle closer. “Yes, Marquis. But it was a very short life and painful at the end.

“Enough. It's dark already, and there's no reason to delay. Assemble your men now, and the battle will be done by midnight.” He rose to his feet, using his black staff for support.

Ogier remained seated, staring at the ground. After some moments he shook his head. “I am sorry, Monseigneur Demon, but I may not do that. You see, although I am a soldier, I am still a Christian.”

“Then I will,” said Damiano easily. “But they would be happier led by you, I think.” As he turned away, the witch heard the now familiar sound of a blade pulling free. He swiveled and pointed his staff.

With a cry Ogier dropped the weapon and cradled one badly singed hand in the other.

Damiano bent and stepped through the tent door.

The night was windy but clear. None of the Savoyard soldiery seemed to have moved during their commander's interview with the Devil. Some shadowed figures were standing, weapons in hand, while others squatted by the meager cooking fires. All faced toward the hellishly radiant tent, and when the burning corpse appeared again, they backed slowly away.

Damiano felt the fear and hostility in the air he breathed. He glanced up at the uncaring stars, as if borrowing their indifference. He raised his staff just as an arrow shot out of the night toward him.

Its bright yellow length splintered against the tarnished silver mid-band, and the goose-feathers sizzled and stank.

“None of that,” said the witch quietly, staring past three fires into the crowd, directly at the archer who had loosed the arrow. “The next man who tries to harm me will flame like that arrow.

“And he will die for nothing, because I cannot be hurt as easily as that.”

Damiano glanced around him, and his nostrils flared. The skin of his face sorted the men around him. He strode forward at last, and men squirmed out of his path like the Red Sea parting.

He stopped before a cluster of fires a little apart from the others. “Belloc,” he said. “Aloisio. I am glad to see you still alive and healthy.

“Tell me, old friend and benefactor. Where is Paolo Denezzi? Is he not among you?”

The square blacksmith gasped. “God's wounds! It's young Delstrego!” Then a form stepped between them.

“I'm here, monster,” growled the bass voice Damiano knew and disliked so well. Though his full beard hid most of the expression on Denezzi's face, the small, ursine eyes held more challenge than fear. Damiano met his gaze and said nothing.

“My sister,” Denezzi announced, “is locked in the convent at Bard. She is of no use to anyone, that way, but at least she's safe from you.”

Damiano nodded. “Good. To be locked away is by far the best kind of life.” Then he turned his attention to the men huddled by the fire.

“I am going to take Pardo tonight, men of Partestrada. I thought you might like to ride behind me.”

“Behind you?” repeated Denezzi, in tones evenly divided between hate and scorn. “We will take Pardo, all right, Devil's spawn, but not behind you.”

Damiano shrugged. “As you like.” He turned away. Over his shoulder he called, “We will all be going to San Gabriele soon, however.”

He returned to the middle of the camp, in front of the gay tent, which night had reduced to a lumpish shape like a couchant cow. Ogier stood there, weaponless, saying nothing, his face taut and sharp. Damiano ignored the man, for he was preparing himself for his work.

He gazed left and right into the distance, examining his canvas.

The half-moon beat down on the low hills as though its light and nothing else had flattened them. The grassland before San Gabriele and the half-forested hills behind the village lay open and empty of man. The sky was clear and translucent, not yet black. The Savoyard camp was a small blot of shadows on the soil. The ruined village was another.

Wind blew Damiano's mantle back from his shoulders, and its silver chain pressed against his throat. With his right hand he pulled against the chain. His left hand held his staff—held it so tight he felt it pulse and knew that pulse for his own.

“You are perhaps planning to slip through Pardo's sentries in secret, Monseigneur Demon?” Ogier's dry words broke the witch's concentration. “Or should I call you Monseigneur Lost Soul? Either way, your peculiar… ornamentation will make it difficult.”

Damiano was aware the men were slipping away into the darkness. He could feel the terrified feet stumbling over the barren fields like ants on his skin. He took the staff in both hands. “Why so, my lord Marquis. What is it I look like, anyway?”

Ogier smiled with an odd satisfaction. “You are aflame,” he said.

The dead white face split in a laugh. “Appropriate, Marquis,” it whispered, “for you are about to see quite a lot of flames.” As he spoke a serpent of fire hissed and spat from the swart head of the staff. It wriggled after the fleeing men, who screamed at the orange light. Some fell to the earth, while others huddled where they stood, praying and cursing together.

But the gaudy snake passed them, burning nothing but the ground and the night air. Damiano slid his hands to the foot of his staff and swung it over his head.

The serpent of fire became a ring, a wall, a prison for the Savoyard soldiery. When the witch set the foot of his staff back upon the earth, the ring of fire remained, taller than a man and booming thunder. Ogier put his hands to his ears. The cries of men faded and were lost in the wail of the fire.

“But as you see, Marquis, I am not planning a secret approach.” Damiano shouted above the noise. “Such would be a mistake, I think. My weapon is terror.

“Using terror, I will save men's lives,” he added.

With an effort, Ogier dropped his hands to his belt. “Save men's lives?” he repeated. “You are the tool of the Father of Lies himself. May Saint Michel the archangel fling you to the bottom of the deepest hell if you destroy my good and true men!”

Damiano stopped, a word on his tongue concerning another archangel, but he turned his face to the sky again, and the word went unsaid. “Weave me a storm,” he whispered to the foreign powers trapped within his staff.

The stick throbbed and went warm in his hands, warmer than it had been belching flame. A wind whistled somewhere far away, from the north.

Dusky clouds snarled and tumbled over the distant Alps, moving with impossible speed. Out of the west, where the land was flat, blew skeins of mare's tail. The gleaming hills emitted white fog like breath. Minutes passed while Damiano watched this tumult in the sky.

Fire shrieked a protest, and two cloud-soaked winds smashed together above the circlet of fire that held the Savoyard forces. The sky was ripped by lightning, again, again, and again, and thunder drove men to their knees.

A spatter of rain caught Damiano across the face. “Enough,” he muttered absently. “We don't need to put out the fire.” He fingered the staff. “Wind, little instrument. Not wet.”

The wind raged, and the circle of fire bent like the black shadows of the trees. East it went, then south. The silk tent took sparks and blazed suddenly. The men crawled to the middle of the circle, hugging the bare earth. All the air smelled of pitch and metal.

Like a flute, the black staff sang, and Damiano fingered it gingerly. It was not meant to channel such power, let alone to imprison it. The silver bands burnt his hands when he touched them.

He took a deep breath of the clamorous air and let it sigh out again. “This will do,” he announced. “Now we ride.”

“Ride what?” shouted Ogier, terrified and angry. “The horses are all on the other side of that… that…”

Damiano glanced around and noted the truth of the statement. “Eh? Well, I ride. Everyone else walks. After all, the village is very close.” And he whistled for his horse.

The black gelding cantered over, eyes rolling and ears flat. In another instant it had become the grinning mount of Death.

“Forward!” he cried to the despairing company. “Follow me, soldiers of Savoy, men of the Piedmont. Follow me, and you need not fear the fire, for it will be your friend.” He added in a lower tone, “And with that as your friend, I doubt you will find many enemies to fight.”

As he nudged the horse forward a hulking man's figure appeared in the way, blocking him. “Give me a horse, Delstrego,” rumbled Paolo Denezzi, “and I'll ride beside you. Not behind.”

Damiano peered down. With the staff whining in his hand, he had not much mind to spare for this. But as he glanced up past Denezzi at the ring of fire, a dark gap in the brilliance appeared, and a confused chestnut mare trotted through, dragging her tether rope. The beast was blind to the fire and heard nothing except Damiano's undeniable call. “There's your mount, Paolo,” the witch snapped. “Don't ask for a saddle to go with it.”