Ken Hood - Demon Rider

There was no escape, for the road was blocked in both directions by cavorting weapon-wielding madmen, whose windmill strokes were inevitably starting to find flesh-and-blood victims. Screams of terror were being overwhelmed by screams of agony and mindless rage. Jose was still the closest; he swung his bow like a club at a swordsman, who turned on him with a string of lurid oaths. The two of them engaged in a wild duel, bow against sword, both slashing ineptly as if they could not see each other properly, both shrieking hysterically.

"Villains! Monsters!" the caudillo bellowed. "I will not accept your lies!" He felled Jose from behind. The other man promptly reversed his sword and threw himself on it. A crossbow bolt thudded into the caudillo's breastplate, toppling him backward. He kicked a few times and then lay still.

It was almost over. A few vague figures still screamed and howled in the fog, battling one another without mercy or any visible reason. When they lost their weapons they went for each other with bare hands, punching and strangling, battering heads on rocks. Several hurled themselves over the edge of the track, their yells dying away in thuds and crashes among the trees on the slope below.

"Wraiths?" Hamish said. "Can you see them, senora?"

"I can hear my voices!" Gracia cried.

"Victory!" Josep cried shrilly. "Senora de Gomez has defeated them!"

The last two brigands rushed at each other in a duel, shrieking nonsensical insults, hacking wildly with no attempt to parry. One dropped, the other took a couple of paces and pitched headlong to the ground. The gurgling cries of pain died away into silence.

It was over, all over. Incredibly, the enemy had destroyed themselves in their madness, to the last man. No one would mourn them, but they might have claimed two worthy lives in their villainy, and those lay heavy on Toby's mind. He had come to like the mad don and admire him. Lately he had even come to terms with the crusty old monk. In fact, if not in name, Toby had been in charge, so their loss was on his conscience now. He also owed Gracia a profound apology for doubting her and her voices.

More screaming... in the distance, farther down the hill.

"Listen!" Josep shouted. "The wraiths have gone to rescue our horses." His voice cracked with fear or excitement.

Pepita laughed. "They will drive them back to us!" She was much less upset than any of the adults. "Those bad men were fighting ghosts. Did you see, Toby? Their swords went right through them!"

"I did not see, but I guessed." He saw that Doña Francisca was kneeling over her son again. "Is he alive?"

"I believe so, senor."

"I am glad."

The don was young and fit, and all he had suffered was a fall. Was there any chance that Father Guillem had survived? Stepping over corpses, picking his way through the slaughter, Toby set off down the road to where the acolyte lay beside his horse. Everyone except Francisca came after him, wanting the comfort of his presence. He was a failure and a coward, but he was all they had.

He squatted to lay fingers against the stricken man's throat. Astonishingly he found a pulse—weak but regular, not the fluttering uncertain beat of a dying heart. Although it was hard to tell in the gloom, he could see no trace of a wound, or even injuries. Another miracle? He felt anger surging and struggled to suppress it.

He rose. "Father Guillem's still alive! We must get him to the sanctuary as fast as possible."

"I do not think that will be necessary," Hamish said quietly. "Listen."

Hooves clinked and splashed on the downhill bend—apparently the horses were returning as Pepita had predicted. But there were voices from the opposite direction. Balls of brightness in the fog came into view around the corner and gradually resolved into flaming torches as they approached, a dozen or more of them.

The five at the front were nuns in black robes and head cloths, and although four of them held lanterns, almost nothing of their faces could be seen. They halted a few feet from the huddle of pilgrims and just stared at Toby, who had remained standing when his companions knelt. The one in the center was taller and probably younger than the others. She carried no light, but the rain around her glimmered with another sort of brightness.

Behind them came a dozen monks in the black robes of Benedictines with their hoods raised against the drizzle, so that the flicker of their torches showed only disembodied faces floating in the gathering dark. They divided into two lines and took up position like a guard of honor along either side of the road, shedding light on the battlefield. More monks without torches followed them.

"Is this not wonderful!" Gracia enthused, reaching up to pull on Toby's arm. "After so many troubles, to find sanctuary! And the wraiths tell me that Montserrat will cherish them..." She prattled on.

Toby kept his attention on the silent women and especially the one with the golden shimmer around her. So this was the famous tutelary of Montserrat! Why had it not intervened sooner to prevent so much anguish and so many deaths? He felt he had a bone or two to pick with Montserrat, but it was obviously not going to speak until he behaved like a grown-up. Angrily, he threw down his sword and sank to his knees on muddy stones that felt accursedly sharp and cold through the only pair of hose he possessed.

As if that were a signal, four novices came forward bearing a litter. In reverent silence they lifted Father Guillem onto it and then bore him away up the road. Others were similarly attending to the don. Lay servants arrived with clattering, squeaky carts to remove the dead.

So the two casualties were to be cured of their injuries, were they? But why bother with the litters? Why not perform the miracles right here? Toby's own aches had almost totally disappeared. And Hamish's, also, apparently, for he was holding his head up and smiling as much as anyone, and he had not smiled all day. And that meant...

He struggled to quell fury. That meant that the fight had been a hoax. Not an illusion, for those dead men seemed real enough. And dead enough. But a fraud, nevertheless. The arrogance of it! The callous , deliberate slaughter ! A tutelary should never allow such evil things to happen within its domain! Father Guillem had known that, but Montserrat had silenced Father Guillem before he said too much. Montserrat had been playing tricks—evil, evil tricks. Why? Something to do with Toby Longdirk, certainly. Dangerous tricks. The brigands might have provoked the hob into another rampage, putting everyone at risk. What had happened to the hob, which had always shunned tutelaries in the past?

The incarnation spoke, her voice clear and cold like the note of a bell, a voice to brook no argument. But she addressed the words to the night, not to anyone in particular. Her eyes were closed.

"Pepita, you would be welcome here for Brother Bernat's sake, but you are equally welcome for you own. Stay with us and be cherished."

Pepita beamed. "I like you! You make me see rainbows." She ran forward. One of the older women smiled and bent to hug the sodden bundle, then scooped her up and carried her away. As they disappeared from view, a childish voice shouted: " 'Bye, Toby!"

" 'Bye, Pepita," he shouted. "Spirits bless you."

"Gracia," said the spirit, "Margarita, Josep, Hamish... and Tobias. You may rise." It fell silent until they did so. Perhaps it spoke then in confidence to Hamish, for he suddenly pulled off his bandage and grinned at the incarnation with all the stupefied adoration of a spaniel.

The last bodies were being wheeled away; the last of the pilgrims' horses led off. The monks with the torches remained, human candlesticks to illuminate the proceedings. Somewhere higher on the hill a large wagon squeaked and rattled. And more feet, more hooves? Unless there was a freak echo at this spot, it sounded as if two minor armies were approaching, one up the hill and one down, and they were going to meet right at Toby Longdirk. That could not be coincidence.