Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

Struggling with the weight of Alberto-he might no longer be fat, but he was still large-Benito took a side street. Alberto was plainly in shock, but was doing his best to hobble, supported by the smaller man. The road was unfamiliar to Benito, but the sound of hooves galloping up the street was not. He hauled Alberto over a low wall and they hid as a troop of Croats rode past. Lying in the shadows, Benito suddenly realized that he had in fact seen the house across there before. It was dilapidated-looking, with a smashed door that was now boarded over.

The last time he'd been there, there'd been a guard on it, to keep away the curious from the house of the "black magician," Aldo Morando. He'd been there to look at the fraud's cellar. It might do as a place to hide. Alberto needed his leg tended, needed to rest. The gates of the inner curtain wall were bound to be closed by now. They were stuck on the outside, and Benito had a feeling getting in might be next to impossible, even for him.

"Come. We must hide better before the footmen start searching for loot."

Alberto, wincing and trying not to cry out, struggled up, leaning on Benito. "God. I can't. Leave me, Valdosta."

"Can't do that. That gabby wife of yours told me to look after you, big man. Come on. There's a place just over there."

It didn't take Benito long to pry away the boards sealing the doorway. Inside, Benito found the place much as he remembered it. Even with Morando in prison people had been too superstitious, after the initial curiosity, to come here. The trapdoor, as he remembered, was in the passage. He hoped it wasn't too damaged to put back.

Only when he looked in the passage… the broken door wasn't there. He had to get down on hands and knees to find it. The knight's axe had split the thin stone, but someone had put it back together again and smeared dirt very carefully in the crack.

Benito used the faithful Shetland knife to lever it up. Someone had nailed the split wood together again also.

Who? And why?

The whole thing smelled of trouble. But could it be worse than the Hungarians?

He helped Alberto to the stairs. "I can crawl," said Alberto through gritted teeth. "You close it."

Benito did so, as Alberto edged his way downwards. It was as dark as Stygia in here. There was also a bad smell. Nothing very strong, just the trace of corruption that came from a putrefying corpse or carcass not buried deeply enough.

Suddenly, someone struck a light on the far side of the garish cellar. And Benito knew at last the answer to the mystery that had been plaguing Maria.

Sophia Tomaselli looked a lot more like a storybook witch now. Her once magnificent hair was wild and tangled. She wasn't wearing any clothes. She'd painted herself with something… black now, anyway. Some of the patterns were smeared.

She had a wheel-lock pistol. She was also swaying drunk-which was presumably why they'd made it this far.

She blinked owlishly at them. "Two of you. What's wrong with him?"

Benito really hadn't had time to look. He'd been just ahead, running for the gate when Alberto had gone down with a scream. He knew the man had been hit in the lower leg. He was in pain and bleeding. "I don't know. I'll have a look." He spoke in as level a voice as he could manage.

Sophia's eyes narrowed. "You! You're Valdosta. The wonderful hero." She snarled that out in such a way as to make it abundantly plain that whatever he was in her opinion, it was neither wonderful nor heroic.

"I need to see to his leg," said Benito calmly.

He might as well not have spoken. "Come over here. Come here or I'll shoot you." Her voice was ugly with triumph. "My prayers to the Devil have been answered. I saw how she looked at you, that scuolo puta… Baby-sit! Ha."

She stepped over to the altar and took up a knife. "Now we're going to have the true sacrifice." The little giggle that followed had a half-insane flavor to it. "The one that Morando was too scared to do. But I'm not afraid! I promised if he let me destroy her I would give him the old sacrifice. Killing you will do both. First I'm going to cut…" She gestured obscenely with the knife in her hand, for the first time pointing the pistol at the roof and not them.

Benito threw the Shetland knife. By now, the once-stocky boy had the shoulders and chest of a very powerful man. The blade went right through her thin chest, stopping only when the hilt slammed into the flesh. Sophia was flung backwards onto Morando's mock-altar.

Benito already had his rapier out, and was running forward. But…

She wasn't going to vent her spite on anyone ever again. From the amount of blood, the Shetland knife had split her heart.

"Holy mother of God! Let's get out of here!" Alberto was already trying to crawl up the stairs again.

Benito looked at the dead woman. Death had eased the lines of hatred, fear and misery from her face. "Stay there, Alberto. She was crazy and now she's dead."

"She said she prayed to the Devil to destroy Maria. That she promised human sacrifice…"

"And look what it got the poor silly bitch. Don't worry, Alberto. The best priest I know examined this place and said it was all a fake. A complete fraud. She was crazy and she believed in it, but it's nothing for us to worry about. Your leg and the Hungarians out there are a lot more serious." Benito tugged at his knife, struggling to free it from the bone.

"But you did come here. Here of all places."

Cleaning the knife on the piece of black velvet that Morando had used for his pseudo altar cloth, Benito shrugged. "Maria says this is Corfu. Magic here happens. And so do coincidences."

He took up the lamp and the knife and started toward Alberto. And then stopped, his eyes caught by something to the side. "Well, I'll be… No wonder she could hide out here! Morando must have been prepared to do just that. There's more water and food stashed in here than there is in the whole Citadel. This was a false wall."

Benito walked over to Alberto and started gently cutting the fabric away from the bloody mess. A bit of bone protruded from the jagged wound. Benito sucked breath between his teeth. "I wish I was my brother. I really wish he was here. I think you've got a open fracture of the fibula. I'll have to see what the hell I can find for a splint. And let's see if that woman left any of Morando's wine. I could use a cup myself, actually. Even kakotrigi would do."

Alberto managed a weak laugh. "Kakotrigi is like this place. You get used to it. Get to like it."

The hagfish had swum as close to the edge of the shingle as it dared. If anyone had looked down from the walls now, they would have seen the sinuous shape of it in the clear azure water. Fortunately, the fury of the attack-as seen through the eyes of the shaman's hawks-was on the front wall. The Hungarian forces had gained a foothold inside the broken wall, and men were starting to pour through the gap and up onto the walls. The shaman was able to change into the other form and lope ashore. Shaking the water clear of its fur, it ran to where the wall was pounded into steep rubble. Here, with no defenders, it gained entrance. With the fleeing townspeople, it ran through the inner curtain-wall gates.

It began searching. Tasting the air. Relishing the fear, hating the crowd.

On the slope behind Corfu town, Giuliano Lozza marshaled his men. He was de facto commander of the Corfiote irregular army, because he had the most soldiers by far. The Venetian captain had had the sense to recognize an unstoppable local force and go along with it. And across the island, so had everyone else. The story of the naked Magyar having to walk back to camp in the buff spread from village to peasant to fishermen. Greeks loved to laugh, and their sense of humor could be a bit rough.