The creature moved in so quickly that it impaled itself on the long blade, which encountered no resistance in penetrating the stony flesh. A moment later it had wrenched itself back with a moan like layers of rock shifting. Dropping to the ground, it curled up in a ball as a cloud of things like blue fireflies swirled upward out of the gaping wound in its belly.
Lifting himself on his elbows and looking over the fallen monster's bulk, the Irishman saw a dozen robed figures inside the tent, standing around a fire that gleamed bright blue. Then the northmen had bounded past him, howling with rage and swirling their swords, and Duffy hopped shakily to his feet to join them.
The tent shook then with a madman's percussion concert as swords clanged and rasped, mail shirts jingled and helmets were ringingly struck from surprised heads. Duffy sprang at a tall, wiry Turk he took to be Ibrahim, aiming a slash that would have cleft the man in two pieces if it had connected; but the Turkish sorcerer leaped back out of the way, and Duffy spun half around with the force of the wasted swing.
Ibrahim snatched up a small book and hopped nimbly toward an open flap at the back of the tent. The Irishman saw him, realized he was too far away to catch, and flung his sword like a Dalcassian axe. It whirled through the air and struck the magician solidly in tile shoulder. The suddenly blood-spattered book dropped to the ground, but the wizard regained his balance and, wincing and clutching his gashed shoulder, ducked out of the tent.
'Not so fast, you bastard,' growled Duffy, striding after him only to find his way blocked by a desperate-eyed Turk, who drove a quick cut at the Irishman's face. Swordless, he parried it with his left hand while drawing his dagger with his right. He lunged savagely in, snarling with the pain of his mangled palm, and buried his dagger in the man's chest.
A scimitar snapped in half on his steel cap, stunning him as he tried to parry another with his dagger guard; he deflected the blade from his face, but it whipped as he struck it aside and opened a furrow along his forearm. Fearing to riposte with the short,, dagger, Duffy waited tensely for another thrust - but the Turk gasped, buckled at the knees and collapsed, stabbed from behind. The Irishman whirled to take in the entire tent.. .and then slowly relaxed and lowered his blade, for the only figures still standing were Vikings. A few of the blue fireflies had found their way inside, but were dimming and falling silently to the ground.
The book lay where Ibrahim had dropped it, and Duffy slowly crossed the tent, picked it up with his right hand and flipped it open. In faded ink the flyleaf was inscribed:
'For Merlin Aurelianus, these modest magics, from your own little succubus, Becky. Beltane, 1246.' After a moment's hesitation he tore that page out, folded it and tucked it in a pocket, and then dropped the book into the blue fire. He wiped and sheathed his sword, then pulled down a strip of the tent fabric and laid it in the flames.
'Let's go,' he panted to the blood-streaked Bugge, who nodded. Three of the other northmen were still standing, and one of them was bleeding badly from a cut in the side. Duffy led them out of the tent.
The wind was high, and raising rushing clouds of dust in the moonlight, but the plain was empty. Duffy stared around thoughtfully, and then pointed toward the city wall that stood in high, ragged silhouette three hundred yards west. With his sorcerous powers restored, Duffy reflected, Merlin can certainly transport the Fisher King back into the city without our help. The five of them set out, one of. the northmen hopping on one leg and leaning on a companion. Before they'd taken a dozen steps their long-legged shadows were cast across the dirt in front of them, for the tent behind was now a crackling torch of wholesomely yellow and orange flame.
After a while there were shouts from the top of the wall, and the Irishman waved. 'It's me, Duffy!' he bellowed. 'We're Christians! Don't shoot!'
Then the Turk guns began thumping, and there was a shattering splash to the north, in the canal. They're trying to find the range, Duffy realized. They haven't had cause to shoot at this corner before now. Ibrahim must have signalled them somehow.. .or could he have reached the Turk lines already?
Two more cannon balls struck, one breaking away several yards of the wall crenellations and one slamming into the water of the Wiener-Bach, directly in front of the wall. The wind carried the high-flung spray to Duffy's face. And they're finding the range, he thought grimly; we'd better find a bridge across this midget canal and get inside. I think there's one just a bit north of us.
He turned to wave the Vikings to the right, and at that moment a muscular black shape beneath two wide-ribbed wings swooped down out of the night sky and swung a scimitar in a terrible chop at Duffy's head. The edge clanked into the Irishman's steel helmet and knocked him violently forward in a rolling tumble. The flier, with a low laugh and a snapping of huge wings, thrashed back up in to the darkness.
He shivered in the cold, damp wind, trying to stand at respectful attention despite his weariness and the pain of wounds. They had handed the mortally wounded Arthur aboard the barge now, and the old monarch lifted his bloody head and smiled weakly at him. 'Thank you,' the king said quietly, 'and farewell.'
Duffy nodded and lifted his sword in a salute as the old man let his head sink back upon the cushions. With the handful of others, Duffy stood on the shore of the moonlit lake and watched as the barge was poled away by the woman at the stern and slowly moved out across the glassy water until it was lost in the mists.
Bugge got to Duffy first, and helped him to his feet. The Irishman's helmet had been split, and blood ran down his back from a great gash at the base of his skull.
'I'm all right,' be muttered blurrily. 'I can.. .still walk.' He touched his forehead. 'Wow. Did it go? What was it? Wow.'
Bugge didn't understand the Austrian words, but took one of his arms while another Viking took the other, and the five battered warriors limped over the northmost Wiener-Bach bridge. A narrow gate was opened for them just short of the Donau canal, and bolted shut again as soon as they got inside.
'What the hell happened out there?' barked a scared and angry sergeant. 'What were you doing? You've roused the Turks, that's certain.' The northmen couldn't answer him, and Duffy hadn't heard the question. He was staring absently down the street at a house under the wall whose roof had been shattered by falling masonry and from which flames were beginning to lick. The sergeant looked at the bedraggled crew more closely and then called a young lieutenant over. 'These men appear to be in shock,' he told him, 'and at least two need some medical attention. That big gray-haired fellow especially - it looks like somebody ran over his head with a plow. They should be taken to the infirmary in the south barracks.'
'Right.' The young man nodded. 'This way,' he said. 'Follow me.' He took Duffy's arm and led him down the street and the northmen followed.
'Hey, Duff!' came a shout from up on the catwalk. 'Are you all right? What was that thing?'
The Irishman stopped and looked up, trying to get his eyes to focus. 'Who is it?' he called. 'Who is it?'
'Are you drunk? It's me!' He saw a waving arm and squinted; it was Bluto, standing beside one of the cannons, his face lit from beneath by the mounting flames.
'I was -' Duffy started to answer, but he was interrupted by the explosive impact of Turkish cannon ball against the battlements; bits of shattered stone sprayed everywhere, and a rebounding chunk of the ball caved in a wall across the street. A moment later a hail of rocks clattered down onto the pavements, sending the northmen and the young soldier ducking for cover.
'Bluto?' Duffy shouted. The hunchback was no longer visible on the catwalk. 'Bluto?'
'Sir', said the lieutenant, stepping warily opt of an alcove he'd leaped into. 'Come with me. We've got to get you to the infirmary.'
'If you'll wait a minute, I'll fetch you someone else to take there,' the Irishman said, shoving him away. 'I think
that fool hunchback is in a bad way.' He strode to the stairs and bounded up them.
The wind was whipping the blaze below the wall, and Duffy thought he heard flapping wings. 'Keep off, you devils!' he snarled when he reached the top of the stairs; he whirled out his sword, but its unfamiliar weight was too much for his slashed hand - it slipped out of his grasp and fell, glittering in the firelight a moment before it clanged against the cobbles of the street below. 'Damn it!' he gritted. 'I'll strangle you with my bare hands, then!' He glared up into the night sky, but no winged afrits came diving from the darkness at him. 'Hah,' he said, relaxing a little. 'I'd stay clear too, if I were you.'
The catwalk on both sides of the chewed-up section of the crenellations was littered with jagged bits of stone, and Bluto lay crumpled face down against the wall.
'Bluto.' The Irishman reeled unsteadily along the walk, ignoring a slight underfoot shift of the whole stony bulk and knelt by the hunchback. He's clearly dead, Duffy thought. His skull is crushed, and at least one stone seems to have passed right through him. He stood up and turned toward the stairs - then paused, remembering a promise.
'God damn you, Bluto,' he said, but he turned back, crouched, and picked up the limp, broken body. Duffy's head was spinning and his ears rang throbbingly. I can't carry you down the stairs, pal, he thought. Sorry. I'll leave a message with someone...
Smoky hot air beating at his face and hands reminded him of the burning house directly below. He cautiously inched one foot toward the catwalk edge and peered down; the crumpled roof of the building was smoking like a charcoal mound between the flames belching from the windows, and collapsed inward even as he watched, in a blazing, white-hot inferno of flames. The heat was unbearable and a cloud of sparks whirled up past him, but he leaned out a little and cast Bluto's body away before stepping back and beating out embers that had landed on his clothes.
I've got to get down, he thought dizzily, rubbing his stinging, smoke-blinded eyes. My neck and back are wet with blood. I'll pass out if I lose much more.
He turned once again toward the stair, and with a grating roar the whole weakened section of the wall-top sheared away outward like a shale slope, and in a rain of tumbling stones Duffy fell through the cold air to the dark water of the Wiener-Bach, fifty feet below.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Donau Canal was empty except for the old Viking ship, which rocked once again at its mooring by the Taborstrasse bridge. Dawn was no more than an hour away; the sky, though still dark, was beginning to fade, the stars were dimming, and before long the bow and stern lanterns would be unnecessary. The wind from the west blew strongly down the canal and swept the deck of the ship, eventually causing the Irishman to shiver all the way back to consciousness. He sat up on the weathered planks and leaned against the rail, gingerly touching the bandage wrapped around his head.
Aurelianus had been crouched in the bow, talking in an undertone to Bugge and the three northmen, but rose when he heard Duffy stir.
He walked back to where he sat. 'Don't fool with the bandage,' he said softly. 'Luckily your skull wasn't cracked, but you could start it up bleeding again.' He shook his head wonderingly. 'You're fortunate, too, that I've regained my sorcerous strengths. You were a mess when they fished you out of that canal. I had to rebuild your left knee completely - you'll always limp some, but I figure it will lend you color - and a couple of things inside you had to be encouraged to return to their proper places and recommence functioning. I looked into your skull, and there's no bleeding in there, though you may be nauseous and see double for a day or two. I've told Bugge what to watch for and what not to let you do.'
Duffy glanced over at the northman and opened his mouth for a feeble joke - then closed it. 'I.. .1 no longer know his language,' he whispered to Aurelianus.
'Yes. Arthur has gone back to Avalon, and you're completely Brian Duffy now. That ought to be a relief -for one thing, I imagine you'll dream less often, and less vividly.' He snapped his fingers. 'Oh, and I went through your pockets, and I want to thank you,' he said, holding up a wad of pulpy paper, 'for the thought that made you save the signed flyleaf from Becky's book. The ink washed out while you were in the water, of course, but it was a.. .kind thought.' He stepped to the gangplank. 'You and these men will be rowed away northwest, along the canal and up the Danube. There's nothing you can do here now. Now it's just a clean-up job for young soldiers.'
'Who's going to row?' the Irishman inquired. 'There's not -one of us with even enough strength left to chop an onion.'
'Good Lord, man, after that production tonight, do you think it'll be any trouble for me to conjure a few mindless spirits to row your ship for a while?'
The old wizard looks exhausted, Duffy thought - probably more than I do. Yet at the same time he looks stronger than I've ever seen him.
'Here,' added Aurelianus, tossing a bag that clanked when it hit the deck. 'A token of the gratitude of the West.'
Rikard Bugge stood up and stretched, then spoke to Duffy. The Irishman turned inquiringly to Aurelianus. The wizard smiled. 'He says, "Surter is turned back, and must now retreat to Muspelheim. Balder's grave-barrow is safe, and we won't see Ragnarok this winter."'
Duffy grinned. 'Amen.'
Aurelianus stepped across the gangplank to the shore, stooped to pull the plank away, and the oars shifted aimlessly for a moment and then clacked rhythmically in the locks. The wizard united the line and let it trail out through his fingers and slap into the water.
The Irishman got cautiously to his feet, leaning heavily on the rail. 'Do you have one of your snakes?' he called to the dim figure on the bank that was Aurelianus.
