The Drawing of the Dark

Then with a shout the wizard flung the box at the water. It opened in mid-air and the stones ripped up the water like grape-shot, and a gust of wind from behind them accompanied the shout with such abrupt force that Duffy nearly followed the stones into the canal.



The burst of wind whipped past the two crouching men for a dozen seconds; then Duffy's hair fell back into place and the willows went limp, though the Irishman could see the trees flailing further south. After a few seconds they too were still.



Aurelianus sat down heavily, letting his hands rest on the ground. 'Ah,' he sighed after a minute of open-mouthed panting. 'There are.. .many more powerful spirits, but these rain spirits certainly are among the most... energetic.' He started to stand, then thought better of it. 'And they demand a good deal of energy on the part of their conjurors, too.' He lifted his trembling hands and peered at them. 'It must have been almost precisely noon when I started,' he said, 'for them to have come through so quickly and easily. The last time I did this trick, several years ago, I had to shake the damned box for nearly half an hour.



Duffy watched the wooden chest bobbing slowly away downstream. 'Noon?' he repeated absently. 'What's so special about noon?'



Aurelianus tried standing up again, and made it this time. 'All these magics involve a breaking or violation of the natural laws,' he told Duffy, 'and those laws relax just a little, are weakest, at noon and midnight.'



Duffy was about to frame some statement about himself being weakest at those hours, when Aurelianus started energetically toward the horses. 'I'm glad I got that done,' the old wizard said. 'With the kind of pace Ibrahim has been keeping up, I'm afraid this magic will be impossible before long. But those rains should considerably hamper Suleiman's northward progress.' He swung into the saddle.



The Irishman followed suit. 'Why impossible? Will there soon be no more noons or midnights?'



'No, but when two adepts, such as Ibrahim and myself, come into close, proximate conflict with one another, a deadlock of magic results - like two knife fighters gripping each other's wrists. Whole categories of higher magic are damped out by the disharmony of our overlapping auras. When that happens, the issue has to be settled by swords and cannon; sorcery is stifled.' He turned his horse about and nudged it up the bank to the level expanse of the grassy plain.



Ah,' said Duffy. following him and squinting in the suddenly unobstructed sunlight. 'So when the Turks get here you won't be able to.. .say. . .send a flock of giant wasps out at them, or turn the ground to quicksand under their feet?'



'I'm afraid not. In fact this, today, may be the last bit of major sorcery I'll be able to do until it's over; I've already noticed a trace of resistance in certain everyday spells and tricks.'



'Like that candle you tried to light a few weeks ago, that blew up?'



'Yes. In such a deadlock of contending adepts, minor hearth-and-kitchen magic can still operate, but even it is much more difficult. And the big stuff, as I say, is out.'



'1 don't know why you old lads even bother to show up, then,' remarked Duffy. 'What's the use of you, if this deadlock is completely unbreakable?'



'Well.., virtually unbreakable,' corrected Aurelianus. 'Why, to advise the rest of you, I suppose. I think before too long you'll be Arthur completely, all the time, and you'll...he'll...need coaching and re-educating.'



Duffy had said nothing, though his eyes narrowed; and by the time they'd returned to the Zimmermann he had made a decision. Gathering together his few belongings and Eilif's sword, he quietly vacated the premises. Eilif was happy to sign the Irishman on as a member of his company, and Duffy took up residence with the landsknecht mercenaries, who were at that time quartered in the north barracks, near the Wollzelle.



A month or so later word had officially reached western Europe that Suleiman was advancing toward Austria with seventy-five thousand men. Charles had been too busy pursuing his conflicts with the French king to send troops to Vienna, so his brother Ferdinand had gone before the Diet of Spires to beg aid from the princes of the Holy Roman Empire, and to point out to them that if Austria were to fall to the Turks, they would be moving on into Bavaria with little delay. And, despite the pressing Lutheran controversy, Protestants and Catholics had agreed on providing a Reichshilfe, a collection of troops for the defense of the empire. A month was spent assembling this force, but finally on the twenty-fourth of September, 1529, Count Nicholas von Salm had arrived in Vienna with eight thousand professional fighting men and took command of the defense. He'd beater Suleiman to the city by only three days - and if it hadn't been for the inexplicably heavy rains that had dogged the Sultan's entire progress northwest along the Danube, von Salm would have arrived much too late to be anything more than a harassing spectator at the siege of Vienna.



Duffy now shook his head and stood up, pleased to feel the buoyancy of the wine still filling his head. He had, several months ago, hit upon drunkenness - with wine, not Herzwesten beer - as a cure and preventative for lake-visions and Arthur-visitations; and to judge by their total absence since, the remedy was an effective one.



A horn's sharp blare cut through the babble and clatter that filled the crowded square, and the mercenaries began forming into lines. The Irishman flipped his Venetian salade to the back of his head and then pulled it down in front by the nose-piece so that his cheeks, jaw and nose were protected. Then he drew on his heavy gloves, hefted his matchlock and sprinted over to where Eilif's company was assembling.



The seething crowd of soldiers had separated into four columns of about forty men apiece, some dressed more grandly than the young man with the mandrake root, some more shabbily than Duffy. There wasn't much talking now. The firemasters of each company, carrying their long torches, worked their way up and down the lines, stopping beside each man to set his matchcord-end aglow.



Duffy had Eilif's man light his at both ends, for the Irishman could recall times when an unexpected tumble had extinguished the one lit end.



Eilif and Bobo left a group of company captains and lieutenants and crossed the square to their assembled men. 'We're going to escort fifty of von Salm's knights out toward the Turk position,' Eilif barked, 'which, as you've probably seen from the walls, is a hill topped with a low stone wall. The idea is for us to drive them back to a point where our cannons can get at them and blow them back to their own lines - then we stand around behind the wall long enough to show we could keep it if we wanted to, then we come back inside, knights first. We'll be on the left front flank, and I want you to stay there, don't go running around. And make this look good - all the landsknecht captains and lieutenants are meeting with von Salm and the city council at the Zimmermann Inn tomorrow morning to ask for more money, so I want you lads to look like indispensable professionals. Right?'



'Right!' roared the whole company in unison. 'Right. So keep your heads, give the men behind you time to re-load, and let the Turks put themselves where you can kill them. No heroics - this isn't the last card to be dealt.'



The horn was blown again, and the landsknechten filed out of the square to the Kartnerstrasse, where they turned left. The knights were already mounted and assembled in the yard inside the gate, and the fitful sunlight gleamed on a polished helmet or gauntlet here and illuminated bobbing plume there. The tall, armored figure of von Salm himself was visible, bestowing last-minute afterthoughts on the warriors.



The landsknechten marched up in two columns that enclosed the knights. These knights too were battle tempered professionals, veterans of the Peasant Wars an Tokay and a dozen other campaigns. They had outgrown the dilettante horseman's contempt for the footsoldier having too often seen the inverted-turtle fate of knight unhorsed when there was no friendly infantry to keep the enemy away.



A wide cloud had glided like some gray sea-bottom creature across the face of the sun; and when a pries stepped up beside von Salm to pronounce a blessing several men swore and cupped their hands over their match-ends, thinking the drops of holy water sprinkled it the dust to be the beginnings of rain.



A groom hurried up with a portable framework of steps and set them beside a richly caparisoned white horse; von Salm stepped up them and lowered himself into a saddle as high in front and back as a Spanish galleon. Even from this distance, Duffy could see the black spheres of two deeply incised fragmentation bombs lashed forward of the stirrups. The count raised a hand - cannons abruptly boomed along the top of the wall and the great bolt of the Carinthian gate was noisily ratcheted back - and then pointed forward. Added to the din then was the rattle of hooves and boot-heels on the cobblestones as the troops got into motion and began filing, four footsoldiers and two knights abreast, through the gate.



The covering cannon fire, shooting mostly grapeshot and the rubble of newly shattered house walls, was only intended to disorganize the Turks and kill any who might be poking their heads up for a look. The light barrage ceased as soon as the. defenders were all outside the gate. Duffy, standing in the indistinct shadow of the wall, could see the plumes of cannon smoke drift away to eastward,



s white against the gray of the clouds.



'Landsknechten advance two hundred yards,' barked von Salm, 'then split to make room for us, dig in and give covering fire. When we charge through and hit them, you follow us into the męlee.'



There were curt nods from the four captains, and the hundred and fifty mercenary soldiers broke into a matched jogging trot forward. Duffy craned his neck as they rounded the southeast corner of the wall, but the only motion at the Turk position was a cloud of dust raised by n the scattered shot. He could hear the bells of St Stephen's beginning to peal behind him - they were the church bells



announcing one o'clock mass, not the strident, clanging alarum bells that would have warned of an attack. He sneaked a look over his shoulder a moment before the southernmost of the immobile knights receded out of sight around the high shoulder of the wall. We're alone out here now, he thought, still breathing easily as he trotted across the ripped-up plain. I hope they follow quickly when we start shooting.



They ran for many long minutes due east on a course that would bring them around the southern end of the low wall that was sheltering the venturesome band of Turks. Duffy was keeping a cautious eye on the established Turkish lines, but no evident activity there hinted at a counter-charge. The Irishman was panting now, and dreading the possibly frantic run back.



As the jogging body of soldiers crested a shot-scarred rise, he took the opportunity to get a comprehensive look around. The Mohammedan host bulked in solid ranks ahead and further away to his right. Barely visible in the southern haze was the red spot that was the tent of Suleiman himself. Greetings, exalted sultan, thought the Irishman dizzily. Greetings from one who was once offered your job.



When the two first shots were fired, the wind blew most of the sound away, so that all Duffy heard was a dry knocking like stones being struck together; an instant later, though, two of the landsknechten reeled backward and fell, tripping several of their fellows.



By God, thought Duffy, experiencing his first real chill that day, they've got harquebuses now. They didn't three years ago, at Mohacs.



Eilif had sprinted to the front; still running, he turned to the mercenaries. 'Split now!' he shouted. 'Advance another fifty yards, then halt and fire!'



There was more firing from the Turkish position, and several mercenaries fell during that fifty-yard run. Eilif had planned it well, though, for when they halted they were a little to the east of the wall, which they now viewed end-on, and could plainly see the white robes of the several dozen Janissaries.



Duffy, being in the front line, knelt to prepare his gun for firing. He was panting, welcoming the cool western breeze on his sweaty face and neck. Another popping burst of harquebus-fire sounded from the Turkish emplacement, and a ball struck just in front of the Irishman, spraying dirt in his face as it rebounded away over his shoulder. The morning's wine fumes had worn off, and he had to force himself to be calm as he screwed one end of his matchcord into the top of the S-shaped serpentine bolted to the side of his gun. His powder-flask hung from his belt, and he fetched it up with his left hand and tapped a pinch of the gray powder into the flashpan.



The Janissaries still stood in the lee of the wall, apparently re-loading for another volley. Duffy braced his right arm on his knee and aimed at a tall one, lining him up through the match-guide tube. He squeezed the trigger,



which threw the top of the serpentine with its growing match-end into the flashpan. The charge went off with a bang, burning the Irishman's cheek with 'the flare of the priming. He was deafened, too, for most of the landsknechten fired at about that same second. When he'd blinked the tears out of his eye and looked up again, he couldn't tell whether he'd hit his man or not, for the remaining Janissaries had flung down their guns and were charging with drawn scimitars.



Where are the knights ?Duffy thought desperately as he commenced re-loading his matchlock. The wild, wailing cry of the Janissaries was all around him like the racket of insects or tropical birds, and very soon he could hear also the rapid, heavy scuff of the Turks' sandals. It quickly grew louder.



He risked a hurried glance up. God, they were close! He -could see the white teeth snarling in the brown, straining faces, and actually met one man's eyes. Powder in the pan, now, he snapped at himself; there! As much of it in the pan as on the ground, anyway.



One of the white-robed Turks was only three strides from being on top of him, so Duffy thrust the gun at him like a spear and yanked the trigger. The match was slammed into the pan so hard that it was extinguished.



Sparks actually flew as the Irishman parried the hard-driven scimitar with the barrel of the useless gun; then the man had collided with him, and they were both tumbling in the dust. Duffy rolled to his knees and drew sword and dagger. He sank the dagger into the slower recovering Turk's neck and blocked another whistling scimitar with the sword, riposting with a short, hard chop to the leg. The Turk's wobbly remise clanged off Duffy's salade, and the Irishman hopped to his feet and punched his dagger into the man's face.