The Drawing of the Dark

'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.