The Drawing of the Dark

'A lot of people have heard of him,' corrected Aurelianus, striking sparks into the tinder; 'damn few know he actually exists.'

'Very well, what's his name?'

'He doesn't really have a name. He's known as the Fisher King.' The tinder was alight, and he held a sputtering straw to the wick of the new candle. It caught, and in a moment was burning brightly.

Duffy abruptly had the feeling that this conversation had occurred before, perhaps in a dream. The sensation puzzled and obscurely frightened him. 'And he's in danger, is he?' The Irishman's voice was gruff.

'Potentially. Some time during the next couple of days we'll have to go fetch him, bring him inside the city walls.

He hates the confinement, you see, of streets and gates and masonry - especially in his sick, wounded condition

- and he'd prefer to stay out in the woods until the last possible day. He is safe now, what with a dozen of our pit-summoned defenders circling over his cabin, and Suleiman an easy three months away, but Antoku's tricks have me worried - I'd sooner not take any chances. We'll bring him inside within the week.'

A sick hermit living in the woods, Duffy thought. I've never heard of him, but he's a greater king than the Emperor, Charles V, eh? No doubt, no doubt! Hah. Just another sad old phony, like those British shopkeepers who claim to be druids, and dance, rather self-consciously, at Stonehenge every midsummer's eve.

Duffy sighed. 'Yes, for double my salary I'll watch over this old king of yours - just so these.. .what? "Pit-summoned defenders'?.. .keep their distance.'

'They're on your side.'

'Still, I don't want to meet any. And what do you mean, Suleiman three months away? He's further off than that.'

'Not much further. His advance scouts left Constantinople today. He won't be more than a month behind.'

'Today? How can you know already?'

Aurelianus smiled tiredly. 'You know me better than that, Brian.'

The street door rattled and creaked open, and the hunchbacked figure of Bluto bulked against the late afternoon glow. 'Damn,' exclaimed the Swiss bombardier, 'I thought I'd be the first in line. I might have known you two would be here before anyone else.'

Aurelianus pushed back his bench and got to his feet. 'I was just chatting with Brian. I'm not much of a beer drinker, actually - my share of the bock is all yours.' He bowed and walked quietly out of the room.

Bluto crossed to Duffy's table and pulled up the bench at which Aurelianus had been sitting. 'Speaking of beer...'

Duffy grinned. 'Yes. Anna or Piff is in the kitchen. Why don't you have them pour us a last pitcher of the schenk beer, eh?'

'Good idea. My God, what happened to your face?'

'I was attacked in my sleep by mice. Go get the beer.'

Bluto did, and for twenty minutes the two of them sipped cool beer and discussed the possible Turkish lines of attack, the weak points in the city wall, and various defense arrangements.

'Charles has got to send reinforcements,' Bluto said worriedly. 'Pope Clement, too. Can it be they don't see the danger? Hell, Belgrade and Mohacs were costly defeats, yes. They were the stepping-stones to the Holy Roman Empire. But Vienna is the damned front door. If the Turks take this place, the next spot to hold the line will be the English Channel.'

Duffy shrugged. 'What can I say? You're right.' He poured the last of the beer into Bluto's cup.

Shrub and a couple of the other yard boys had come in with ladders and were hanging cagelike grilles over the wall cressets. The hunchback watched them. 'Really expecting a wild crowd tonight, aren't you?'

'Evidently,' Duffy agreed. 'Back when this place was a monastery they used to drag kegs out and have the bock festival in the street. It got pretty berserk sometimes. Easter, the bock beer, and Spring are all the same thing in everybody's mind, and they really dive into it head first after a hard winter.'

Bluto drained his glass and stood. 'Say, Duff, it must be half past four now. When should I make sure to be here, to be at least among the first in line?'

'I don't know. Supper time, I guess.' He too stood up and stretched, yawning like a cat. 'Maybe I'll trot downstairs and ask Gambrinus. See you later.' He ambled off toward the cellar stairs, secretly hoping to get another advance taste of the Spring beer.

Duffy could hear someone moving about in the darkness below as he descended the stairs. 'Gambrinus!' he called, but there was no answer. Remembering the petard he'd found on the brewery door, he closed his fingers around his dagger hilt and took the remaining steps as quietly as possible.

When he stood at last on the damp paving stones, he peered cautiously around the dim cellar, but didn't see anyone. Maybe I'm now having auditory hallucinations to complement my moonlit-lake visual ones, be thought unhappily. Wait a moment! Who's that?

A tall figure had stepped out of the shadows behind the brick chimney, and now crossed to a door set in the wall next to the high-set copper tubs; in a moment he had opened the door and stepped through into the blackness beyond. The Irishman had caught only a quick glimpse of the stranger, but had noticed that he was blond or red-haired, and wore a loose cloak fastened at the throat by one metal button.