War God (13 page)

‘But … but … but …’ Pepillo opened and closed his mouth, feeling shocked, not sure what to expect next.

Muñoz turned towards him with a terrible blank stare.

Zemudio was riding a piebald heavy hunter a full eighteen hands high. Its huge hooves threw up curtains of dust and the low hills, shallow ravines and stands of acacia trees provided excellent cover so Alvarado was able to gain ground rapidly without being seen.

His hand went to his rapier and he felt a flush of excitement as he caressed the guard of interlaced steel rings that surrounded the hilt. The weapon had been made for him by Andrés Nuñez of Toledo, reckoned by many to be the greatest swordsmith in the world. Over the years Alvarado had purchased eleven blades by Nuñez including two double-handed longswords and three broadswords. The rapier brought his collection to twelve and had been delivered only yesterday. It was very long, light and flexible, and culminated in a deadly needle tip claimed by Nuñez to be able to punch through the toughest chain mail and even penetrate plate armour. But unlike most other such weapons, designed primarily or exclusively for lunging and stabbing, this sword also had a strong double-edged cutting blade. The combination of these virtues was made possible by new techniques for tempering steel that were known only to a few, of whom Nuñez was one.

Bucephalus was much faster than the heavy hunter; the distance had closed to less than a bowshot and still Zemudio did not look back. Alvarado drew the rapier, liking the heft of it in his hand, raised it above his head and rose up in his stirrups to add force to the blow. He hoped to decapitate the man with a single stroke. If he could get the positioning right he was confident this curious new blade could do it, but if he failed it would quickly come to steel on steel – his long thin blade against the champion’s massive falchion.

He’d not yet been able to test the rapier in such a match.

Or against such a dangerous opponent.

But what was life without risks?

Alvarado drew within three lengths of Zemudio, then two, then one, and began to overhaul him. Surely he must hear the thunder of Bucephalus’s hooves and the bellows of his breath as he galloped? But even now the man seemed not to notice he was being followed!

As he drew parallel, Alvarado’s arm came lashing down to deliver a powerful scooping, scything strike, but annoyingly, at the last moment, Zemudio wasn’t there. With unexpected speed and dexterity he ducked low across the heavy hunter’s neck, letting the blade hiss over his head, and immediately lashed out a counter-blow with the wicked-looking falchion that had somehow miraculously sprung into his hand.

Alvarado swerved Bucephalus to avoid being hacked in half and lost momentum for an instant before resuming the pursuit at full gallop. Obviously Zemudio wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He must have known all along he was being followed and he’d been ready for the attack.

There was a real danger that the champion might yet prove formidable.

With a sigh because he hated to waste good horseflesh, Alvarado spurred Bucephalus to a burst of speed that the other animal could not match, came within striking distance of its rump, thrust the tip of his rapier with tremendous force a cubit deep into its anus and twisted the blade as he jerked it out.

The effect was breathtaking.

The heavy hunter was, in an instant, mad and out of control, leaping and bucking, whinnying wildly, blood gushing as though some major artery had been severed. Alvarado didn’t think that even he could have stayed in the saddle of such a huge, crazed animal for very long and, sure enough, within a few seconds, Zemudio was thrown. He came crashing down on his muscular buttocks, roaring with rage, still clutching his falchion and, Alvarado noted with satisfaction, still holding tight to the leather satchel containing Velázquez’s orders for Narváez.

Alvarado wheeled Bucephalus, threw his reins over a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree and dismounted.

A few paces away, Zemudio’s horse lay on its side, snuffling and kicking in a widening pool of blood.

A little further off, Zemudio himself was on his feet. He seemed undamaged by the fall and held the falchion out before him ready to do mischief. ‘That’s a good horse dying there,’ he said. His voice was curiously soft and high. ‘A fine horse. He was with me in Italy. Rode him in many a battle.’

‘You can ride him again in Hell,’ said Alvarado. He flicked his wrist, sending a bead of blood flying from the tip of the rapier towards Zemudio’s eyes.

Malinal had been so deep in her own thoughts she’d missed the alarming change that had come over Tozi. Looking closer she saw that blood, now clotting, had run from both the teenager’s ears and also from her nose where she’d made a half-hearted attempt to wipe it away. Her eyes were open but unresponsive, as though focussed on events in some distant place, and her face was almost unrecognisably slack and blank.

‘You did it!’ Malinal whispered. ‘You actually did it!’ She reached out and embraced Tozi: ‘You made us invisible! You saved us again!’ But the girl sat hunched, impervious to praise, silent and closed off. Her body trembled, filled with a fierce, feverish heat. After a moment a groan started somewhere deep down in her chest, forced its way to her throat and burst from her mouth as a stifled scream.

Coyotl had slumbered peacefully through everything else but now he lifted his head from Tozi’s lap and sat up. His eyes opened wide as he saw the blood around her ears and nose. ‘Tozi!’ he shouted. ‘What happened? Why is there blood?’

‘Be quiet!’ hissed Malinal, suddenly alert to a new danger, fear making her voice harsh. The population of the pen had been much reduced, leaving wide patches of the once-crowded floor empty, but many prisoners still remained and, by great bad fortune, Tozi’s scream had drawn the attention of two of the girls who’d attacked her this morning. They had been sitting quietly, facing in the opposite direction just forty paces away on the edge of a large group of Tlascalans, but now they were working themselves into a frenzy of pointing and glaring and general ill will. They sidled over to an older woman whose lower lip and earlobes were extended by the blue ceramic plugs that signified married status in Tlascala, and began talking to her urgently.

‘Uh-oh,’ whispered Coyotl. ‘Those girls don’t like Tozi.’

‘You know them?’

‘They bully us.’ The little boy looked proud, then anxious. ‘Tozi always finds a way out.’

‘They beat her up this morning when she was bringing medicine to you,’ Malinal said softly. ‘But she was really clever and she escaped …’

‘She always escapes,’ said Coyotl wistfully. ‘Always.’

They both glanced at Tozi but she remained absolutely unresponsive, and Malinal’s spirits plunged as the dire implications for their survival came home to her. Gone was the tough, decisive, fierce, enchanted, quick-thinking teenager who’d saved her life and who always knew what to do. In her place was a helpless, crumpled, clenched-up, withdrawn shell of a girl from whose throat, very faintly, could be heard a low, continuous moan, as though of pain or misery.

Malinal stayed seated, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the big Tlascalan woman scramble to her feet and march the short distance across the open earth floor of the prison. She looked around thirty, tall with very heavy thighs, massive hips and shoulders, a small, out-of-proportion head and the sort of lean, nervous hatchet face that would have been just as ugly on someone half her weight. Something about her said she was one of those women who loved to fight. She loomed over Malinal, glowered down at her and pointed a fat aggressive finger at Tozi. ‘Friend of yours?’ she asked.

‘Sure she’s my friend,’ said Malinal. ‘You got a problem with that?’

‘I have a problem with witches,’ said the Tlascalan. She jerked her finger at Tozi again. ‘And she’s a witch.’

Malinal showed her scorn. ‘A witch? What a stupid idea!’ She’d already prepared the next move in her mind and now jumped to her feet, stepped in to crowd the other woman and thrust her face forward until their eyes were separated by less than a span. ‘She’s just a
child
,’ Malinal yelled. She put great emphasis on the last word. ‘A poor, sick
child!
’

‘Some people say differently.’ The Tlascalan seemed unmoved. Her absurdly stretched lower lip hung down over her chin, exposing teeth blackened in the latest fashion and giving her a macabre, permanently astonished look. ‘Some people say
you’re
a witch too,’ she added, spite putting an edge on her voice.

Malinal laughed it off. ‘So there’s two of us now!’ Praying Tozi would stay calm and silent until she could get her to some corner of the prison where she wouldn’t be noticed, she turned to indicate Coyotl. ‘I suppose next you’ll be saying this little one is a witch as well.’

They were still standing nose to nose, but now the Tlascalan backed off a couple of paces. She seemed to consider the question. ‘I’m told it’s neither male nor female,’ she said, sucking her teeth, ‘so most likely it’s a witch.’

Silently the two girls from this morning’s attack had come forward and placed themselves on either side of the older woman. The girl on the left, lean as a rattlesnake, was glaring at Tozi with undisguised hatred and fear. ‘That’s the dangerous one,’ she warned. ‘She gets inside people’s heads. She drives them mad.’

‘Better kill her now,’ said the second girl, ‘while we have the chance.’

Other Tlascalans, maybe fifteen, maybe twenty, had detached themselves from the large group and were pressing closer to watch the unfolding drama. It would take very little to make them join in; Malinal knew she had to act fast before murder was done.

She stooped, flung Tozi’s arm round her shoulder and tried to lift her, but her small body seemed rooted to the floor. ‘Help me, Coyotl,’ Malinal grunted, and he darted forward to support Tozi’s elbow. It still wasn’t enough to budge her; it was as though she were actively resisting.

Now three things happened very fast.

First, the big Tlascalan barged Malinal aside, stooped over Tozi, placed her arms under her shoulders and tried to drag her to her feet.

Second, Tozi screamed again. It was an unearthly, truly witchlike sound, Malinal had to admit, a sound loud enough to wake all the dead in Mictlan. The Tlascalan released her as though she were in flames and stumbled back making the sign of the evil eye.

Third, Tozi toppled over sideways where she’d been sitting cross-legged and began to thrash and kick the floor. Spit foamed at the corners of her mouth, her teeth snapped, drawing blood as she bit her own lips and tongue, and she shook her head from side to side, smashing her skull violently against the ground, her mouth spraying flecks of pink foam.

Coyotl was fast. He grabbed hold of Tozi and clung to her, wrapping his hands and arms around her head, his legs around her body, using his small frame in every way he could to stop her hurting herself.

Malinal whirled to confront the Tlascalans.