Chapter Three
The Greatest Swordsman of Christendom
“A traitor lurks in your midst,” Malagigi mused as he poled, “and, yet, you do not fear Mephistopheles, Prince of Hell? We are certain, are we not, that when we find him, he will refrain from sticking us upon his pitchfork and roasting us over the coals, yes?”
“Our brother is not the same individual as the demon of that name,” Gregor corrected him in his calm, gruff voice. He was peering at the silver star, which he held in his outstretched hand.
Mab and I exchanged nervous glances again. Malagigi watched this carefully. He stroked his mustache and then gave a quick shrug, as if to say: “What is this to me?”
As we punted underneath a growth of diseased palms filled with spider webs, Mab leaned over, all the while keeping a wary eye on the web’s inhabitants, spiders as large as cats, with the faces of women.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he whispered in my ear, “but are we certain that the Harebrain is on the level? He is, after all, a demon. Maybe that’s what Abaddon meant by there being a traitor in the family.”
“You told us not to worry about Abaddon’s warning!” I whispered back.
“True,” Mab allowed softly, “but I wasn’t thinking about the fact that you have a demon in the family. Demons love ratting each other out.”
Mab pulled out his waterlogged notebook, frowned at it, and stuck it back in his trench coat. Searching his pockets, he pulled out the notebook Father Christmas had given him, the pages of which were waterproof. With a quick shake and a wipe with his handkerchief, it was as good as new. To his delight, the Space Pen he had received upon the same occasion worked, too.
Flipping the waterproof notebook open, Mab quickly wrote out a list of my siblings’ names, with Mephistopheles at the top. Above this, he scribbled: Possible Traitors.
Meanwhile, Malagigi, who was pushing through the sticky white tangles with his pole, was speaking to my brothers. “Ah, Mephistopheles Prospero! What a fine swordsman your brother was! It was a pleasure to watch him, which is much to say as he was cutting down my men! Of course, I did not know any of those men personally. It had been several centuries since I had ventured from Ardennes, except to visit my siblings in our tower in the Vale of Orgagna, but I cared for them on principle, since they were Merovingians … I mean … what is the new word …? Frenchmen. Still, Mephistopheles was a wonder!”
Mab drew a square around Mephisto’s name and then drew out one of his waterlogged notebooks. He carefully turned the pages, slowly separating one from another until he found what he wanted. He read what he had written and then, looking up, asked, “Several times now, I’ve heard people call the Harebrain the ‘Greatest Swordsman in Christendom.’ I gather it’s a title. How did he get it?”
“I’m not sure …” I glanced at Erasmus.
“His real prowess lay upon the battlefield, of course,” Erasmus replied, “but sword fighting as a military art stopped meaning much once muskets and rifles began replacing swords. And Mephisto has never achieved the same degree of mastery with a gun that he has with a blade.”
“Ulysses has the distinction of being the best shot in the family,” Gregor commented, “perhaps, because he was the only one of us who would not have preferred to be a swordsman.”
Erasmus gave a contemptuous shrug. “Be that as it may … the title ‘Greatest Swordsman in Christendom’ was presented to Mephisto by Queen Elizabeth, upon the occasion of his match against Salvador Fabris, who was then considered the greatest swordsman in the world at the time.”
“Fabris! Even I have heard of him!” Malagigi replied, impressed. “This duel, did you see it?”
Erasmus and I shook our heads.
“Alas, we were in Italy,” Erasmus explained. “Theo was in the audience, though. He was serving as a knight for Queen Bess under the Earl of Essex at the time.”
“I was a child of six growing up in Milan.” Gregor leaned forward with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “So, no, I was not able to attend. But I do recall Mephisto reenacting the match for Logistilla and me. My brother played both parts with great thrusts and flurries and a good deal of shouting that I, in retrospect, suspect was not part of the original. I was so impressed, I insisted on swinging around a long wooden spoon for some months, to the dismay of my nanny.”
“I did get to see him fight the great Ridolfo Capa Ferro,” I said, recalling that long-ago afternoon upon the fish-boned bricks of the Piazza del Campo in Sienna when I had watched some of the world’s greatest fencers strut about beneath the hot Italian sun. It had been an unusual treat for me to leave my cloistered chapel and spend an afternoon with my family. I still remember the spicy taste of the sausages sold by a street vender at the far side of the shell-shaped market square and the sound of the crowd as they cheered for their favorites.
“Ah, yes!” Erasmus’s eyes sparkled at the memory. “Old Ironhead announced he and his students would face all comers—propaganda for his fencing school, of course. Only Mephisto beat them all. After that, Capa Ferro used to come by to wheedle trade secrets out of our elder brother. They became great friends.”
“That event I do remember!” Gregor’s dark eyes glowed with the warmth of golden memories. “By that time, I was twelve and so disappointed that none of the grown men would fence with me—at that age I had no notion yet that I was destined for the church. You won a few matches yourself, if I recall, big brother.”
“Well … yes,” Erasmus replied, looking down at his hands in an uncharacteristic moment of humility. He played with his fingers. “I did my part for the family honor.”
Gregor gave Erasmus a rare fond smile. “I remember your son Sebastian cheering for you. He told everyone within earshot that the winner was his father. Your poor wife was quite beside herself with embarrassment.”
It was so unusual to see the somber Gregor smiling openly that I felt oddly disorientated, as if I were seeing a brother I had not known I had. Maybe Gregor really had changed during his imprisonment. I wondered how it came about. I hoped that Erasmus would accept this olive branch, acknowledge Gregor’s enthusiasm, and give him some encouragement, but Erasmus merely turned away and stared off through the tangled webs at the cypress trees beyond, his face tight and drawn.
Another spasm of irritation at my pigheaded brother ricocheted through me. What was wrong with him? Was not the misery around us enough motivation to bridge the gap between himself and his brother?
I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to push him over the side of the gondola into the swamp, where he belonged.
As if he could hear my thoughts, Erasmus suddenly turned around, but he was not looking at me. He grinned at Malagigi. “Those show bouts of Mephisto’s are all well and fine, but none of them compares with my brother’s greatest match.”
“You mean the match he and Cesare fought over that pretty girl?” I asked, recalling the event. I added enthusiastically, “I saw part of it, the part that could be seen from the Filarete tower. Didn’t they fight some of it on a staircase?”
“It was the sort of thing you’d see in a film.” Erasmus laughed with glee; the shadow that had fallen over his face moments before vanished as he recalled this incident from his early youth. “Up and down stairs, over tables, in and out of doorways, across the parade grounds … that’s the part Miranda caught. It was unbelievable! In my whole life, I’ve never seen its like! Two of the best swordsmen in Italy fighting over things worth fighting about: women and money!”
“I have heard about this duel my whole life, Maugris!” Gregor exclaimed. Again there was a rare flash of boyishness in his smile. “Mephisto and Theo have acted it out for us dozens of times. And, once, when we were invited to visit the Castello Sforzesco for some public festival—the castle that had belonged to my family when Father was Duke, before—” Gregor laughed as if suddenly putting two and two together. “It was you and your siblings, who took it away from him, wasn’t it?”
Malagigi gave a shrug. “It was your uncle Antonio who convinced the French king to attack. We merely came along to lend a hand. A dashing figure, your uncle. A pity he died that day.”
“That was before I was born. I never met him. Anyway, we visited the castello for some public celebration, and Erasmus blocked out the whole fight for Sebastian and me, showing us where various parts of the fight had taken place, where first blood had been drawn, and where Cesare finally conceded. There was even a faint blotch on the stone that Erasmus claimed was Mephisto’s blood, shed when Cesare stabbed our brother in the shoulder after refusing to yield when first blood was called.”
“Ah, yes!” Malagigi laughed. “Even I have heard of this match!”
“You?” Gregor asked, taken aback.
“But of course!” Malagigi replied. “Your uncle Antonio described it to us. He was very fond of Mephisto. When we first met, he still hoped Mephisto and Erasmus could be turned, that they would eventually join him against Prospero.”
“Really!” I nearly shouted in surprise. “What an extraordinary idea!”
“It may not have seemed that extraordinary to Uncle Antonio,” Erasmus admitted. “Mephisto and I did admire him greatly. He had turned against Father. It only made sense that he might think others would, too.”
“Would you have?” I asked, shocked.
Beside me, Mab pulled out his list of Traitor suspects and drew a box around Erasmus’s name.
“Of course not!” Erasmus replied, a touch of both humor and sadness in his voice. “But how was Antonio to understand that?”
* * *
Malagigi poled us forward as the rest of us sat quietly, basking in the light of the silver star. The swamp here was littered with debris from rotting trees. Ahead, a wide log floated between two cypresses, blocking our way. Malagigi switched his pole-oar to the nearer side of the gondola, so as to maneuver us around the log.
Erasmus leaned back and gazed at the silver star. “He isn’t a bad brother, all in all. Mephisto, I mean. He fought a couple of times on my behalf over the years. His trusty blade has defended you, too, Miranda, as I recall.”
“A few times,” I admitted. “Usually it was Theo who sprang to my defense. In fact, Theo once dueled Mephisto for the right to defend me. After that, Mephisto let Theo be my champion. But there were a few times when Theo was not around, and some young blood troubled me. Mephisto was quick to put the upstart in his place!”
“Mephisto fought Theo? Did Theo win?” Erasmus asked, surprised. “I mean Theo’s good, but …”
“I don’t know. They did not fight the duel in front of me …” I rested my nose against my folded fingers. “I’ve always assumed Theo won.”
“Just like Mephisto to win and then let Theo have his way,” chuckled Erasmus. “Or even to let Theo win, if he thought Theo really wanted it.”
“I doubt it.” Gregor’s voice grated. “Mephisto would not have trusted his sister’s safety to another unless he thought Theo could do the job. Theophrastus must have pushed himself upon this occasion and bested our elder brother.”
I tried to remember more details, but the events were lost in the mists of time. I was sure that the fight had taken place at our estates in Scotland, but during which of our stays there, I could not say. It had been centuries since I had thought of the incident. Looking back, it struck me as sweet that my brothers would go to such an effort. It made me love them both all the more.
My heart swelled until my chest felt tight. Fear for both of them seized me. Mephisto, I was not as worried about; he could turn into a demon. But Theo was somewhere in Hell, alone. His face, his look of desperation as his fingers were ripped away from mine, hung before me like a specter.
“Mephistopheles fought several duels on my behalf.” Gregor put his foot up on the bench in front of him and stared ahead of us. “Once he even went to a duel looking like me, with the help of Logistilla’s Staff of Transmogrification. I was against this, mind you. After Logistilla turned me into the cardinal, she was never quite able to return me back the way I had been.” He pointed at his throat to indicate his voice, which had been hoarse and raspy ever since that incident. “And I worried that something similar would happen to Mephisto. But she insisted she had mastered her staff since then. So, Mephisto went ahead and let her change him.”
Erasmus leaned forward, intrigued. “What did he do, then?”
“He waited for the thugs who were trying to squeeze money out of my church and bested their leader. They thought I had done it, so they left me alone after that.” Gregor was quiet for a moment, lost in the swirling pools of distant memory. “The other times, he appeared as himself. He always won, of course.”
“Were these incidents all before your brother went bonkers?” Mab asked.
Gregor tapped the tips of his fingers together, thinking. Then he shook his head. “He has come to my defense as recently as the early nineteenth century. I had a parish in Suffolk then. Mephisto made quick work of a band of ruffians who were preying upon my parishioners. That was nearly two hundred years after his mind went.”
“Much as it pains me to say this”—Mab screwed up his face and carefully drew a single line through Mephisto’s name, where it topped the list of sibling suspects in his notebook—“I think we can rule out the Harebrain as a possible traitor. Wouldn’t make sense to keep defending you all and then stab you in the back. After all, ma’am, if Mephisto wanted you dead, all he would have had to do was not rescue you, either in the warehouse or when we were in the plane being attacked by the dragon.”
“That’s a very good point!” I exclaimed. It had not occurred to me that I owed my life to Mephisto twice over.
“Too bad. Would have been an easy thing to blame Mephistopheles, an open-and-shut case … Alas, it’s not to be. In fact, I’m beginning to think your older brother …” Mab’s voice trailed off. He flipped to another section of his older soggy notebook and ran his finger across the page, reading what was written there and harrumphing to himself.
Gregor cleared his throat. After a lengthy pause, he spoke in a whisper even more breathy than normal. “For years, I have worried that it was having spent time as me that led to his madness, that Logistilla never turned him back correctly. The incident where he impersonated me happened not long before he lost his mind.”
“It wasn’t you.” I touched Gregor’s arm gently. “He drank from the Lethe.”
“Well, that was stupid!” Erasmus thumped his staff against the boards of the gondola. “Can it be undone?”
Mab frowned. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Professor Prospero. I think …” Mab paused and peered across the water at the souls of the dead on the next island. “What are they doing? Trying to marry a rock?”
Beyond the stand of trees, a large group of shades attempted to embrace a large rock. On another island, more tormented souls bowed and scraped, worshipping an enormous spider web inhabited by giant woman-faced spiders. Farther still, other unexceptional or repulsive objects received obeisance or undue attention from the dead.
“How peculiar,” murmured Erasmus. “I wonder what they are seeing.”
Malagigi turned to Gregor, whose turn it was to hold the star. “If you close your hand, the rest of us will be able to see what the locals see.”
Gregor grunted and closed his hand slowly, as if he did not think this was a wise course of action. As the light of the star faded, the pleasant warmth became an oppressive heat. The whine of mosquitoes filled my ears along with the ever-present moans of the dead. The humidity caused my hair to stick to my face. Even worse was the terrible stench of sewage. Together, the heat, humidity, and horrid odor made it hard to breathe.
“Oh my!” Erasmus had risen up to get a good look at the islands, his free hand pressed against his nose, plugging his nostrils. He winced at the pain.
Of course, to me, everything still looked the same.
“Please hurry!” I batted at the air around me but could not seem to shoo the mosquitoes making the irritating whine. My hand went right through them. “I can’t see what you are looking at anyway. Neither can Gregor so long as he’s holding the star.”
Erasmus sat down rapidly. “You can open your hand, brother. I’ve seen enough.”
Mab, who had turned in his seat in order to see better, scrunched up his face. He had tilted his head one way and then the other. Finally, he shrugged. “Sorry … don’t get it.”
“What did you see?” Gregor opened his hand, bathing the gondola in silvery light. The temperature suddenly seemed more pleasant, the air more breathable, and the stench less offensive. The mosquitoes vanished.
Mab peered, frowning. “They’re all panting around a lady’s shoe and over there was some underclothes and stuff. Looked as weird with the illusion as without. Weirder, in fact.”
“Fetishists,” Erasmus said. “That rock is a high-heeled shoe, and those spider webs are a bra and a pair of silken undies. I won’t even describe the rest of them.”
Gregor said ponderously, “What we are seeing are the souls of those who directed their lust at a symbol instead of the real thing. Their punishment is, apparently, to be allowed to live out their empty fantasies.”
Erasmus shuddered. “Fitting, yet creepy.”
Mab stared at my brothers for a long time. He lowered the brim of his fedora and muttered, “Sorry. Still don’t get it.”
“Rejoice,” Malagigi replied. “There is much about the darker side of humanity that it would be better not to understand.”
“What about the illusions my brothers and Mab could see?” I asked. “What is their purpose?”
“To fool the lost souls,” Malagigi replied.
“Why in tarnation … and, in this case, I mean exactly that … why, here, in tarnation, would anyone bother?” Mab asked. “The souls are already damned, aren’t they?”
“Not as damned as they could be.” Malagigi’s voice was unexpectedly grave.
“What do you mean?” asked Gregor.
“This”—Malagigi spread his arms indicating the swamps—“is not the lowest level of Hell. There are lower levels. Those on Earth are told that once a man dies, his spirit dwells forever in the same place, but it is not the case in either direction. Not only can those in Hell be saved, but the fallen can fall still farther. The more they indulge and debauch themselves—the more they prey upon their fellows—the heavier their souls become. Soon, their souls grow so heavy that they are caught up by the next sweep of the Hellwinds.” Malagigi’s hands worried the golden knot of his belt.
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Erasmus. “You’re pulling our leg, right?”
“I wish I were, mon ami, but it happened to me.”
We all stared at him.
“It did?” I leaned forward with great interest. Gregor’s gaze also was fixed upon the ex-sorcerer’s face.
Malagigi met Gregor’s disbelieving stare evenly before continuing. “After I died, instead of repenting—as any sensible sinner would have—I sought revenge for the destruction of my family. I called upon my friends—elemental spirits of the fire, air, and water who owed allegiance to me alone—and set them upon those who were responsible for dragging us from our home. Only … spirits are not wise. They cannot see the world clearly. Without me there to direct them …” He slapped his forehead. “Zut alors! Did it go awry!”
“Oh! Never turn revenge over to spirits!” Mab shook his head mournfully. “They’ll muck it up. Take it from me, I know!”
“Needing guidance, they picked a man who could vaguely hear them and influenced him to kill those who were responsible. Only they did not know who was responsible—we humans look much alike to them. Unless they have a drop of blood or a piece of hair to identify a particular soul, they have trouble telling us apart. So, they prodded this man, Maximilien his name was, to kill many people … many, many people.”
I could feel my eyes grow round with horror. “Not Maximilien Robespierre?”
“That was it.” Malagigi’s voice trembled softly.
“You mean the terrible bloodshed and violence of the reign of Robespierre was your fault?” I cried. “The glory of France was destroyed … by you?”
Malagigi’s shoulders slumped. An immaterial tear slid down his narrow cheek. “I received my revenge, bien sûr, and with it, my just desserts—incarceration in a lower circle of Hell than my initial sins had earned me.
“Only at this point,” Malagigi explained, his voice heavy with self-mocking pity, “did I begin to repent. Finally, after torments too horrible to tell, a fellow of the Brotherhood of Hope named Benedetto found me—he was rescuing others to earn off his own sins. Since then, I have devoted myself to this order and to helping others. I dwell in hopes of earning forgiveness for my transgressions. I especially try to save souls who were killed because of the urgings of my elementals.”
“So, you yourself were a damned soul who was saved!” Gregor marveled. “Then it is true!”
“Indeed.” Malagigi spread his arms. “I am living proof.” Then, he chuckled. “Or proof, at any rate. The ‘living’ part is a matter of opinion.”
Erasmus sighed wearily. “You mean we are expected to pray and to be contrite even if we find ourselves in Hell? That hardly seems fair. I thought the one virtue of Hell was that it gave rest to those who were tired of such nonsense. That there were no churchmen to prod you.”
“It depends,” Malagigi answered cheerfully, “on whether or not you wish to get out again.”
“It would be well to keep that in mind.” Gregor shot a calm but penetrating look at Erasmus, who arched a single eyebrow.
“What worries me is that a soul in Hell had the leeway to call up spirits and cast spells on the living,” Mab muttered. “Don’t seem right. This place is supposed to be the biggest, toughest slammer around—you’d think the security would be tighter.”
As we sailed the gondola, the silvery light of the tiny star shining around us, I contemplated what Malagigi had told us. On the one hand, his story seemed astonishing to me, so alien was the notion of the Brotherhood of Hope to my Protestant beliefs. On the other hand, some part of me did not find it surprising. As was recounted by Father Christmas and in the Book of the Sibyl, my Lady Eurynome had left High Heaven to free mankind from the Garden made by the demons. It was not so difficult to believe that others might strive to save those who still remained the playthings of those demons.
* * *
A floating log among the cypresses to our right lifted abruptly, revealing a row of yellow razor-sharp teeth. The teeth opened into a maw that gaped nearly as large as our gondola.
“Sea monster!” I leapt to my feet and pointed.
The monster reared out of the swamp with a loud pop. Water sluiced off its scaly back. A huge green monstrosity with wide fins to either side of its neck slashed at us with webbed fingers armed with cruel, curving claws.
In one fluid motion, Erasmus leapt to his feet and drew Durendel. Meanwhile, Malagigi gave his pole a violent shove, propelling us quickly backward. Erasmus would have pitched overboard into the filth, but Mab caught his green doublet and pulled. Gregor rose slowly to his feet as well.
Bracing my feet, I drew my fighting fan and then looked from it to the sea monster. True, the moon-silver slats that made up its blade had been forged by the Japanese smith god Amatsumaru, but it was still a puny weapon against so great a foe. Yet, neither of the greater weapons I was accustomed to wielding—my flute and my Lady’s aid—could help me now. Unfortunately, without my Lady to inspire my steps and my blows, I was not a particularly good fighter. I suddenly felt helpless and realized how dependent I was upon the chivalry of my brothers and Mab.
It was not a feeling I liked.
“We could use the Greatest Swordsman in Christendom about now!” Malagigi exclaimed as he poled vigorously.
The motion of the gondola caused Gregor to lose his footing and stumble backward. Arms flailing, he grabbed the high curl of the risso rising from the stern and steadied himself. Still clutching the stern iron, he growled, “Why are we fleeing? Did you not say that nothing could harm us unless we became angered or afeared?”
“Nothing dead,” Malagigi corrected quickly as the gondola slid rapidly backward. “This is a living monster. They wander down here by accident occasionally.”
“Monsters wander into Hell by accident?” Mab threw down his hat. “Since when?”
“Since time immemorial.”
“Can it hurt you, Malagigi?” I asked. “You are made of spirit.”
“Probably not.” Malagigi did not look entirely confident.
Picking up his hat again, Mab clambered forward and hunched over, peering intently at this new enemy as it reared from the frothy waters, roaring at us. “It’s a sea monster all right.” He slapped his lead pipe against his hand. “I recognize the species from the old days. Same kind Hercules stopped from munching on some Trojan princess.”
“A Ketos?” Erasmus hung on to the dolfin, where the bow iron rose above the rest of the gondola. The unbreakable blade Durandel shone in his hand, gleaming with a holy light too bright to look upon directly. “The same breed that the Greek hero Perseus slew to win his bride, Andromeda. Theo fought one in the Caspian Sea once. Were you with him, Gregor?”
“No. Must have been Titus. I think I had not been born yet.” Gregor frowned, looking from the monster to the golden ring on his hand. “I don’t believe the Seal of Solomon is of any use against living monsters.”
“Here it comes!” Erasmus shouted.
It was upon us.
We all leapt backward. The sea monster’s jaws closed on the gondola, just missing Erasmus. As it clenched its teeth, the high, curved bow iron broke with a resounding crack. The jagged broken tip drove into the top of the creature’s mouth like a spike, forcing its jaws open. This saved our boat from being snapped in half but did not protect us from the beast’s fetid stifling breath.
Shouting some ancient war cry, Erasmus swung at the creature’s head. He was not the swordsman that Mephisto and Theo were; his first blow bounced off the creature’s tough scales.
“Damn!” Erasmus exclaimed, adding as he swung again, “or should I be saying the opposite? Is there a verb form for being sent to heaven?”
“Redeem!” Gregor shouted, a priestlike gleam shining in his eyes. He hit the creature with the Staff of Darkness. A crunch of cartilage followed the whack of his blow.
Fan in hand, I lunged forward and swiped at the monstrous head. The fan sliced through the monster’s nose as if it were a well-roasted turkey. The fore part of the nostril fell away revealing pale reptilian flesh. This infuriated the beast but did little serious damage.
It roared and yanked its head free of the gondola, shaking us all. Pale ichor dripped from the wound in the roof of its mouth and from its severed nose.
Mab leapt across the boat, his trench coat whipping about him. Landing on the monster’s head, he hit it repeatedly with his lead pipe. The pipe bounced off the thick scales. Scowling, Mab leaned forward precariously and thrust his pipe into the soft tissue of the beast’s eye.
The monster bellowed in pain, throwing its head this way and that. Mab slid backward and grabbed hold of the pointy green frills behind the creature’s head. Below, its thrashings exposed the creature’s throat. Erasmus took advantage of this and struck again.
This time his blow was true. Durandel sunk deeply into the soft neck. Flailing, the beast knocked the gondola into a spin. Gregor and I were thrown forward.
I came to rest across the side of the gondola, the wooden forcola digging into my ribs. The creature loomed over me like a great green and yellow wall, my nose pushed up against its leathery scales. I had landed hard with my fan arm pinned beneath me and the wind knocked from my lungs. When I could breathe again, the monster’s hot, lizardy odor caused me to cough. It was like being trapped in the reptile house at the zoo.
Beside me, Gregor had regained his feet. He hefted the Staff of Darkness, blocking the monster’s arm as it reached for us. While he struggled with it, I climbed to my knees. My fan had become embedded in the gondola. I struggled to pull it free.
The boat rocked, and Gregor was thrown backward. The sea monster took a swipe at me. Helplessly, I watched as the fistful of razorlike claws came at my face. Just as the shiny black tips drew near my eye, I yanked free my fan and swung.
The silvery fan of the Japanese forge god sliced through the wrist of the Ketos. Its webbed hand flew free of its arm. I ducked to one side, but a claw raked my cheek as it fell. My face stung, but I had done the thing some serious damage. With some relief, I noted that it was not regenerating. You can never tell ahead of time with sea monsters.
In the center of the boat, Malagigi knelt in prayer, the silver star resting upon his palm. For an instant, I felt angry that this magician, who had been such a terror on the battlefield when he fought us in Milan, now chose to sit by doing nothing. But, of course, none of his tricks—wise horses and illusionary shades of the dead—would have been of any use here, even if he could have performed them. Most likely, we were better served by his prayers.
The monstrous reptile screamed in rage. Looking up, I saw Mab had wounded the other eye. The creature was now blind. It tossed its head, waving its good claws and its stump. Its neck frills flapped. Pale ichor splattered the gondola. Ironically, the smell of it was more pleasant than that of the surrounding swamp.
“Not a good thing, all these wounds,” Mab called as he clung to the beast’s tossing head, his arms wrapped around a hornlike protrusion. “Blood calls stuff. Not sure I’d want to see what it calls here in … What the Hell is that?”
There was rush and a swoosh. Something was racing toward us under the swamp, something big—very, very big.
The ripple grew closer. An island rose into the air. Long curved roots the color of ivory hung down from the bottom.
No. Those were not roots. They were teeth.