Then the old man stopped. His voice, as whiny as ever, seemed almost normal as he said, “Conserva me, domin . . .”
Then he shrieked terribly, briefly. And then, as the flesh on his face itself began to bubble, melt and flow, laughter, black, deep and evil, erupted from lips pulled into a parody of a grin.
Manfred, armor and all, vaulted the table, sending ornate Venetian glassware, wine and silverware flying. He raised his broadsword . . . and reversed it. Taking it by the guard to form a cross, he advanced on the monk who was tearing aside his robes with frantic bloody fingers.
“Back!” yelled Abbot Sachs, scrambling to his feet. “Back, you fool! Knights! Seal the doorways.” Already the nobles and notables of Venice were heading for the great doors in panic-stricken streams.
Knights positioned at intervals around the walls rushed for doors, broadswords at the ready. For a moment it looked as if they would be mobbed down. But steel armor and the fearsome swords quelled the rush, after a part of the crowd had managed to flee the chamber.
Young Manfred, meanwhile, continued to advance on the tortured and still obscenely laughing monk—slowly, as if through thick mud. Sparks leapt from his spiky armor.
“Put this damned thing down,” snarled Erik. He had to help the young fool. It was his duty to God and Emperor Charles Fredrik, despite the fact that the hair on the nape of his neck was rising. He had seen combat in Iceland and the magic of pagan shamans on the Vinland frontiers, but nothing like this.
“Stand!” snapped Sister Ursula, advancing with rapid strides on Abbot Sachs, who was pushing his way toward Manfred. The abbot looked as if he was struggling through quicksand.
“Von Stublau!” The nun’s eyes singled out the burly Altmark knight. “Protect the casket at all costs. Do not allow it to be set down. This is but a distraction.” Then she snatched a basin of holy water from one of the horrified watching monks, and strode—as if it was the easiest thing in the world!—to link arms with Abbot Sachs. Together they held the basin. Together they dipped fingers into it and flicked the water onto Manfred’s armor.
The effect was cacophonic. With a discordant jangle like the cracking of bells, Manfred was flung backwards. He landed in a broken-doll sprawl against one of the spindly legged chairs. The delicate piece of furniture splintered under his great weight, fragments flying everywhere.
The nun and the gray-cassocked abbot advanced on the writhing remains of Father Maggiore. Little flames were beginning to dance above the bubbling flesh. The two clerics reached their hands into the basin and . . .
The silver basin cracked in two as if it were a brittle stick. The two clerics retreated hastily, not quite running. Erik was relieved to see Manfred sitting up, feeling for his broadsword among the smashed splinters of the chair.
“A circle!” commanded the abbot. “Servants of the Trinity, form a circle! Knights—put a ring of steel around that casket. The forces of pagan darkness seek to free the Woden.”
Hastily, the monks and knights moved to comply.
But it was too late for the former Venetian chapter-head of the Servants of the Holy Trinity. The old monk would never give another whiny-voiced rambling sermon, or come around demanding to know whether anyone had seen his missing cassock. The naked figure was shriveling and blackening even as the monks chanted.
By the time the monks had closed in on the body and sprinkled holy water, there was little more than ashes left.
Father Sachs stilled the monks. Then he marched up to the high table where he had been seated with Doge Giorgio Foscari. He turned on the Signori of Venice. With a gesture he stilled the rising babble from the crowd.
“Hear now my words, people of Venice!” he shouted into the silence, his voice full of righteous anger. “Is it not written: You shall not suffer a witch to live? Evil flourishes here within the see of Venice. Evil I say! Evil flourishes and you are too lax to tear it out, root and branch. The accursed Strega, Jews, and Mussulmen ply their sinful trades in the open. Mammon and Belial have misled you from the holy path given to us by the apostle Paul. I tell you, he who falters from the Gospel is a heretic and damned to eternal hellfire with torments of white-hot scorpions. Your laxity has meant that the evil servants of the Antichrist dared to attack, even here, in the presence of the Master of your city. What hospitality is this that your own guests can be so abused? What has become of the sanctity of guests?”