When the Saints

by Dave Duncan

  But there was a war to fight. Who knew what prize the winner might claim?

  He had come to the bartizan to view the Silver Road north of the castle. At the far end, where it turned the corner into the gorge, the Wends had put up blindings to hide what they were doing, but it wasn’t hard to guess that they were excavating a gun emplacement for the bombard, a nest for the Dragon.

  A party of eight or ten horsemen was heading down to the castle, with a herald in front—obviously a flag of truce seeking leave to recover their dead, plus their wounded, if any had not been killed by the victorious defenders. Wulf could see scores of bodies all over the road, and even then his view of the area directly in front of the gate was blocked by the corner of the barbican. That was where the building stones had been dropped, so corpses would be lying in heaps there. The attackers had been sent in across a well-designed killing ground, and even the undermanned garrison had managed to put it to good use.

  The truce would be granted, of course, because otherwise the Cardicians would have to dispose of the carrion themselves. The Wends’ main task would be to identify the nobly born among their fallen, which would not be easy after the Castle Gallant scavengers had stripped the corpses. The missing nobles would be tallied by now, and close aides sent along to identify them. A few more bodies might be selected on the basis of calluses on the inside of the knee from riding, better nourishment, old wounds, and so on. Those might be taken back to the Pomeranian camp in the hope that some friend or relative would recognize and name them. The commoners would be tossed over the edge while a priest chanted a prayer and sprinkled holy water. Ravens or the Ruzena River could do the rest. Naked we enter the world, and equal we shall stand before the Throne at the last day.

  It was the charnel ground at the bottom of the cliff that interested Wulf. The rocky shelf on which Gallant stood jutted out from the side of the Hogback at a sharp angle, and the corner was cut off by the bend of the Ruzena. In places the softer rock below the shelf had even been undercut, but that corner sheltered a triangle of dead ground, like an armpit, a rocky slope sheltered from the wind and inaccessible to firewood hunters, so that vegetation had survived.

  The ladders had snapped when they fell, with the top parts taking their burdens over the cliff. The ghouls would not have had time, and probably not much inclination, to scavenge down there. Wulf chose a large, fairly flat boulder close to the water and opened a gate to it.

  No one would see him appear out of nowhere, because branches shielded him from the castle above. Behind him the river swirled, fast and dark and deadly, speckled with flecks of rabid foam. Much of the rock must have fallen as waste when the road was carved out and the town site leveled, for it was a jagged nightmare, nothing like a river’s tidy shingle. From where he stood, he saw no bodies; hunting through that nightmare of shattered rock and thorns and spindly conifers was going to be a slow and dangerous process. Then he spotted a weathered skull grinning at him from among the rocks and realized that today’s Wends would not be the first dead to be abandoned here. It was an evil place, a backdoor to hell.

  He used talent to move to another perch, and then another, heading up the slope. He found his first fresh body, a gruesome heap of steel and cloth and dried blood, with birds and insects already at work on it. Perhaps he had miscalculated, and all the corpses would be so mangled by their fall that none of them would serve his purpose.

  For what felt like a dangerously long time he hunted without success. Bodies were hard to find among the jagged boulders, ev s boify">

  He heard a shout and caught a glimpse of a man descending the cliff, walking backward on the end of a rope. Because the distraction had made him look upward, Wulf also saw a red cloak caught in a tree. He found the owner at its roots, eyes staring glassily as flies walked on them. An absence of blood suggested that the tree had broken his fall enough to save him from being pulped inside his armor, but not enough to save his life. His helmet lay beside him, and it was a nobleman’s casque, vizorless and bearing a crest of two stags. The same emblem showed on his surcoat. He was of higher rank than Wulf had hoped for, but he would have to do. He even had blond hair, although not as pale as Wulf’s, and had been little older. At a distance, the imposture might pass.

  The Pomeranian surcoat was what he really wanted, but the armor looked as if it would fit him well enough, so he might as well take it also. Murmuring a prayer for the dead man’s soul, Wulf retrieved the cloak from the tree and spread it out. He laid the helmet on it. Then he stripped vambraces and rerebraces from the man’s arms—he wore no gauntlets, perhaps because they would make ladder climbing too tricky. More shouts indicated that more Wends were coming down the cliff. He unbuckled the dead man’s cuirass and added it to the loot. He would need a sword, but there was none in sight, and it might take hours to find one here. Whispering another prayer for the man he had slain and now plundered, he gathered up the bundle and took it back to the little vineyard at Avlona.

  * * *

  His brothers had finished dinner and were still at table, reminiscing over childhood memories. Madlenka was still in the infirmary. Havel was urging on a team of men and oxen hauling guns up the hill from High Meadows. So the Hound was going to make a serious assault on Castle Gallant? Damn.… No, Wulf decided not to damn him, because he didn’t know what his curses might do now, even at a distance.

  He spread out the cloak on the stone table and surveyed his loot. Yes, to be convincing he must get another sword to replace the one he had left on the barbican roof. Not surprisingly, Sybilla appeared. She would have been watching him all this time.

  “Robbing the dead?”

  “Disguise,” he said. “You’re going to be conspicuous.”

  She had changed into a long riding skirt and a scarlet cloak with a matching hat that sported a tall plume. She looked more respectable, but was respectability needed? Every seedet army included a lesser army of loose women, and he had been expecting her to dress more like one of those. But nobles and captains brought along their highborn wives; he should have guessed that Sybilla’s ideas would run more to gentry.

  “And you won’t be? In that helmet? You’re a lord, I’m your lady. You want me to be conspicuous. You want other men to lust after me. Don’t you?”

  There was a double meaning in that question, which he ignored, but he did risk a smile of surrender. Sybilla was no delicate damsel in need of coddling. She could look after herself better than he could.

  “Well, in the absence of my squire, you can assist me in donning my mail, my lady.” He tried on the helmet with the twin-stag crest. Even with the padding still inside it, it was tight on his ears, but it would suffice. He put it down and inspected the cuirass. The back plate had suffered some dents where it had hit some tree branches, but was still wearable. He hoisted the breastplate into place. It was a snug fit.

  Sybilla slunk around the table to him. He wondered if her hints of availability were all pretense, all tease, and if that was what he was supposed to wonder. She had guessed his shyness at first glance. She would have tied him in tangles instantly if he had not been armored by his love for Madlenka.

  “You’re serious about letting that hussy accompany you?” Justina asked, appearing in the place Sybilla had just vacated. She was spinning, and her spindle did not miss a twirl.

  “Could I stop her?” he asked. “Pull it tighter, please.… I can barely tell night from day in that sallet, so I need her to look out for Speakers. And she can probably vanish faster than I can. She’s had more practice. Tighter!”

  “I’m better at undressing men than dressing them,” Sybilla said.

  “If she is,” Justina sniffed, “then she doesn’t stay around to let them return the favor. Remember I’ll be watching you. And remember that this is a matter of life and death, young miss, not an exercise.”

  Whose death? And what sort of exercise? If Sybilla had been given Speaking lessons to develop her talent, then why must Wulf not have them?

 
; He told her, “You’ll need a warmer cloak. There’s snow on the ground there and more snow threatening.”

  She pouted and disappeared.

  “I hope she doesn’t do that where workadays can see her,” he said.

  “She won’t. She’s got more wits than she chooses to show.” Justina was suddenly closer to proud grandmother than crabby governess. “This is a good trial for her. Just what are you planning to do?”

  closer to="0em" width="1em" align="justify">“Go to Long Valley and look for the Dragon. I may find the whole force moving out, of course, if they’re really Havel’s men. If they’re Wends and I can find the bombard, I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get near it. But if there’s a bridge I can curse before it tries to cross it, that would help, wouldn’t it?”

  “If it doesn’t get blessed later, to remove your curse.”

  “Havel Vranov had three Speakers, but all related to him. How many does Duke Wartislaw have?”

  “Don’t know,” the old woman said crossly, watching her spindle twirl ever closer to the paving. “But most rulers keep one or two in the shadows, even if they don’t know it themselves. Warty’s been very successful at clawing his way up. If he does have hirelings, they’ll certainly be there, guarding his precious cannon, so keep your eyes open for halos.”

  Wulf tried on the helmet again. Keeping his eyes open in that was not much of an advantage over having them closed. He took it off and tucked it under his left arm, which is what its owner would have done when he didn’t have a squire handy to carry it. The crest would still show. That, his surcoat, and the scarlet cloak dangling down his back proclaimed that he was a nobleman. He might run into one of Two Stags’s personal friends, who knew that he was listed among the missing. Wulf must gamble that the Long Valley camp was in a state of busy anarchy as the army absorbed its costly defeat and prepared another assault.

  Sybilla reappeared in a garish cloak and hat of cloth of gold, the sort of garments a queen might wear. Admittedly, it set off her nimbus splendidly. Wulf glanced at Justina and met mockery in her eyes, so he did not comment. Certainly no one was going to notice him with that vision riding alongside him. Which meant that Wulfgang Magnus, esquire, was about to venture onto a field of battle sheltering behind a woman’s skirts, was he? He couldn’t do that!

  But he had gone this far, hoping perhaps that Justina would forbid her ward to accompany him, and now it seemed that she supported the idea. He reminded his tattered honor that he needed Sybilla to help watch out for other Speakers, and she would be at no more risk than he would be. Less, in fact, because even if she did not use talent, men would be much less likely to shoot a woman out of hand and any man who tried to molest a Speaker would be very surprised by the results. Also, he realized, a Pomeranian Speaker would know the two’s company rule and would hesitate to challenge a party of two Speakers.

  He must just hope Vlad never heard about this.

  “I need a sword,” he said. “And there are horses at Gallant. Join me when I move to Long Valley, all right?”

  Sybilla sat down on the bench, adjusting her cloak. “Don’t be too long. I’m not accustomed to being kept waiting.”

  CHAPTER 11 v>

  Tap … tap … tap … Turn. Tap … tap … tap … Turn.

  Anton was pacing the solar—fireplace to window, window to fireplace—and the jerky view was unsettling. Otto was there, too, slumped in a chair and watching the mindless parade. He wished he knew where Wulf had gone. Neither man was speaking, but Anton’s thunderous expression threatened hellfire.

  He paced. Otto waited wearily for the next outburst.

  Vlad had gone off to lead a sally from the south gate, in the faint hope of being able to reach the first bridge and destroy it. Otto and Anton were in the salon, where the war had been forgotten.

  Otto had appointed himself Anton’s warden. If the situation had not been tragic and potentially disastrous, it might have been funny. Anton was even more casual about women than Vlad. He would fornicate like a billy goat whenever he had the chance, changing partners in a bedroom as readily as in a ballroom. But now he was effectively married, so he was suddenly steaming fury and vengeance against Wulfgang for seducing his wife. Girls were pleasure; wives were property. All he could talk about was what he would do when he caught him, ignoring the fact that Wulf was a Speaker and untouchable.

  Once upon a time, Otto had been able to miss a night’s sleep and barely notice, but not now; he was getting too old for a military life. He was also deathly worried by the siege. Unless the family Speaker could provide a few more miracles, Castle Gallant was going to fall. As soon as Wartislaw had the bombard emplaced, he would demand that Anton surrender the castle. No Magnus had ever done such a thing, but this situation looked so hopeless that Otto seriously thought he may have to suggest it. The only alternative was sack, and then he might never see Branka and the children again. What would happen to Dobkov while his sons were too young to defend it?

  Anton mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I said I will kill him! Adultery is low treason!”

  “You won’t kill him. You need him. Slacken off, Anton!” To remind him of what had happened when Wulf lost his temper yesterday would not help matters at all. True, Anton had been taken by surprise. In a properly staged fistfight, his huge advantage in reach would count, but why should Wulf stick to fists? He was the better man in wrestling or swordplay, and he could work miracles.

  Then Wulf was there, although the door had not opened. He was clad in half-armor, carrying a crested helmet under his arm, and sporting a surcoat whose insignia Otto did not recognize. His expression was as grim as his brother’s.

  Anton wheeled around a chair to confront him, hand reaching for his dagger. Otto struggled to his feet, fatigue forgotten, preparing for trouble.

  ȁ {e="epaC;What have you been doing with my wife?” the count roared.

  Wulf blinked. “What am I supposed to have done with her?”

  “You were seen kissing her.”

  Wulf stared up at him for a long moment before saying, “Does she say so?”

  Anton was almost purple, glaring down at him. “Answer my question!”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t kiss her, or you won’t answer?”

  “I won’t answer.”

  Otto tried to get between them. “Brothers, please! We can’t afford a family fight at this stage.” He was ignored, and his efforts to push them apart met with no success at all.

  “Do I have to beat it out of her?”

  That did it. Wulf’s face turned chalky white. He slammed forward, ramming Anton back with his breastplate. “Don’t even dream of it! You touch her, and—”

  “Brothers!” Putting all his strength into it, Otto managed to get them apart, but it was Anton who gave the most ground. “Wulf, you must not lose your temper!”

  Telling a man on the verge of losing his temper that he must not lose his temper was usually the fastest way to make him do so, but Wulf took a couple of deep breaths and then nodded.

  Otto sighed with relief. “Now stop it, both of you! So there was a kiss? Wulf, will you give Anton your sacred word that there has been nothing more between you and Madlenka than a kiss?”

  “I saw her in the bartizan. I went there and I kissed her. It was my fault.” Wulf showed his teeth for a moment, and then muttered, “Sorry.” He certainly didn’t mean that.

  “And your oath that you will never touch her again!” Anton demanded.

  There was a pause, and then Wulf raised his right hand. “I, Wulfgang Magnus, do solemnly swear, as I hope for salvation, that if I hear that you have struck Madlenka, or mistreated her in any way … Just one slap, do y’hear? Just one slap … then I will immediately take her away from here and you will never see either of us again. And if you beat her, I will kill you. So help me God!”

  He stepped around Otto and went to a chair. The boy Otto had known was being tempered into manhood with fire
and water, hammer and anvil. Otto followed him.

  Anton just stood where he was, glaring.

  The room fell still, like a summer evening just before a thunderstorm.

  “Getting back to the Wends,” Wulf said, his normally affable face still bleak as death. “The squire that Vranov brought to the parley this morning, Alojz Zauber, was another Speaker. He tweaked Bishop Ugne—changed his mind so he agreed that Havel and his friends were only an illusion last night. Had I not come along to that parley, Brother, he would have tweaked you too. You might have handed Havel Vranov the keys to the castle and invited him and his army to come in and make themselves at home.”

  Anton didn’t react. He might not have heard a word.

  Otto felt invisible insects crawling on his skin.

  Wulf’s bitter expression thawed for a moment into a pale imitation of his old boyish grin. “Or perhaps he wouldn’t have gotten that far with you. You are a stubborn pig, as I well know. But he might have done! So listen. This situation is absurd and it is all the fault of Havel Vranov. Speakers never meddle openly like this. They are timid as mice, and stay well out of sight. Havel began it by using Satanism to murder Count Bukovany and his son. I suspect he had Leonas curse them, and the boy wouldn’t understand what he was doing. Vilhelmas may have started it all by tweaking Havel’s loyalty from Jorgary to Pomerania, but that’s a minor use of talent compared to malediction. Cardinal Zdenek countered by hiring me, but I was untrained, and I blundered horribly.”

  He sounded much more sure of himself than he had this morning. “That Justina woman has been tutoring you?” Otto asked.

  “Dropping hints.”

  “Blundered how?” Anton said.

  “Well, first I went storming into the monastery at Koupel and involved the Church, which no sane lay Speaker would ever do.”