When the Saints bm-2

by Dave Duncan

  CHAPTER 2

  “Can’t you even pretend to enjoy it?” Anton raged.

  A week ago he had been Lancer Magnus, most junior recruit in the king of Jorgary’s Light Hussars, living on gruel in a repulsive attic and forced to share a bed with Wulfgang. Now he was Count Magnus of Cardice, Companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, lord of the march, keeper of Castle Gallant, one of the premier noblemen of the realm. So life felt good, with a few exceptions. One of which was his current problem.

  “Pretend how, my lord?” she said. Her voice was muffled, because they were both deep in a feather mattress and buried under a mountain of down quilts. She was underneath. eight="0em" width="1em" align="justify"› He was on top, which he always preferred, and also inside, but not making much progress. He must have swived two dozen young girls in the seven years or so since he became capable, but none had been so unresponsive. Older women-there had been even more of those-had always agreed that he was a good lover, delivering as much pleasure as he took. But Madlenka had been bewitched, and there was only one man around Castle Gallant who could use witchcraft.

  Meanwhile, she was still waiting for instructions, although all he could do was repeat what he had told her a dozen times in the last three days. “Moan, thrash around. Bounce. Shriek. Bite and scratch. Above all, in the name of the Almighty, don’t just lie there and weep like that!”

  A week ago he had been stalking the bawds of the court, hoping to work his way into the bed, if not affections, of some rich lady who might expand his income and advance his career. Now he was married-or at least handfasted, which was as good as married-to the daughter of the previous count. Only men who admired flattish chests and sinewy legs would regard her as a beauty. Anton’s taste ran to the voluptuous. He liked buttocks he could sink his fingers into and breasts like melons, great twin pillows where a man could bury his head; not these pale, pink-tipped pears. Her ivory skin, moonlight hair, and sapphire eyes were bloodless. She looked like an ice maiden and acted like one.

  Madlenka sniffed. “I am not weeping, my lord.”

  “You have tears in your eyes!”

  “It hurts!”

  Anton made an exasperated noise. What he might have said then remained unsaid, because another man spoke right behind him.

  “Anton! Are you awake?”

  Anton withdrew, rolled off, and peered out from under the quilt to make sure the bed curtains were safely closed.

  “Otto?” He would tell anyone else to go to hell and stay there for at least two hours. “What the devil-”

  “It’s urgent. Very bad news. Put some clothes on and come out here, to the fire.”

  The door thumped shut.

  Cursing, Count Magnus struggled out of the mattress and the curtains. Shivering as if he had fallen into icy water, he quickly covered his gooseflesh with the garments he had dropped on the floor last night, which were all just as cold.

  He paused at the mirror to drag on his hat, dab some wax on his mustache, and twirl up the ends. He scowled at the bruise on his jaw and winced as he poked a loose tooth with his tongue. Anger, as much as cold, made his breath smoke. The windows overlooked the bailey and showed a thin slice of milky blue sky above the battlements on the far side. Up here in the mountains, September morninligember mgs felt like November back home at Dobkov.

  The count’s quarters in Castle Gallant were shabby and ancient. As soon as he had driven off the Wends and settled into his demesne, he would have them redecorated in the Italian style; more like, say, the bedroom of Baroness Nadezda Radovan in Mauvnik. Now, there was a woman who understood the finer points of copulation! As she should, having been at it for thirty years. He strode out into Madlenka’s dressing room and shut the door behind him, ready to face whatever disaster the new day had brought.

  Even a brother should not invade the count’s private quarters uninvited. But it wasn’t just Otto: three of them were out there, waiting for him. They must have brought a firepot, for the wood on the hearth was blazing merrily already. And they all stood up to honor the count, their host.

  At thirty-six, Ottokar Baron Magnus of Dobkov was the senior brother and head of the family. He had arrived in Gallant yesterday on what was intended to be a brief celebratory visit, but now he dared not go home again lest he carry pestilence with him. Although Anton would not admit it, he was more than happy to have his oldest brother here to lean on in the present crisis. Otto was big, solid, and battle-hardened, but those qualities mattered much less than his level head, steady nerves, and experience. Whenever there was a dispute, Otto’s opinion would always be the soundest and the safest to accept.

  The giant hiding behind the huge and very unfashionable black beard was second brother Sir Vladislav, even bigger than Otto, and a renowned warrior. He had come to Gallant to advise on how to fight off the Pomeranian army that was poised to attack the north gate. All through Anton’s childhood, Vlad had been a bullying pest, dispensing bruises on the training ground or mocking all lesser men with his cruel, hobnailed humor. But Vlad would still be languishing in captivity, a hostage in some godforsaken castle in Bavaria, had Anton not come up with his ransom, so Vlad owed him a gigantic favor and was having to behave himself at last.

  And the youngest, Wulfgang. He looked small and babyish alongside the other two, but was neither. He was a superb horseman and packed a punch to fell oxen, as Anton’s sore jaw and loose tooth reminded him. No longer the amiable varlet who had tended his brother’s boots and clothes and tack without complaint last week, he was now a killer, as dangerous as a lightning bolt. Furthermore, he lusted after the Ice Maiden, and she craved him too, although she staunchly denied it. Shining like gold sequins, his pale eyes stared fixedly at Anton; his face was unreadable and almost frightening.

  The absence of middle brother Marek meant that this was a military emergency that did not concern a renegade monk.

  “Please sit!” Still shivering, Anton squatted before the fire to hog the heat. The others were all well swathed in furs and hats. Otto took the stool by the dressing board, Vlad and Wulf folded down atop clothes chests.

  “You picked the worst possible time to interrupt,” Anton grumbled, carefully not looking at Wulf. Let him yearn!

  “Oh, did we?” im we? Vlad growled. “Well, let me tell you, Count, that while you’ve been sarding your brains out, we three have been doing your work for you. None of us has been to bed even to sleep, let alone getting any of what seems to be your only interest in life.” Always the soul of tact, was Vlad.

  “Sorry,” Anton said airily, not meaning it. “Didn’t know that. Explain.” Outranking his two most senior brothers, so that they must report to him, was a pleasant novelty. In three centuries, no Magnus had ever risen to the rank of count.

  “It’s like this,” Otto said. “The rain stopped in the night, although later we had snow. The pickets on watch saw fires down at High Meadows. They woke Dali Notivova and he came and told Vlad. We doubled the guard and began reinforcing the south gate, stockpiling weapons and arrows, and so on. Didn’t think you’d want your married life interrupted.”

  “Who is it?” Anton demanded, although he could guess.

  “Havel Vranov.”

  “Sure?”

  “At first light I went and looked,” Wulf said quietly. His boots were muddy and had blades of grass stuck to them.

  “I gave orders,” Anton barked, “strict orders, that the gates were to remain shut until I said otherwise. You have no authority to overrule me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh!”

  “Arrghem!” Only Vlad could clear his throat and make it sound so much like mockery. “He says they’re flying the Hound’s pennants.”

  The Hound of the Hills, Havel Vranov, lord of the Pelrelm march, and thus a neighbor-but now a traitor to his king.

  “How many?”

  “Didn’t try an exact count,” Wulf said, his face still wooden. “Many hundreds. At least twenty knights’ pavilions. They have closed
the road, of course, which is why no one got through to warn us.”

  So now Castle Gallant was truly under siege. There were only two ways in and out. The Wends held the road to the north gate, and now their lackey Havel was at the south. Not that any Magnus in history had ever dreamed of running away from danger.

  Anton turned back to Vlad. “You’re the expert, Brother. What happens now?”

  The big man laughed. “We have unlimited water, unless the enemy breaks in and takes the Quarantine Road, and even then we can lower buckets to the river. So far I’ r Ive tracked down two weeks’ rations, which could be spread out to four or five weeks, but only four days’ fodder for the horses, so we’d better start eating them while they’re plump. We can get by until mid-November, more or less. By then the Wends are going to be freezing their pretty little butts, sitting out there in the hills while the lake ices over behind them.”

  “But what do we do?”

  Vlad leered through his wilderness of beard. “You’re giving me overall command?”

  Anton restrained his temper, never an easy feat early in the morning. Vlad was notoriously prone to speak his mind, but having to accept orders from a younger brother who had been promoted to the giddy rank of count while he was still a mere knight must be straining every fiber of his self-control.

  “Vlad, I am trying to apply your renowned expertise in warfare and siegecraft. I already appointed Dalibor Notivova constable. To reverse that decision after two days would not help the men’s opinion of their new count.”

  “Dalibor Notivova doesn’t know a halberd from an arquebus.”

  “He lacks your experience, yes, but he’s a local, the men like him, and obviously he’s been deferring to you already. What more do you need?”

  “Dali’s a good man,” Wulf said softly.

  Vlad glared down at him as if about to ask how a boy knew what a good man was, and then, surprisingly, agreed. “Yes, he is. We can expect the Wends to appear at the north barbican any minute. You need to issue a proclamation that we’re under siege and all able-bodied men are to report for defense.”

  “Do it,” Anton said. “Sound the tocsin. Tell Dalibor that you speak with my voice. He won’t argue.”

  For a moment Vlad looked mutinous again, but Otto said quietly, “That sounds like a fair compromise.”

  A satisfied leer parted the big man’s beard. He nodded but did not rise. “I need weeks and we may not have an hour. We’ve got a few pathetic old firearms but almost no powder. There are emplacements on the roofs of the barbicans to anchor trebuchets, but we need timber and ammunition. I’ll have to tear down houses.”

  “Many people fled town,” Anton said. “Take their homes.”

  Showing his teeth in a ferocious grin, Vlad rose to his full, enormous height and marched out, leaving the door ajar. Wulf went and closed it, then returned to his seat on the chest.

  “Is that all?” Anton said. “Can I go back to what I was doing?” That was a second jab, but again he did not look at Wulf as he sai-bolf as hd it.

  “No,” Otto said, frowning. “More bad news. Marek has been taken from us. He was murdered last night, just after you went off to bed.”

  Dead? Marek? No! It was too early in the morning to deal with that. Anton whispered an Ave and crossed himself. Marek, Marek! Marek had always been the brother who mattered. Their mother had died bearing Wulf, and in Anton’s earliest memories, Otto and Vlad were already adolescents in weapons training. But Marek, just three years older than he, had been a brother to love and follow and look up to-though not literally, for even as a child Anton had been the taller. Five years ago Marek had been taken away and locked up in a monastery. Only yesterday he had come back into Anton’s life, arriving here in Castle Gallant, his smiling little self again… They had barely had time to exchange a dozen words. A long chat with Marek, getting to know each other again, had been the top item on today’s agenda. Murdered?

  “By whom?” Anton had already hanged one man in his fiefdom, and he would certainly hang this one.

  “I’ll let Wulf tell you,” Otto said.

  Oh, it was like that, was it? A cold shiver of fear prickled down Anton’s back as he turned to meet Wulf’s wolfish yellow eyes. He still had not adjusted to the dramatic transformation of his dreamy younger brother. An affable, soft-spoken youth had become a sinister presence; everybody’s friend, a minion of the devil. He killed men in cold blood.

  But now he was strangely downcast. “Last night, when I went over to Long Valley to kill Havel’s in-house Speaker, Marek not only insisted on coming with me, he begged me to let him pull the trigger. He wanted to prove to us that he was still a true Magnus, I think. So I opened the gate through limbo for him, and Marek shot the bolt into Father Vilhelmas. It was Marek the witnesses saw. And it turned out that Havel had another Speaker there with him. A short while later, after you left us drinking in the solar, that one turned the tables. He appeared in our midst and cursed Marek for killing Vilhelmas. And then Marek fell back in his chair, dead.”

  “ Who appeared?”

  “Leonas.”

  “The half-wit?” Anton exclaimed. “You’re telling me that weedy moronic brat is a Speaker, like you?”

  “Leonas is Havel’s son. Vilhelmas was a cousin. Ours is not the only family with the curse. Or gift, if you prefer,” Wulf added wryly.

  “Leonas’s not like Wulf,” Otto said tactfully. “We think the lad doesn’t really know what he’s doing. His father must have put him up to it, and very likely put him up to cursing Count Bukovany and his son, too. Havel uses him as a weapon, a miracle machine.” . Sze="-1"01C; Miracles?” Wulf’s face tightened. “Would a saint strike Marek dead? Or are you implying that it’s witchcraft? The Voices I heard claimed to be the voices of saints, but now I’m starting to think the Church is right, and they were demons. Remember how Marek warned us when we went to visit him at Koupel that their aid would always turn to evil? And if I have sold my soul to Satan, Brothers, then you may all be damned too, for accepting my help.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Otto snapped.

  “Or I,” Anton said. To be told that Wulf’s miracles had twice saved his life so that he could fulfill some Satanic purpose was unacceptable.

  “I don’t want to, either,” Wulf said, “but Vilhelmas is dead, the Dominican Azuolas is dead, and now Marek is dead, and…” He shrugged and looked down at the floor. Had he been about to add that the woman he loved was married to the wrong man?

  “Where is he? Marek, I mean. I must go and see him.”

  “You can’t.”

  Otto the peacemaker intervened again. “We decided… We didn’t know how we were going to explain his death, and both town and castle are jumpy enough after Havel’s performance last night… Wulf took him back to Koupel, so the monks could give him Christian burial.”

  “I left him in the church,” Wulf muttered, “between matins and lauds. It seemed kindest.”

  “We must endow prayers for his soul,” Otto said.

  “Is that all?” Anton demanded. “We are beset by enemies on both sides and Marek has been murdered. Anything more to brighten my day?”

  Wulf stood up. “Not so far. If you mean has anyone else died of pestilence, then such has not been reported.”

  “Don’t even speak of that!” Anton snapped. “Whatever that trollop died of, it was not plague!”

  The Speaker looked him over coldly. “That bruise suits you, but I suppose I’d better cure it, just to preserve your confounded dignity as lord of the march. Did I improve your teeth at all?”

  “This one’s loose.” Anton pulled down a lip.

  The pain disappeared. Wulf turned on his heel and stalked out, shutting the heavy door with a bang.

  Otto stood up also. “He’s taking Marek’s death very badly.”

  “It’s tough on all of us.”

  “You’re not blaming yourself, and he is. He’s starting to doubt his Voices.”

  Then Anton realize
d… “He didn’t Speak to anyone! He cured my lip and my tooth, but he didn’t say anything. He used to pray aloud to his saints.” Or Satan.

  Otto shrugged. “He doesn’t do that anymore.” He took two steps toward the door and stopped. “He’s in terrible danger, you know. The Wends will be after him, and so will the Church. I’ve been trying to talk him into going away, somewhere very far away. He refuses.”

  Of course he refused. He wanted Madlenka.

  “I hope,” Otto continued, “that we can win this war without having to ask for any more aid from him.”

  “If it comes from the devil, yes.”

  “I’m going to go and help Vlad. You should come and be seen making an inspection. Put your sword on.”

  Anton reluctantly grunted agreement and went back into the bedroom. The bed-curtains were open and Madlenka’s face was just visible between quilt and pillow. Her smile of welcome failed to convince.

  “Just came for my sword,” he said. “Havel Vranov is laying siege to the south gate. I’ll ring for your maid.” He hauled on the bell rope and went out to join Otto. He would rather have waited until the maid arrived, because Wulf might pop up the moment his back was turned. Although his earldom came directly from the king, not from his marriage to the late count’s daughter, he w ould be the laughingstock of the kingdom if his wife ran off with his younger brother.

  CHAPTER 3

  Marching along the dim, cold corridors of the keep at Anton’s elbow, Sir Ottokar, thirteenth Baron Magnus of Dobkov, recalled with ironic amusement that he had decided to visit on a mere whim. Normally the journey here and back would have required about three weeks on horseback, but when he had a Speaker in the family both willing and eager to transport him anywhere in the blink of an eye, why not take advantage? True, the Church might thunder that he was imperiling his mortal soul by dealing with the devil, but he found it hard to take that seriously when the reward being offered was so trivial. More important, Otto had known he was the only person who could hope to keep peace in the family. Anton had barely had time to find the latrines in his new castle and was well out of his depth trying to defend it against predatory foes like Duke Wartislaw of Pomerania. Sir Vladislav was a superb warrior, but he had the tact and grace of a hungry bear.