When the Saints

by Dave Duncan

  “I thought your Voices told you to do that? Are they really evil? Is that what you’re saying—your Voices are demons, not saints?”

  “In that case, they were the voice of inexperience,” Wulf snapped. “My next mistake was using open violence. Speakers don’t do that, either. We leave brawling to you brawny types. First against the Dominican, then against Vilhelmas. Not knowing the rules, I broke every one of them. So now the whole thing has gone crazy.… Also, I should have made this clearer to all of you sooner, but Speakers can spy on anyone they know personally. That means that dear Alojz could have been listening in on everything you were saying here earlier, when you had Dali and the others with you.”

  Otto wondered if the world had really gone mad or if Wulf was just opening his eyes to the way it had been all along. Thirty-six wasn’t really old, not for a noble. A peasant or a laborer might be worn out by then, and f {y tWulf waew of them reached forty, but the rich aged more slowly. Still, it was close to ten years since Ottokar Magnus had ridden into battle. Now, seeing how these two youngsters flamed around, he felt that he had somehow grown ancient. He didn’t know when. His father and grandfather had grumbled about firearms ruining warfare, and now he found himself thinking much the same about this Satanism, although it had probably been around much longer.

  “Just what were you saying to my wife on the curtain wall?” Anton said.

  “Stop!” Otto snapped. “Don’t answer that, Wulf. Anton, we have discussed that, and the matter is closed. I have absolute faith that you have no reason to distrust—”

  “I told her,” Wulf said softly, “that I love her with all my heart, which she already knew, and we both agreed that there could never be anything between us because neither of us would betray you and her marriage. She is a good and faithful wife to you. So far. Try and be worthy of her, if you can. Can’t you think of anything else?”

  Anton fumed in silence.

  Otto said, “Why are you in that armor? What are you planning?”

  Wulf smiled, sort of. “I came to borrow a sword.”

  Otto rose to unbuckle his sword belt. “Who are you supposed to be in that outfit, and what are you up to?”

  “I don’t know who I am.” Wulf’s smile was fleeting. “I robbed a dead man. What I am doing I should rather not say, just in case.”

  He must be on his way to take a look at the Dragon and try to bollix it up. Otto looked to Anton and wondered if he realized that Wulf was his only hope of living to see another Friday. If he surrendered Gallant, Zdenek would chop his head off.

  “Anything we can do to help?” Otto asked.

  “Just lend me this.” Wulf took the sword. “I can see it’s too long for me, but I only need it for show.”

  “God be with you, then.”

  “God or someone else.” For a moment he stared at the wall. “Havel’s men are attacking. Looks like Vlad’s withdrawing. Lord save us, but the big fellow can move when he needs to! He could outrun crossbow bolts.”

  “Withdrawal was in the plan,” Otto said. “We want no unnecessary losses.”

  “There’s been some. The Hound is making war on his own king’s flag.”

  “Sorry to hear it. I hoped he wouldn’t.”

  “He’s there in person. Alojz Zauber is … somewhere else. Indoors. Not sure where. Madlenka is still tending the wounded.”

  Otto said, “Thanks for that information. Good luck, Wulf.”

  The family’s sole surviving Speaker smiled ruefully. “Don’t expect miracles. I may manage to weaken a bridge or break an axel on a wagon, but I won’t be able to damage the Dragon itself.” He looked to Anton. “All I can do is buy you some time.”

  “Really?” Anton snapped. “When the Wends’ ladders collapsed this morning—that was very suspicious. Very convenient for us, but not natural, more like a miracle. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  Wulf smiled but did not answer. He took a step forward and disappeared.

  Otto sank back on his chair and rubbed his temples. His head felt as if it were lead-plated. “You mustn’t ask that sort of question.”

  “Why not? Tell me why not! I know the answer. What do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t, and I don’t want to. I do know he’s fighting, too, but his is a different sort of war, Anton. The whole thing is disgusting, but we didn’t start it. And Wulf’s power doesn’t make him immortal. Remember that three Speakers died yesterday. He’s a brave lad, and he’s on our side.”

  Anton drew himself up to his full height and glared down at him, his water-buffalo mustache bristling.

  “Well, I know those Wends on the ladders were our enemies, but I think they were all brave men, too. And honorable men, trying to fight an honest battle with muscle and courage and swords, as men have always fought. And I think the devil gathered them up and took them straight to hell, and he did it because Wulf asked him to.”

  Otto did not try to argue.

  CHAPTER 12

  Castle Gallant’s stables were far smaller than Dobkov’s and now they were almost deserted, for half the Gallant herd had been taken prisoner when the Wends captured the Long Valley outpost. Wulf stepped out of an empty stall. He had hoped that there would be no hands present, but two young boys were busily shoveling. They looked up in surprise as he approached.

  “I’m Squire Wulfgang,” he said. “The count’s brother. Saddle up Copper and Balaam for me. Right away.”

  They would never argue with a nobleman, and were too young to ask where he thought he was going when both gates were besieged. Happy to be useful while forced to miss out on the war, th ~">Otto didey ran to do his bidding.

  Copper was glad to see him, assuming that Wulf had come to rescue him from the noisome cell and take him out to run over the hills. Balaam, Otto’s old courser, had disliked Wulf ever since an afternoon seven years ago when Wulf had ridden him on a bet, much to Balaam’s disgust and Otto’s astonishment. That feat had won him the first florin he ever owned, and the years since had been kinder on the boy than the steed. Now Balaam was practically dog food and Wulf was … Wulfgang was whatever Wulfgang was now. Even yesterday he had worried about controlling more than one horse on a trip through limbo. Now he knew better. As Sybilla had implied, anything was possible to a Speaker.

  —Calm, he told Balaam. Be happy! The old warrior raised his ears and put away his teeth. Wulf patted his neck and didn’t lose a finger. He had achieved his first tweak! He ought to take his own advice, though, because his heart was thumping much faster than a Magnus heart was supposed to thump. For the first time in his life he was going forth to meet a foe.

  When all was ready, he vaulted onto Copper’s back and accepted Balaam’s reins. He dropped a coin into an eager hand. “That’s the only one I’ve got on me,” he said. “Share it, half each.”

  He rode off with shrill thanks ringing in his ears. The bailey was almost deserted, but not quite, and it was overlooked by many windows. He rode across to the dark tunnel that led out to the street.

  Except in his case. He made it lead out to Long Valley, emerging in an icy blast of wind in the pinewood where he had stood when Marek shot down Vilhelmas—was that only last night? It felt like weeks ago. The log wall of the barracks building was behind him, windowless on this side. The horses whinnied and he calmed them with a thought as he reined in. There was no one near to observe, no smoke emerging from the chimney. The air smelled less of pine sap than it had in the night, more of mud and animals. Peace had given way to the squeal of axles and familiar torrents of abuse from teamsters driving ornery beasts over rough ground.

  The scenery beyond the pine grove had changed since last night, too. Tents and pavilions had gone. Now steady processions of oxcarts and horse-drawn wagons were creaking by on either side of the trees, heading north. About as many empties were going south, suggesting that the Wends were still ferrying in men and supplies over the lake. And they must be Wends. Count Pelrelm could never raise an army of th
is size. He might be in league with them, but they were not his own men. Wipe one theory off the slate.

  Sybilla materialized alongside Balaam and pouted down in disgust at the needle-filled mud under her pretty shoes. The old horse barely flickered an ear. Before Wulf could dismount to help her, she slid a foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle in a flaming whirl of cloth of gold and a flash of her halo. She shot Wulf a smile of triumph and expertly adjusted the stirrup leathers. Suitably impressed by the cardinal’s daughter, he passed her the reins.

  “Your brothers think you’re in league with the devil,” she said, smirking.

  ng./font

  Of course they did. He had seen the fear in their eyes. Even Otto hadn’t been able to hide it. They thought they were putting their own souls in peril by accepting his aid and failing to denounce him. They were probably right.

  “Am I?” he asked. “Are you?”

  She laughed and tried a coquettish leer on him. “If you were, what would you do with me?”

  “Chain you to a rock and send a sea monster for you.” He nudged Copper into motion and rode around the back of the building, just in case there were pickets guarding the door at the front. The barracks might be deserted now, for all he knew, but as the only permanent structure available, it might also be Duke Wartislaw’s temporary palace, if His Grace was leading his army in person.

  The casque’s original owner must also have been able to see well enough in it, but Wulf could not, so he removed it and propped it against the upright burr-plate on the front of his saddle. That way he was still an obvious nobleman, but less easily recognized as an imposter. His greatest danger, after other Speakers, were Two Stags’s surviving followers.

  In a few minutes the intruders came to the edge of the pine knoll, where the land sloped gently down into marshy ground, which Dali Notivova had described in graphic terms. Scabby patches of snow did little to improve its appearance, while the passage of an army had churned the rest of it into ponds and black mud. Although the many small groves of trees had not yet shed their leaves, being aspens, they were managing to shake off most of the snow. Their spindly but densely packed trunks blocked sight lines so well that it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty yards in any direction, a blessing for a man trying to avoid attention while wearing a nimbus. Having the choice of a dozen new trails, Wulf chose one at random.

  Dali had mentioned snowy peaks, but now a leaden lid of cloud lay low on the valley. The wind tugged at Wulf’s tattered red cloak and drove flurries of snow in his face. He saw two troops of archers plodding along, a disorganized rabble of women and children with handcarts, many wagons piled high with hay, others laden with more women and children. Although the mob as a whole was heading north, its parts veered this way and that between the little lakes and the aspen groves, with disputes over precedence breaking out wherever two streams joined or tried to cross. Those on foot made way for the mounted nobleman and his lady, but they in turn had to find their own path around the cumbersome wagons. The fighting part of the army was presumably farther ahead, setting up a long-term camp.

  “You should be paying attention to me,” Sybilla announced, riding at his side. “Not gawking around like a village idiot.”

  He glanced at her incredulously. “You ought to be gawking, too. If a Wendish Speaker spots our halos, he’s going to load up his crossbow and pull the trigger faster than you can flutter an eyelash. And he won’t miss.” That was one experiment in Satanism that Wulf had allowed himself years ago—directing an arrow. Blessing it, he would call it now.

  “Well, he can only fire one bolt at a time, and you’ll get the first one.”

  “That’s why I’m gawking.”

  Sybilla sniggered nervously, and he reminded himself that she was only a kid who liked to play at being a seductress. Since Speakers were both rare and reclusive, he might well be the first one close to her own age she had ever met, and he must seem more intriguing than an elderly Roman cardinal or his friends. Perhaps his lack of real interest in her was just encouraging her to taunt him.

  Progress was slow, and he would probably have to go all the way to the front before he would have much chance of finding the Dragon. Meanwhile, there was plenty to look at, but nothing especially useful or meaningful. Likewise, Sybilla’s taunting and teasing was even less interesting than her prattling about Rome and Paris. Snow began to fall in earnest. He wondered how much daylight remained in this weather and these mountains.

  He wondered who had seen him kissing Madlenka and tattled about it to Anton. Probably nobody he had even heard of, but the juicy gossip would have spread like wildfire through the castle and town.

  Vlad had made it safely back to the south barbican and was standing outside the sally port, gazing back down the trail as the Pelrelmians dismantled the breastwork at the bend. So far they were not daring to come any closer. Otto’s thoughts were full of nonsensical shapes and colors, which meant he was asleep; that seemed surprising at first, but made sense on second thoughts because he had not been to bed last night and would be a logical choice to take the night watch tonight. Anton, even more surprisingly, was visiting the wounded in the infirmary in the company of Dowager Countess Edita. Who had put him up to that little demonstration of concern and gratitude? If he could concentrate on ceremonial duties, he might be recovering from his obsessive jealousy.

  Sybilla said, “What’s that?”

  Wulf returned his attention to Long Valley. She was pointing to her left, indicating a dray that had become thoroughly lodged in the mire, despite having a team of sixteen oxen to haul it. Men were standing around, arguing and cursing. Other wagons were detouring around it, churning up weeds, turning the snow into great puddles. The division of the road into a tangle of many braids was an advantage for a spy, in that no one could keep track of anyone else in all the confusion. It was also a hindrance, in that Wulf was quite likely to miss his objective: Dragon, the bombard. But the dray Sybilla had noticed might be it.

  “Let’s go and see.” Wulf directed Copper in that direction. “Mayhap we grand folks can tender some unhelpful suggestions.”

  It did occur to him that he might be growing overconfident.

  Drays were low-set, flatbed wagons used for especially heavy or awkward loads, and the giant bombard would certainly qualify as that. He soon saw that the dray ahat font ead was not the one he sought. Its deck had been divided by balks of timber into a dozen compartments, each of which held a stone ball about a cubit across. This shot was so huge it could only belong to the Dragon itself. Unlike other loads, this one had been left uncovered, for snow would not hurt stone. He tried not to imagine the Dragon’s fiery roar hurling those cannonballs half a mile into the north barbican, shattering the ashlar walls to rubble.

  The loud dispute faded as the participants noted his approach. Now he could not ride by without intervening. His remark about offering unhelpful suggestions had been made in jest, but he must stay in character.

  Be Anton!

  Worse, be Vlad.

  “Make way there!” he bellowed, bulling Copper forward into the crowd. “What’re you lazy slobs doing standing there picking lice out of your asses when you’ve got work to do?”

  A gnarled bear of a man saluted. “She’s sunk axle deep, my lord!”

  “I can see that, cretin! There’s an army moving past you! Commandeer another team and add it on. Two more teams! And move smartly or the duke’ll have your hide for bowstrings!”

  He urged Copper forward again, scattering more men and confident that Sybilla was capable of keeping up with him. He listened with amusement to a wake of obscene suggestions following her. Once he was through the mob and she pulled level with him again, he was pleased to see that her face was flushed crimson.

  “A little different from Cardinal Whatshisname’s friends?”

  “Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville,” she said. “No. Just cruder. And smellier. Same intentions. Was that an unhelpful idea?”


  “As unhelpful as I could come up with on the spur of the moment. They’ll be jamming up the traffic on that part of the road until dark. With luck, they’ll pull the wagon to bits.”

  “And a helpful one would be…?”

  “Unload half the cargo and come back for it tomorrow. The Dragon will need days to shoot all those balls, if it ever does.” Of course, unloaded balls might have sunk out of sight in the swamp, so perhaps that would have been a better suggestion for him to make. But even half the load might be enough to demolish the barbican.

  A moment later he saw another dray creeping along ahead, with the same cargo. When one had made it through the bad spot, the second driver had thought he could follow, not allowing for the damage the first vehicle had caused. Or he might be less skilled. And there was yet another team farther ahead. If Wartislaw thought he needed three dozen cannonballs, then either he distrusted the Dragon’s efficacy, or he expected to besiege more castles during his conquest of Jorgary.

  Those ammunition drays had been easy to identify, but most of the other loads were anonymous. Many wagons were painted in their owners’ colors and escorted by men-at-arms in matching livery, now mostly obscured by mud. Wulf could guess that those would be bringing in the silken tents, fine rugs, silver dishes, and other luxuries that great lords required and took along on campaign. And of course the army would include valets, tailors, surgeons, farriers, armorers, bowyers, cooks, paymasters, chaplains, harlots, clerks, heralds, carpenters, coopers, and at least one astrologer. Small wonder that the snow swirling in the air seemed infected by a sense of urgency. Duke Wartislaw could not keep this multitude packed into a mountain valley for very long.

  Traffic was becoming thicker as the river on the left drew closer to the mountain face on the right. There were fewer tracks now, and soon they would all merge into one and become the road through the gorge. The snow was growing heavier and the light fainter as the invisible sun lost its battle with the coming storm.