by Dave Duncan
“Pig guts!” shouted the constable. “My men collect the merchants’ tolls, and we know how they are paid. Large caravans pay in bank drafts, yes, but none of the other travelers do. You pay the king his share with the drafts, because scrip is safer to transport than coin, but the real money goes into the count’s coffers. You must have millions of florins buried in the cellars.”
Marijus rose to his feet, taller and larger that Madlenka had expected.
“This is absurd,” he said. “By the time the Wends appear on your doorstep, it will be far too late to summon the Pelrelm levy, and Captain Ekkehardt and his landsknechte will be in Spain or Cathay. Are we children,” he demanded in a tone that echoed through the hall, “to squabble while the Dragon creeps ever closer? Let us go to the cathedral and bind ourselves in common cause against the foe. My father and I will swear to the truth of what we reported. I will swear to defend the castle to my last breath, if necessary, and to relinquish my command as soon as we succeed or the threat turns out to be a false alarm. Of course it should be Count Bukovany negotiating for Cardice, but he and his son were the first casualties of this war. Do any of you believe their deaths were mere coincidence? The rest of you—Lady Madlenka, Captain Ekkehardt, Constable Kavarskas, Seneschal Jurbarkas, and especially you, Bishop Ugne—represent him. You also represent the common folk of Gallant, who cannot defend themselves. You must swear to recognize me as acting keeper until the king or events dismiss me.
“And as for payment …” he said, smiling, “I am sure we can find all the gold we need, even if we have to melt down St. Andrej’s altar vessels.”
CHAPTER 9
Brother Marek led the way along the refectory toward the kitchen entrance, moving with his previous solemn pace, toes in and head down, face hidden inside his cowl. Bringing up the rear, Wulf marveled again at how small he was, head and shoulders shorter than Anton. His lack of stature somehow emphasized his vulnerability to Abbot Bohdan’s anger and punishment. There was more to omnia audere than suicidal charges against phalanxes of spears.
He did not enter the kitchen itself, but turned aside through an iron-bound door, which led out to a green yard studded with small wooden crosses. Here, under the leering watch of the church’s gargoyles, brethren of bygone ages slumbered until the last trump should summon them.
Marek turned again and followed a path to a gate set in a high stone wall. He smiled as he selected the key he wanted from a bundle on a leather thong.
“We keep this gate locked because the herb garden is overlooked by the dormitory reserved for lady visitors. We mustn’t tempt the novices! There are no visitors at the moment. Later in the day, perhaps …”
The key turned with a groan. “More seriously, the first garden contains many herbs that can be dangerous, even just to touch. Many herbs with therapeutic properties can be poisonous in large doses, you know. Mandrake and cowbane and monkshood, for instances. This is a lesson to us that good and evil may walk hand in hand.”
“Can too much good ever be evil?” Wulf asked.
The monk glanced up at him with a twinkling smile, looking for a moment much like the old Marek of their childhood. “That is what I was preaching! Almost any good thing can be evil in excess—water can drown you, air can freeze you. It is meritorious to give alms, but suppose you gave everyone in the kingdom a thousand florins? They would all want to be lords! No one would work, the farmers would stop growing food, and we should all starve.”
After leading them into a large, walled enclosure and locking the gate behind them, he threw back his cowl. “Follow, and remember not to touch.” He set off along the path at a much faster pace, almost a run.
Narrower paths divided the whole garden into small rectangular plots, like a giant’s tiles. Each plot contained no more than one type of plant, although some types seemed to occupy several plots. Marek paused to lecture.
“This shrub is called Blessed Thistle. Very efficacious against the pestilence. And this is oregano—useful for treating cramps and dropsy. They say that the smoke from burning twigs of oregano keeps the devil away. Much used by the Inquisition.”
The path led to another gate, another key, another brief lecture. “Of course not all our materials come from herbs. Willow bark, oak gall, and others we harvest from trees. Koupel has a great reputation for healing.”
The next enclosure was larger, and included some shade trees. Marek paused under a sturdy oak that still held most of its foliage. Wulf noted that they could not be overlooked, even from upstairs windows. He raised his sallet.
Marek stared hard at him. “Good to see you as a man, little brother. I am glad you came, but now you must depart. If you go through that gate over there, you will be back in the west courtyard, where the stables are. Greatly overrated brutes, horses.”
Aha! “You think so?” Wulf asked. He glanced at Anton, but he had not caught the hint yet.
“Well, I do think so now,” Marek said wistfully. “I shall go and meditate in the church for a while.” He raised his hand to bless them.
Wulf said, “Wait! You could come with us, you know. We’ll help you escape.”
The monk shook his head fondly. “They would hunt me to the ends of the earth—and they would find me. I assure you, they would find me! God bless.” He turned and minced away, his habit swirling around his ankles.
The other two stood and watched their brother go.
“Well, it was a good idea,” Anton said grumpily. “At least he came to his senses eventually. At the beginning I really thought he was going to rat on you. You had better disappear. Cross the border as soon as you can and sign on with the best mercenary troop you can find.”
In other words, run away. It was obvious that he desperately wanted and needed Wulf’s help, but he wasn’t going to come right out and ask for it again, not so soon after hearing what happened to apprehended Speakers. The next step would normally be to shame him into volunteering by hinting at cowardice. That had worked when they were children and Anton still hadn’t quite adjusted to the fact that his little brother had grown up and could see through his ploys. In fact, Wulf had seen through them years ago and had always been too proud or unsure of himself to refuse the challenges.
“You’re giving up?” he said innocently. Provoking Anton to pomposity was still one of his favorite pastimes.
“Of course not. I’ll have to ride north by conventional methods. I’ll almost certainly arrive too late and find Cardice in the hands of the Wends. Whether I do or don’t, you really can’t help me without using your, um, special abilities. I don’t expect you to expose yourself to the ghastly tortures Marek described, or the penalties the Church would impose on you. You’d better leave the country fast.”
“Wait,” Wulf said, stopping. He knelt beside the tree and clasped his hands. “Most holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, I, Wulfgang Magnus of Dobkov, a sinner, beseech your aid, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
For a moment nothing happened, and he wondered whether Anton had stayed to listen or fled in terror. Then, through closed eyelids, he saw the Light. The Light always came just before the Voices, as if Heaven had opened a window, but apparently only Wulf ever saw it. It was of no color that he ever met anywhere else, and it seemed to embrace him in a luminous mist, cutting him off from the rest of the world. It helped him sense, in a no doubt blasphemous way, why painters depicted saints with haloes. Usually there was a scent of apple blossom, but not this time.
Victorinus:—The path you tread now leads into darkness. As always, he sounded as if he were somewhere to Wulf’s right.
“I have just been warned that you are the devil.”
Helena:—Why summon us if you believe so, than rather being silent? Were we or were we not, wherefore would we not deny?
“I do not believe very much of what my brother told me, my lady.”
Victorinus again:—Believe some of it, for bit and bridle, rein and hobble await you here.
“Wa
s it true what my brother hinted, that we don’t need the horses?”
—It is true.
“Then please will you guide Anton and myself to Cardice?”
Victorinus:—Will you accept the pain?
“You mean pain that may kill me, as Marek said? Worse than anything human torturers can inflict?” Headache, then belly cramps. What worse horror lay in store?
—Who seeks the prize must choose the price.
The danger of a few hours or even days of agony was less terrifying than that of being turned into another Marek for the rest of his life. Wulf drew a deep breath. “How long will it take to get to Cardice?”
—Time dwells not on the road you take, for it knows no sun or moon.
“Then I will pay the price.”
Helena:—You we shall guide. Your brother you must lead.
The Light faded and was gone.
He muttered his thanks before opening his eyes to look up at Anton, who was staring down at him with mingled horror and hope.
“You heard that,” Wulf said as cheerfully as he could manage. “No, you didn’t … We mustn’t go to the stables. We can leave the swords and the horses.”
Anton backed off a pace. “You mean Marek betrayed you after all?”
“They guessed … or could tell. We’re a marked family, remember. Perhaps I was stupid to keep my face covered, perhaps it made them suspicious. It felt right, though.” He scrambled to his feet.
“You’re going through with this even after what Marek said?”
Wulf chuckled, although it wasn’t easy. “You always told me that no Magnus ever refused a dare. I’ve just been dared by two saints.”
To his surprise, Anton argued. He must be starting to grow a conscience. “That was childhood games. No one counts odds in battle, but burning out your tongue, locking you up in a place like this … That’s different.”
Wulf felt an unexpected surge of anger. If he must choose between lifelong captivity and extreme torment, then the sooner he got the torment over with, the better. “It is not different! Damn your eyes, Brother! You think courage is confined to soldiers? A thousand times you dared me and I never refused. Twice I broke a leg, thanks to you. At least once I got a concussion. Cuts and bruises galore. I seem to recall Father beating the lights out of you a few times for taunting me. I never refused, never! I was true to the family motto. It doesn’t just apply to armored trolls. I’m a Magnus as much as you are. Now let me take your hand—unless you’re scared, I mean.”
Anton faked a punch at his nose. “Well done! I knew I could count on you.”
“So you didn’t believe what you were saying?”
“I wanted you to be certain.”
“Even remembering what Marek said about anything the Voices do for me turning to evil eventually?”
Anton grinned down at him. “Who’s daring who now?”
“Give me your hand, then.”
“I think I left the itinerary in my saddlebag!”
“I don’t think I need an itinerary. I have to lead you and I don’t know what may happen if we get separated. I don’t know how long it will take. It may seem like hours or only minutes. If I start squealing or groaning, don’t pay any attention. Ready?”
“Thank you for this. I’ll never ask you again, I promise.”
Wulf hauled Anton into a run. Running in armor was part of their training, although running several hundred miles in it was not. They never reached the end of the herb garden. In moments the air began to glisten with the sort of silvery fog seen on windless winter mornings. The trees faded to ghosts. The brothers ran through the wall, and then out into fields beyond. Soon there was no scenery, no sky, no sun; not even grayness. Nothing. Limbo, Marek had called it. Their armor had become weightless.
“How do you know which way is north, Wulf?” Anton asked in a thin, strained voice. His courage was being tested, too.
“I don’t. My Voices do.”
For a while they ran in silence, Anton trimming his stride to match Wulf’s. Then he stumbled, but caught his balance before he pulled them both down. “Sorry … Hard to run when you’re not running on anything.” His voice seemed to reverberate, as if he was speaking in a huge enclosed space, like a cathedral.
Wulf looked down and stumbled at once, because the ground he could feel under his feet wasn’t visible. Only Anton was truly solid. A ghostly house appeared ahead, then more houses, then wraiths of villagers parading to church. The brothers ran right through them, through their houses, and back into misty forest. Had any of the peasants noticed the specters of two transient visitors? Were they even now running to their priest in terror?
An orchard. Cattle. A town. Mostly forest and no road. The images were moving much faster now, flashing by at arrow speed. A river underfoot was gone before the thought could register. No one could ever travel this fast in reality. This was what a falcon must see as it swooped down on its prey. At this rate they would be in Cardice in no time, which was what St. Helena had promised. There was no sound except their hard breathing. Wulf’s heart was pounding, his mouth dry, yet he did not seem to be sweating at all.
He stumbled again at a sudden cramp in his right calf.
Anton grabbed Wulf’s wrist with his free hand. “What’s wrong? You’re limping.”
“Nothing. But you’d better keep holding on to me, in case I let go by mistake.” He released his own grip.
“Better you slow down.”
“No. The faster we go, the sooner we’ll get there. Go faster!”
He almost cried out as the big muscle in his left thigh knotted, leaving him limping on both legs. He was developing a stitch, too, a monstrous, crippling, stitch. If his experiences after the hunt and on the ride to Koupel were a guide, then the pain would be even worse after he reached Cardice. “Ouch!”
“What’s wrong?” Anton panted. “Take a rest?”
“No. Sooner we get … there, the … better. You lead. Fast … as you can.”
They ran on, but Wulf was stumbling often now, and could not suppress his cries. Cramps ran through his arms and chest. This was hell, truly hell. He was meddling with the devil and the devil was enjoying torturing him, waiting to see how much he could endure.
Maybe the only way to find relief was to give up and admit that he was beaten. Perhaps then he would be given what he wanted. But even if that was the game, the fact was that he couldn’t stand more. Every muscle in his body seemed to have taken on a life of its own, knotting, twisting. He could barely stay upright, staggering along as Anton hauled him.
Trees were flashing by, moving faster than fall leaves in a full gale.
“Stop! Please, stop!”
Anton slackened the pace. “We’re about there?”
“No. I need a rest.”
“No, we must keep going. You told me to ignore your whimpers.” Anton speeded up again. “We must be almost there. I can see you’re in pain, Wulf, and I am grateful for what you’re doing, but there’s no point suffering as much as this and then giving up and losing the prize.”
Wulf’s legs knotted up completely. He slid to his knees and then sprawled full length, leaving Anton almost running backward, hauling him like an ox pulling a plow. Fortunately the invisible surface under them seemed to be perfectly smooth.
Wulf was incapable of enduring such torment. He screamed aloud. “Sweet Jesus! Stop! Stop!”
“Just a little longer!”
“No! Stop! Holy St. Helena, please stop!”
Reality returned with a crack like thunder. He slid to a stop, sprawled facedown in grass and thistles, which filled his bare hands with prickles and narrowly missed his eyes. Anton pitched headlong, but with his usual luck avoided the thistles. The air was chill. A herd of sheep fled, bleating in unison.
Wulf screamed as every muscle in his body cramped simultaneously. It was worse! Worse, worse, worse.
“You all right?” Anton muttered. His face swam into view and then was drowned in tears of pain. “B
y the blood, you don’t look it.”
Wulf could hardly find breath enough to live, let alone speak. He writhed uncontrollably, every movement setting off more spasms. He thought he was about to die and that would be a very good idea.
“We must be close, Wulfie. We’ve come a long way. I can see mountains with snow on them. If I carry you, can you do the, er, miracle?”
Wulf swallowed the blood in his mouth and croaked, “Try.”
Anton’s clumsy attempts to lift him made his arms and legs thrash.
“Pox on you! If you can’t help, why don’t you at least stay still?”
“Can’t,” Wulf gasped.
Anton was big and superbly fit, but to lift another man onto his shoulders when both were wearing armor was a feat of note. Wulf’s spasms of agony did not help him, but after four or five attempts he succeeded, bent almost double by the load.
“Walk …”
“Easy for you to say.” Anton began staggering forward over the pasture. A few steps were enough to resume the Satanic journey, and he went shuffling through limbo while the mortal world, reduced to shadows on mist, rushed silently past.
CHAPTER 10
“Troubles never come singly, it seems,” Marijus Vranov remarked. “The bad news we have brought must seem especially cruel to you, so soon after your bereavements and in your mother’s melancholy.”
So it’s piety time now, is it? Madlenka pulled a face at him behind her veil.
“We must pray for strength to bear what the Lord sends,” she agreed. And we must wonder how many of the afflictions were sent by Havel, not Heaven. She had hoped for a private talk with Giedre on the way to the cathedral, but Marijus Vranov was waiting for her at the door as she prepared to leave the keep. He offered his arm and she could not refuse it without giving insult. They walked down the ramp together, following an honor guard led by the constable. The Hound and Leonas came next, with the boy happily chattering nonsense, then Seneschal Jurbarkas and Giedre. Captain Ekkehardt and some landsknechte brought up the rear. Bishop Ugne had gone on ahead. A surprisingly large crowd of townsfolk stood around in the little square, watching with worried eyes. They neither cheered nor booed, and their silence chilled the air like a dark cloud.
