Speak to the Devil (37 page)

His own sword was upstairs. He chose a shorter one for Marek and slung it on a baldric.

Carrying a spanned bow indoors was antisocial behavior that would invite questions. He took a quick glance through Marek’s eyes to make sure that he was still alone and saw two men with halos looming over him. Wulf had always sympathized with his brother’s lack of stature, but experiencing it directly like this was a shock. It must be like living in a world of Vlads and Antons.

“…still no more than a Four or Five, as that listing was explained to you?”

“Yes, Father.”

Right! —
Limbo …
Wulf emerged in the corridor outside the door of the Orchard room, took a bolt from his quiver, and loaded it into the groove of the bow. He pulled out the safety pin. Before he could open
the door, one of the men backed away from Marek so that he stood directly on the other side of it. Wulf squeezed the trigger.

The noise made by the crossbow being struck by its string was very nearly as loud as an arquebus being fired, and the crash of the bolt going through the planks doubled it. There was no time to reload. He dropped the bow and stepped through limbo into the room.

The friar sprawled facedown on the bed, half on and half off, bleeding copiously and twitching so violently that he might soon slide to the floor. His nimbus flared erratically, as if he might be trying to heal himself.

Marek was struggling to remove his iron gag.

The third person was an elderly Benedictine monk, with a lined face and sparse white hair around his tonsure. He was not tall, but the bulky habit did not hide the outlines of a massive torso. He might be three times Wulf’s age, but he would still be a dangerous opponent to wrestle.

And he must have many times Wulf’s experience as a Speaker. Invisible hands tightened around Wulf’s throat, forcing his head back and downward until he thought his neck would snap. Then his combat training snapped in. He countered with an imaginary punch to the monk’s solar plexus that hurled the man back against the fireplace.

That broke his grip, and Wulf gulped in air.

“Stop this! We must heal your friend!”

“You think I am a fool to be snared by such lies?” The monk clamped Wulf’s neck again, tighter than ever, choking and bending, forcing him down to his knees.

Men of God should not use force. They certainly should not tangle with trained warriors. —
Kick!
An imaginary boot slammed into the monk’s groin. He screamed and crumpled to the floor. Some contests were not governed by the laws of chivalry.

Wulf rushed to the bed, where the Dominican had fallen still. Before he could even think about healing, the same giant hands closed around his head again, thumbs pressing on his eyeballs.

—Kick!

This time the monk either blocked the kick or cured his hurt instantly,
for Wulf’s reprieve was momentary. Marek was still struggling with the gag, unable to call on his Voices for help. The fight continued, two contestants half a room apart trading blows, kicks, and holds that were invisible but felt just as effective as their counterparts in an all-out physical brawl.

Fighter or not, Wulf was outclassed. His opponent knew far more psychic tricks than he did. His feet flew out from under him even as a noose tightened around his throat. He hit the floor and was kicked on both sides of his chest simultaneously. The light was fading. There was no air …

And then there was. His opponent was flat on the floor, and Marek stood over him clutching the poker from the fireplace.

Wulf scrambled dizzily to his feet. “Thanks! I was starting to get worried there.” He turned to the prostrate friar, but Marek came to him, making urgent noises.

Wulf said, “Sorry,” and examined the padlock on the metal gag. He had no time to waste looking for the key. —
Open!
It opened and he lifted it out of the hasp. “There,” he said. “If you will keep an eye on your prisoner, I will see what I can do here.”

He knelt beside the Dominican and took his hand. He searched inside for that flicker he had seen in the dying Anton. This time he had no trouble finding what he sought—the friar’s soul blazing like a bonfire, about to depart. Quickly Wulf visualized kicking dirt over it, mortal clay. After a moment he even visualized a shovel to bury the blaze. —
Live! —Live!
It was a strange way to conceive of healing, and it might have worked if he had started sooner, but the friar’s soul broke loose and flew up and away, leaving only a swirl of ash behind, without as much as an ember.

“He’s dead,” Wulf said. He said a hasty prayer, crossed himself, and stood up. He had killed a man, shooting him in the back from cover. It had never been a fair fight and there was no honor in it. He felt sick and shaky.

The monk was sitting up, showing no sign of a distress, so either he or Marek had healed his headache. Marek stood behind him holding the poker, ready to hit him again. Both were murmuring prayers.

When they had finished, Wulf said, “Wasn’t he one of the Dominicans who came to Dobkov for you, five years ago?”

“Yes. Father Azuolas. And this is Brother Lodnicka, who was my master at Koupel.” Marek looked at least as shaken as Wulf felt.

“And who will be again,” Lodnicka said tartly. “So you have murdered a priest, Wulfgang Magnus. You are doomed to the pit!”

What to do with the body? What to do with Lodnicka? Both physically and magically, he was enormously powerful. Killing him would be the simplest solution. Otherwise he would return with an army. But a friar and a monk … Who would ever believe Wulf had slain them in self-defense?

“Brother Marek, you lied to me,” the monk continued. “You told me that Wulfgang was still only a Four.”

“And you lied to him,” Wulf roared. “You told him you were sending him out to find me and then go back to report where I was, but that wasn’t true, was it? Because you knew him, you could watch through his eyes. You could also go to him, anywhere, as you just did. You didn’t know me, because I had kept my face hidden when I came to Koupel. And the abbot’s attempts to eavesdrop on us prove that he didn’t have any Speakers handy just then anyway. So you sent Marek to find me and open the way to me.”

The monk sneered. “We did not lie to him. Telling partial truth in a good cause is a minor sin compared with murdering a priest!”

“But kidnapping is both a breach of the king’s peace and violence forbidden by canon law. We are fighting a war here in Cardice. Pomerania has invaded Jorgary. Your interference is treason and I doubt if King Konrad will pay much attention to benefit of clergy if he learns of it. Do you understand?”

“We fight the greater war of Christ against the armies of Satan!”

“Then fight it in your cloisters and leave this one to us. Take that corpse away and give it Christian burial, because if you don’t … disposing of two bodies in these mountains can’t be much harder than disposing of one. The wolves and the bears will be happy to assist. And stay away from here in future!”

Wulf was now so furious that he could barely restrain himself. Perhaps
that showed, for the Benedictine stopped arguing. Scowling, he rose and went to the friar’s body. In an impressive show of strength—physical or psychical—he lifted it and draped it over one shoulder. Red with rage, he said, “You will regret this sin for all eternity.”

“So you keep saying. Last chance—take that cadaver and go!”

The murderer sank down on a stool, disgusted at himself. It had been a terrible day, and was likely to get worse. Now the Church had a lot more reason to arrest him. He couldn’t imagine an army of Dominicans openly invading Castle Gallant to get him, but they would surely do something. The blood-soaked bedding where Azuolas had died would have to be explained. Vilhelmas was another Speaker who had to be killed, another shot in the back. Was this how Brutus had felt when he came home with Caesar’s blood on his knife?

Marek was examining the two metal bridles, which the intruders had left behind. “These wouldn’t hold you, would they?” he said. “You weren’t calling on your Voices when you were fighting Lodnicka. Neither was he.”

“No, they wouldn’t hold me now,” Wulf said, but without explaining more. Not even cutting out his tongue would disable him now. How had the English managed to burn Joan of Arc? How had they even managed to keep her in jail?

Marek looked at him disbelievingly, then closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, but he remained stubbornly solid. He opened his eyes again.

“Nothing.”

“It will come in time,” Wulf said firmly. “You’ve been
held back for five years, so you need to practice. Bear with me a moment.”

He closed his own eyes and searched for Vranov’s to make sure he still had a chance to get at Vilhelmas.
Too late!
The Hound was leaving the party—on his feet and walking. Images flashed in nauseating jitter as the man’s attention flickered from one angle to another: men’s faces grinning up at him as he passed, calling out incomprehensible jokes; rough-cut plank walls and the door he was approaching; eye-stinging smoke from the fire; the youth Leonas on the floor in a corner, playing with puppies. That was a good sign, because if his father wasn’t taking him he must be planning to return. No sign of Vilhelmas. An open door, a gust of cool, wet night wind bringing scents of trees and swamp. A sickening lurch as he went down two steps to the muddy ground. No rain penetrated the heavy tree cover, but water fell in heavy drops from the branches.

Then wet tree bark, very close.

Wulf squirmed with embarrassment as his host, unaware that he was being observed, fumbled with laces and pulled down the front of his trunk hose. But once Vranov had himself in position and was enjoying what he came to do, he turned his head to study his surroundings. Through a sparse forest of conifer trunks, Wulf saw cooking fires and a camp of leather tents. He saw horses and heard men singing, oxen lowing. Then the Hound turned his attention to the opposite direction. About a hundred yards away, beyond the trees, stood half a dozen wagons, including one especially massive dray with a large, anonymous package chained to it. Four great campfires surrounded the wagon encampment and at least a dozen pickets were patrolling it. There slept the Dragon! Now Wulf knew he was at Long Valley, which Dali Notivova had described to him.

His business complete, Havel Vranov laced up his hose and headed back to the barracks shed, giving Wulf a good view of it. It was about fifty feet long, built of pine logs and roofed with shingles. There were no sentries posted around it, there in the middle of the Wend army, and almost certainly it was Castle Gallant’s advance post, whose garrison had been murdered two days ago. That crime was about to be avenged.

Vranov stamped his feet on the steps to shake mud off his boots and went inside, where the same nine or ten men still sat in a loose arc before the hearth, arguing in an impenetrable dialect. Father Vilhelmas
had the place of honor in the middle, directly facing the fieldstone fireplace. Vranov went back to the stool he had vacated. Wulf opened his eyes and returned to reality and Gallant.

Marek had already changed into layman’s clothes. “Well?”

“They’re at Long Valley. Vilhelmas is still there. It should be easy.”

“Those are ominous words, Brother!” Marek said, with an almost-convincing grin.

“True. But I can open a gate through limbo. Step One: emerge right behind him. Step Two: pull trigger. Three: leave, closing gate.”

Marek nodded. “Let me do it. You’ll have to take us there, but I want to pull the trigger.”

Wulf eyed him doubtfully. “Why? There’s no honor in this. It’s craven butchery.”

Marek pouted. “Chivalry died a long time ago. I remember Grandsire complaining of that. It was only ever a set of rules agreed between Christian gentlemen, and the poor pikemen never got the benefit of it. Did you ever hear Otto tell about the man who tried to steal Balaam? Otto picked up a crossbow, armed it, and shot him dead before he had ridden out of range. Balaam turned around and came back to let his master unload the corpse on his back. Same justice here. Vilhelmas killed the count and his son. You need a cleric to kill a cleric.”

That was the weirdest logic Wulf had ever heard. “I killed Azuolas. They can hang me if they catch me, but they can’t hang me twice.”

They had burned Joan of Arc three times.

“But five years of singing psalms is enough. I’d much rather dance on the gibbet beside you than go back to that. Please, Brother?”

This belligerence was unexpected. Of the brothers, Marek had always been the least interested in martial exercises. What was he trying to prove, and was he proving it to himself or to the others? Wulf had brought only one bow, and if Marek botched the shot, the results might be disastrous. To go back to the armory for another bow would be heartless, showing a complete lack of faith in him.

“If you wish. Let’s do it, then.”

Marek took the bow and tried to span it, but after five years as a monk, he lacked the necessary muscle. He handed it to Wulf to do it for him. Wulf did.

“Ready?” he asked, conscious that his own heart was racing fit to burst. “Tuck it under your cloak to keep the string dry.”

“Ready.”

—Limbo.

Wulf did not feel confident enough in his powers yet to try opening a gate right into the cabin at Long Valley. Instead he put it outside in the glade, facing the door but a few feet away from it, relying on the view that Vranov himself had so kindly provided. The air smelled of wood smoke and trees. Heavy drips from the branches were at least as unpleasant as the rain itself would have been, but at least there was no one close. He stepped through the gate and closed it when Marek followed. Together they ran around to the side of the building in case someone came out for the same reason Vranov had. Sounds of drunken singing showed that the party was still in progress inside.

Wulf pointed out the sentries guarding the shrouded shape of the bombard on the dray. “That must be the Dragon. Nothing else would be so well guarded.”