When the Saints (5 page)

“Four of these,” Anton said proudly. “Good water, too.”

A few minutes later they passed a heavily built gateway, capable of closing off the Quarantine Road. It also supported another aqueduct. Small wonder the castle was famed as invincible: if both barbicans, north and south, came under attack, the defenders could readily shift forces back and forth as needed. Of course, the dark side of that invincibility was that, if the Wends did manage to seize the fortress, then Pomerania would hold it for evermore. Which is why Cardinal Zdenek had been worried enough to grasp at any faint hope that might save Castle Gallant and his own neck, even an untried Speaker.

The wind was gusty, eddying off the cliff, and the sky ahead was as black as iron. There would be more snow before long, praise the Lord.
Freeze, Wartislaw, freeze!

*   *   *

Guided by loud hammering noises, they found Vlad on the roof of the north barbican, a mirror image of its southerly twin. The roof was flat and sheathed in lead, with its western side abutting the cliff face, and the other three crenelated. Some irregular blocks protruding from the lead would have puzzled Otto had Vlad not earlier mentioned foundations for trebuchets. That was what the big man was working on now, directing four carpenters in assembling something that might well grow up to be a monster-sized catapult. Other gangs were hauling up more balks of timber, obviously precut to fit together. Anton stopped and questioned a pimply apprentice, learning that somebody’s grandfather had remembered that a great pile of oak beams stored in the top story of the north barbican were the missing trebuchets. The boy did not know whether there would be enough to supply the south gate also. Anton thanked him and seastd him ant him on his way. Meanwhile a nearby house was being demolished for its stones.

Staying clear of the bustle, Otto took shelter from the gale behind a merlon. He had experience with firearms in battle, especially at the Battle of Brusthem, but he knew almost nothing about trebuchets. Vlad’s military career had been longer and more varied.

In a few minutes Anton joined him and pointed out the northward extension of the Silver Road, shouting over a wind that was either growing stronger or was just more noticeable up there. Again the trail had been hacked out of the cliff, but here more of it was clearly in view, gradually ascending. After half a mile or so, it turned a corner and disappeared into the gorge of the Ruzena.

“You haven’t tried to build a redoubt up there?” Otto asked.

“Course I did! We were too late. The Wends were there yesterday already. See them?”

At that distance any figures would tend to merge into the rock, but Otto peered with wind-watered eyes and eventually made out a couple of lookouts sitting at the side of the road, inconspicuous against the cliff. A company of archers or arquebusiers would be on standby, sheltering around the corner, and any sortie from Gallant would be mowed down before it arrived.

“If we could hold that bend, their damned bombard would be useless junk. Can we risk a night attack?”

“I’ll leave that up to Vlad,” Anton said. So now he was ready to admit who was in charge of the defense, and that was good. “About five or six miles upstream, the gorge widens into Long Valley, where we have our border post, and where they almost killed me. The Pomeranian ferry dock is on the lake, a mile or so farther on.”

“Wulf thinks he saw the Dragon at Long Valley last night, with at least one Speaker guarding it.”

Anton shivered, as if that news was even colder than the wind. “Then it should arrive here today or tomorrow. Even if they need to reinforce bridges, I can’t see them needing more than two days.”

“Less if they have Speakers to speed things along.” Otto blew through his fists to warm them. “If that bombard is as big as they say it is, then I don’t like this situation at all. The range is too great for bows, especially firing uphill and into the wind. Arquebuses might reach, although they would be hopelessly inaccurate.”

“We only have three, with very little powder and shot. I expect Vlad will save them for the main assault.”

But the Wend’s bombard was going to have both wind and elevation working for it. Properly dug in, it would put a stone ball on target every time. Even if it only fired six or seven times a day, in two days the barbican would be a rock pile. The defenders had nothing to oppose it except some hope of future trebuchets to throw rocks at it. Flying rocks might not hurt the gnd t hurt un itself, but they ought to delay its emplacement and flatten a few gunners.

Realistically, all that a conventional defense would do now was delay the inevitable end for a few days. Gallant’s chances of survival depended on Wulf. Ever since Father’s illness had called him home from his youthful days of battle, Otto had assumed that he would eventfully die in his bed at home. Now he saw that this little junket to Cardice County might be the death of him. He might never return to Dobkov.

“You!”
Vlad came striding over like an enraged Goliath of Gath, with the wind rippling his beard and his nose flaming red with cold. “You two prissy nobles come here to dance to entertain the men, or did you plan to be useful?”

“I was about to ask how we could help,” Otto said mildly.

“Half this junk,” the big man boomed, waving a meaty hand at the spread of timber that was threatening to pave the entire roof, “is rotten with woodworm and useless. Go downstairs and get those drunken whoresons to pick out the good stuff and sort it into types, so if I need a left rear upright I can send for it. Also have them come up and clear the crap wood out of our way. Then burn it and all the rest like it.”

This hardly seemed like a job requiring a count and a baron, but Otto dutifully led the way to the stairs. The attic below was a noisy, very dusty cavern, low-ceilinged and lit only by loopholes; he and Anton could barely stand erect in it. A dozen men were heaving timbers around, and several of them were shouting orders. As soon as the count himself arrived, though, he was able to seize everyone’s attention and impose silence. Before he could start issuing orders, Otto tugged at Anton’s cloak. “The light in here isn’t good enough to sort out the bad wood.”

Anton nodded and amended Vlad’s orders accordingly. Who was in charge here? No one. How many were master carpenters? Two were. He appointed one of them gaffer. First, six men were to go back up and stack the bad pieces that Vlad had already discarded; they would do as ammunition. The rest were to start sorting all the timber into types, making a pile of each shape. When they had done that, they were to choose the worst pieces from each pile and take those away to be copied so that new trebuchets could be built to their model. And whenever they winched a piece up to the roof, they were to inspect it in good light and bring it back again if it was no good.

Any questions? Then get to work. Yes, my lord.

Every man ran to obey. In peace or war, men worked better when they had orders directly from a nobleman. No one argued with gentry. The big man upstairs with the beard was a knight, but a count was much higher in the eyes of God or man. Counts were very special.

Noble blood or not, the dust was making Otto sneeze, so he gratefully followed Anton as he ran down another flight to the machine room. Count and baron shared the same dream of escape to somewhere where they could be more useful.

“I’m going to the armor anto the y next,” Anton said, heading out the archway to the parapet walk. “Our supply of arrows—”

“My lord?”

He spun around to frown at the woman who had spoken. Tall but bent, she was swathed in a laced-up cloak of coarse cloth with her shoes and a few inches of black dress visible below it; from the front of it protruded a wind-reddened hand clutching a distaff like a bizarre scepter. A black felt bonnet hid her hair and ears, revealing only a face from which wrinkles and weathering had driven any trace of beauty. Her age might be anywhere between forty and seventy, depending on how many children she had borne. Undoubtedly she was a servant, almost certainly a widow, and hundreds of her like could be found in the streets anywhere. Women of her station did not normally address counts, and certainly did not stand in wait outside doorways to ambush them.

“I am Count Magnus.”

She smiled, nodding as if she knew that. “And I am Greenwood.”

“Who?”

“Greenwood!” Otto said joyfully. “Then you are welcome, goodwife. I am Baron Magnus of Dobkov.”

“And who else would you be?” She bobbed a curtsey that seemed to be intended equally for both of them.

Anton remembered now. “A mutual friend sent you?”

“Doubt that anyone calls him friend, my lord, but he is widely known and not without repute.” She simpered. “My name for today is Justina.”

“You are not quite the sort of helper I was expecting.”

“And what sort of helper was that, my lord? Someone like that great hairy giant up there on the tower?”

“That is my brother, Sir Vladislav.”

“Oh, by the angels, my terrible tongue has run away with me again! Tongue, you will be getting me birched, I do swear.”

Anton drew a deep breath, but before he could use it Otto coughed a warning. “I suspect that Justina’s innocuous demeanor is designed to confound more our adversaries than ourselves, Brother.” Anton had a limited sense of humor.

“Save us. Those are precious big words to be using on a humble drudge like me, your lordship.”

“Are they truly?” Otto said with a chuckle. “Now, I assume that the first thing you want to do is meet our other brother, Wulfgang?”

“Heaven be my witness, my lord, that will be the second thing. The first wiThe firll be to have a trusty gentleman, such as your noble self, my lord, be warning him that I have come to aid and mean him no harm.”

Otto recalled Wulf telling him that Speakers could recognize one another at a glance. “Is that your usual way of working, or have you been warned about his hair-trigger temper?”

Justina rolled her eyes in mock terror. “By Our Lady, a fearful combination you are naming. Yet it be vital that I speak with him.”

“All very well,” said Anton. “But where is he? I don’t remember him saying where he was going, do you?”

Otto shook his head while racking his brain. It had been an hour since they parted; Wulf could be literally anywhere in the world by now. As a love-smitten swain, he might have doubled back to speak with Madlenka, which he had done the night before during Anton’s absence. But he would not endanger her reputation, and Anton would be making sure that she was never alone for more than a few seconds.

“He was in low spirits,” Otto said. “I think the best place to start would be a church.”

“A church?” Justina cried. “A church you say? Terrible things can happen in churches! Quickly, quickly, let us find him.”

CHAPTER
4

Downcast by lack of sleep and the nightmare of Marek’s death, Wulf had indeed gone in search of peace and solitude. Avoiding the cathedral, where he might run into that nosy, pompous bishop, he went in search of the other spires he had seen in the town. The first church he found turned out to belong to St. Sebastijan, which seemed a good omen, for he was the patron saint of soldiers. It was tiny and very bare, the air laden with old incense, murals hidden under layers of candle grease. Wulf wanted no other worshipers around, and especially did not want a priest. It was hard enough to imagine confessing to committing a couple of murders, but to admit to having dealings with the devil was unthinkable. He was cut off from the Church and hope of salvation. He was Faust, and had sold his soul to the devil to make Anton a count.

Staying well away from the altar and the Host, he knelt in a gloomy corner at the back to pray. Prayer to the Virgin was what he had tried as a youth when the Voices spoke. He still had calluses on his knees from the hours he had spent in the castle chapel.

He was determined not to swear more oaths. His journey from Koupel to Gallant had levied such a price in pain that he had vowed never to call on his Voices again. But two days later he had been forced to break his word in order to save Anton’s life a second time. That had seemed a worthy use of Speaking—Jesus had healed, so how could healing be evil? And yet evil had followed. Three men had died, all servants of God. Where had he gone so terribly wrong?

Despite his resolution not to use his Satanic powers, he could not help trying to see what was happening on the battlements. First he stole a Look throug la7h Vlad’s eyes:
Vlad was up on the roof of the north barbican, directing the construction of one of the trebuchets he had promised
. But his attention never wandered to the north, so Wulf could not tell what the Wends were up to, if anything.

Madlenka was being bathed by her maids, under the direction of Giedre, her best friend and chief lady-in-waiting
. Then it became impossible not to steal a Look from Giedre’s point of view, and.…
Stop it!
He must not even think about Madlenka, let alone spy on her naked. But he found the temptation almost irresistible and hated himself for letting it distract him from his prayers.

He had received no answers and found no comfort before he heard the church door creak. Annoying boots came tapping over the flagstones in his direction. Standing over him, Otto said, “I almost didn’t see you there. It’s lucky your hair is so bright.”