Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

In Tuesday’s chill gray dawn, Count Magnus rode out as a member of the Long Valley patrol. His escort wore a motley collection of mismatched hand-me-down mail, both plate and chain, so they had little in common except their Cardice surcoats and the crossbows slung on their backs. His own fine armor marked him as a nobleman, as did his mount, a splendid gray courser named Avalanche that had been a favorite of the late Count Bukovany.

Just because Jorgarian troops continued to man the post at Long Valley did not mean that Duke Wartislaw was not slipping patrols past it, keeping a watch on Castle Gallant. If that were the case, then Anton would make a wonderful target of opportunity. He would be safer riding a nag and wearing the same nondescript gear as the troopers-assuming he could find any to fit him-but it did not become a nobleman to hide his rank like that. Well, if the worst happened, he would certainly not be the first Magnus to be nailed into his cuirass by a crossbow bolt.

The mountains were wrapped in fleece and the valleys blurred by something too heavy for mist and too light to be rain. The first half mile or so was easy enough, with cliff-up on the left and cliff-down on the right. The surface was in need of repair, but not bad enough to hinder an invading army. He had seen this part from the tower. The two roads, the north and south approaches to Gallant, were almost as impressive as the castle itself.

He thought about pestilence. He had thought of little else since the word was mentioned. The stricken landsknecht woman had died before Ekkehardt led his men out, and he had reluctantly accepted a bribe of a thousand florins to take the body away with him and bury it in the graveyard at High Meadows.

So far Ekkehardt had been the only one to mention plague. He might have been bribed to invent it. He might have made a mistake, for other diseases could produce buboes. Even that senile, half-witted doctor in the infirmary ought to have recognized the symptoms of pestilence if he had seen them. Anton clung desperately to the hope that there was no pestilence.

Plague might scare away the Wends, of course, even if he had to drive a thousand plague victims out the north gate to do it. Except that the townsfolk would just disobey him and hide their sick dear ones. Would the bishop forbid it as mortal sin, and if so how much would it cost to buy him off? Counts who quarreled with bishops usually lost. Plague would ruin everything. It was unthinkable.

He had troubles enough without it. He had set the seneschal to work building up food stores against a siege, but the cowards fleeing town were mouths that need not be fed. He would have to start cutting firebreaks through that maze of houses as soon as the enemy appeared, which would not raise his popularity much.

A leader must not be seen to brood. He turned to his new constable, Dalibor Notivova, riding alongside him in the van. Anton had already learned that the man was Cardice-born and had served abroad as a mercenary for a few years before coming home to find a wife and raise a family. Probably that story would turn out to be fairly typical of the whole garrison, but asking questions was the only way to learn. So Father had always said: nobles could learn even from commoners if they cared to make the effort.

“How far up the Silver Road have you traveled?” he asked.

“Only as far as the lake, my lord.”

The trail rounded a spur into the gorge, dank and noisy, with the Ruzena rushing and foaming far below them. The roadway rose steadily, but before long it passed a roaring waterfall, appropriately named Thunder Falls. Beyond that the track and the river were more or less level. Then they came to the first bridge, spanning a small tributary.

Anton dismounted to inspect it. It was built of undressed tree trunks and disappointingly sturdy, able to carry a team of oxen quite safely. Whether it would also hold up under the weight of the great bombard called the Dragon remained to be seen. He sprang into the saddle again, and chose another companion to question.

The gorge was growing wider, the river calmer, the rain heavier. He changed companions again after inspecting another bridge over a tributary. Eventually they came to a point where they must ford the Ruzena itself, at a place where islands of coarse shingle divided it into many smaller streams.

“River’s not very deep, my lord,” remarked Big Herkus, his current companion. Big Herkus was about Marek’s size; Little Herkus must be a giant.

The water barely came up to the horses’ hocks, but the shingle was a welcome sight, because moving an extra-heavy load over that would tax even Duke Wartislaw’s resources. Wheels might jam, axles break, oxen balk at the footing.

Better still, the next bridge was a long timber span, carrying the road back across the Ruzena. It was in poor condition and a gang of sappers should be able to dismantle most of it in a couple of hours. They would need archers and lancers to guard them while they worked, of course, and Anton resolved to organize that expedition for tomorrow. He was starting to feel more comfortable, hoping that the Dragon would never arrive. It might just be a Vranov invention, like the rumor of pestilence.

Less encouraging was his discovery that his army was largely made up of rookies. Only two of his five companions had battle experience; the other three were local-born and locally trained. They might suffice if all they had to do was stand on the battlements and shoot arrows, but would they stand firm when the balls and bolts started coming the other way?

The valley steadily widened; the river wandered off, out of sight of the road. The rain stopped; a slight breeze arose. The lower reaches of the mountains were gentle and painted with grass or lichen; certainly some grass, because a herd of white specks-goats or sheep-was grazing the slope to the north. The floor of the valley was marshy, with ponds showing between stretches of moss and reeds, but there were enough stands of spindly aspens to restrict the view to no more than a hundred yards in any direction. In summer the air would be a fog of mosquitoes. At best, the road was muddy: the worst parts had been patched with corduroy topped with a layer of clay, but some of the tree trunks were rotting. The horses became skittish, testing their footing with every step. Oxen might not care as much, but a duke who planned to bring a monster bombard along here had not listened to valid advice. Or else he had Speakers to help him.

A faster splatter of hooves at his back and Notivova rode up alongside. “My lord!” He looked worried.

“Constable?”

“We should have met the returning squad before now, my lord. They’re supposed to wait at the post until their relief arrives, but they never do. They all want to get home early.”

Anton raised a hand to signal a halt. “You told anyone that I would be making a personal inspection today?” The post garrison might even now be standing in rows, ready to salute their new commander and impress him with their incredible devotion to duty.

“Not a soul, my lord.” If the same image had occurred to the trooper, he did a fine job of keeping a straight face.

“How far to Long Valley?”

“We’re in it. Half a mile or so to the border post. If Your Lordship can see those tall firs? They grow on a small mound in the marsh, the only really dry land hereabout. The post is there. Then there’s another mile or so of this muck on the way to the lake head and the Wends’ landing stage, where the ferry barges come. The lake’s ten or twelve miles long.”

Anton glanced around the scenery. “God made this place to stage ambushes.”

“He certainly did, my lord!” Notivova showed relief that his commander had enough sense to see that.