Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

He heard the riot before he reached it. A torrent of people was flowing down the staircase he needed, all heading to the castle door. From upstairs came weeping and cries of pain and occasional bellows from Vlad and others trying to impose order.

Wulf stood back against the wall and sought out Count Vranov again. Now he was sitting in a circle of men around a crackling fire in some sort of timber building, lit by lanterns, reeking of smoke and men and beer. His son Marijus was there, and Father Vilhelmas, the glow of his nimbus apparently invisible to everyone else. Someone was singing a song and the rest were joining in the chorus. The Wends seemed to be celebrating.

Back in Castle Gallant, the tumult was dying as order was restored. Wulf started up the stairs.

Receiving Anton’s permission to proceed was no surprise. Many leaders would have refused to dabble in Satanism, but Anton had taken that plunge days ago, at the royal hunt. Others might have maintained that a priest must be treated as a noncombatant, and sacrosanct, but Vilhelmas had cast away that defense when he led the attack on Long Valley.

Wulf had not expected Marek to want to join in. At first he pretended not to hear, but Marek was persistent and followed him all the way to the Orchard Room. The idea of a monk or friar helping to bushwhack a priest was bizarre, unthinkable; which raised the question of why such a deed would be any more forgivable when done by a layman. Had Wulf already been perverted by the devil’s voices? Had his saints fled from him because of that? He needed time to think about this; he was starting to regret his impetuous offer to Anton.

Even worse, if possible, was being questioned by Marek about his mysterious disappearance from the hall. How could he explain it when he didn’t know the answer himself? He was so far ahead of Marek now that even to describe his new powers must seem like hurtful bragging. Whatever the monks had done to Marek at Koupel, they seemed to have stunted his ability to Speak. He had managed a couple of minor miracles, but none of Wulf’s encouragements had helped him progress beyond the level he had reached before he left Dobkov, five years ago. Was it possible that people could only advance up the ranks by their own efforts? Was that why both the Voices and the monks declined to answer questions?

So Wulf refused to answer questions.

He began calculating what he would need. Outdoor clothes, a sword, a dagger. Assassination was always less risky when done from a distance and Vilhelmas’s current companions were almost certainly men-at-arms. A quick trip through limbo, a point-blank shot, and an even faster escape… Yes, a crossbow would be the best weapon.

He knew where the armory was. He promised to find Marek a sword, and made his way there.

The armory was locked, of course, but no light showed under the door and locks were no longer a problem. The windows, although protected by massive iron bars, were large; he could see reasonably well by the lights in the bailey.

The racks held a bewildering choice of crossbows: wood, bone, or steel; old and new, small and large. He chose the best he could see, a full-sized military bow of shiny steel with a hand crank. Locating the stores of strings, quivers, and quarrels took longer. Then he had to string the bow, setting the tiller vertical and putting a foot in the stirrup to hold it steady on the floor. Spanning the bow with the crank required a few minutes’ hard work, but not the monstrous strength needed to draw a longbow. He hooked the string over the nut and fastened it with the pin so it would be safe to carry it like that. He dropped four quarrels in a quiver, although there was little chance that he would have time to reload.

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.