Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

“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.”