Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

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.”

Marek nodded, and then suddenly gripped Wulf’s arm as he was turning away.

“Look there!” he whispered. “Is that him? Beside that wagon on the right?”

The pickets were too far away to make out any details, not even whether they were wearing armor, but Marek was indicating a group of three men standing in apparent conversation. One of them had a nimbus. Could it be Father Vilhelmas?

“Not enough time,” Wulf said. “He couldn’t have got there since…” Of course he could, because he was a Speaker.

He looked through Vilhelmas’s eyes and was instantly back in the party inside the log building: lamplight, wood smoke, strident laughter. So Vilhelmas was Count Vranov’s Speaker and the Wends had at least one of their own. A Speaker to guard the Dragon was hardly unexpected, but even one must make Wulf’s task of destroying it very much harder. Any more than one would make it impossible.

“No, he’s still inside.” Wulf handed Marek a quarrel. “Tell me when to open the gate. Don’t give them time to react.”

“Ready.”

— Open a gate just behind Vilhelmas and at the same level.

The gate opened. Firelight blazed out with a sound of music, someone strumming a lute out of the assassins’ view. It stopped abruptly as men cried out in alarm. Just on the far side of the hole in the world sat the Speaker priest, with his back turned to it, and a glow around his head. For a moment that seemed to last forever, nothing happened-or at least nothing that was supposed to happen. Marek! Shoot! The Wends started leaping to their feet. Father Vilhelmas turned his head, one eye glaring just above his massive beard. Do it now!

At long last, Marek’s crossbow loosed with a crack like a cannon. As the Speaker fell off his stool with the bolt half-buried in his skull, Wulf closed the gate.

Then the two of them were alone in the dark, with only the wind and the rush of steadily increasing rain overhead. Wulf caught Marek in his arms for a congratulatory hug. The little man dragged a couple of hard sobs, then twisted out of Wulf’s grasp, leaned against a tree trunk, and threw up.

“Well done, Brother!” Wulf said. “You have avenged two foul murders and probably won the war.”

Marek heaved again.

“He deserved to die.”

The second Speaker was still among the guards around the Dragon.

Firelight poured out of the cabin as the door flew open. Wulf grabbed his brother and dragged him back to their room in Castle Gallant.

Vlad was leaning over the bed, examining the drying blood. He straightened up with an oath and reached for his sword. Then he recognized the newcomers and scowled. Vlad always scowled.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you two. What happened here?”

“I killed a priest,” Wulf said callously. He would not pretend to mourn Father Azuolas. No doubt the man had been sincere in his beliefs, but kidnapping boys and locking them up for being Speakers when he was a Speaker himself had been contemptible hypocrisy.

“That’s a relief. If this were a wedding bed, I would fear for the bride’s health. What happened to the door?”

“Woodpeckers.”

“So where have you been?” The big man took a hard look at Marek. “And what’s wrong with Midge?”

Marek was still leaning on Wulf. Their boots had splattered mud and water on the tiles, and a reek of forest filled the little room.

“Buck fever,” Marek muttered. He pulled free and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I just killed another. Another priest, I mean. It’s a family weakness.” He attempted a smile. “But we did it, didn’t we, Wulfie?”

“We did. And what’s wrong with you?” Wulf asked Vlad.

“Well, I’m happy to report that the bishop has finished exorcising the hall and gone home to write a long, gossipy letter to Archbishop Svaty. I’m unhappy to report that Anton has just spilled some very bad news. Otto’s in the solar, drinking up the castle’s wine supply.”

“Anton and Madlenka?”

“They’re both with Otto. I don’t think Anton trusts his lady out of his sight.”

Wulf sighed. The events of the evening had left him emotionally numb, which was a sort of blessing. “Let’s go and join them.”

Castle Gallant’s solar was of modest size, hard-put to hold even five chairs, and the Magnus family filled it tighter than a meal sack. No one had thought to order a fire in the dreary little hearth, so Wulf perched on the hob, leaning his forearms on his knees and staring glumly at the tiled floor. Once in a while he would glance at Anton and Madlenka holding hands, just to make his wounds bleed more. He also drank. He had decided that what he needed was the world’s worst hangover. A dozen or so spare flagons of wine stood ready on a table beside Vlad’s chair. It beat the insipid beer that had been served at the meal.

No one spoke as Marek recounted the Speakers’ adventures since the end of the banquet. No one suggested that Madlenka should be excluded and she must have been warned what to expect, for she seemed unsurprised by a discussion of Satanism. She was carefully displaying no emotion at all.

At the end, Vlad said, “Well, now you’re both blooded! A Magnus isn’t a real man until he’s killed someone. That just leaves Anton.”

“I hanged a man on Monday,” Anton said coldly. “Does that count?”

“Not unless you whipped the horse yourself. Count us four bull’s-eyes and a blue, then.” The big man took a drink.

Madlenka’s lip curled slightly.

“Vladislav,” Otto said, “you have the grace of a hog and should not be allowed indoors. Marek, Wulfgang, I approve of the way you went after Vilhelmas. Priest or not, he was leading troops and doing nonclerical things. A combatant cannot claim benefit of clergy. Well done, both of you!” He raised a glass in approval. The others joined in the toast.