Dave Duncan - When the Saints

Building stones were usually cut to a size one man could conveniently move, but even so they could conveniently crush feet when dropped. He could probably use his talent to make his burden lighter, but then he would despise himself for cheating. Climbing stairs with such a load was especially tricky, for the steps were high and made him waddle. The countercurrent of men hurrying down to fetch more stones was going by on the outside, and to jostle one of them might send him plunging down to death or injury. All in all, it was a challenging experience, and he could not let his attention wander to spy on what was happening elsewhere.

He could hear the sounds of war coming over the curtain wall, though: shouts, screams, bugles, the constant rat-tat of crossbows, the even louder cracks of firearms. He could smell powder smoke, although he could not se K coe ce any. Several dead or badly wounded men had fallen from the curtain wall to the street, and once he had to wait while a body lying on the steps was removed. With so few men to defend the city, Vlad might fail to hold it even against a conventional attack. And while the defenders were occupied with this assault, gunners would be preparing a nest for the Dragon at the mouth of the gorge.

Just as he thought his arms would be dragged out of their sockets, he arrived at the top of the stairs, level with the walk along the wall. The porters ahead of him went hurrying into the shelter of the barbican, but he needed to see what was going on. He stepped across to the parapet, which was about waist high, and heaved the stone up on it. Then he vaulted up beside it, staying down at a crouch to avoid becoming a target, and trying not to get in the way of the archers stationed there. The dozen or so crenels nearest the barbican were manned by two archers apiece-crenels farther away from the barbican would be too far from the road for accurate shooting. The men took turns shooting through the gap and then retreating to the shelter of the merlons to crank up their bows again. Crossbows were much handier for this battlement work than longbows, but sometimes an archer was not quick enough, and a bolt from an attacker would hiss past him, or thud into him. Half a dozen dead or wounded lay in full view.

Madlenka was hurrying along the battlements in this direction, but keeping her gaze straight ahead. Giedre was sure to be somewhere close, so he switched his point of view to her, and discovered that she was bringing up the rear of a parade of at least a dozen boys, women, and older men, coming from the keep, bringing stretchers and bandages. Madlenka was out in front, of course.

Wulf waited until the nearest crenel was vacant, then stood up to peer through it. At least a thousand Wends were approaching down the Silver Road at a slow, deliberate pace like a funeral march, obviously trying to keep their formation, and still far enough from the gate that the defenders could not yet drop rocks on them. The front three ranks and the file on their left, which was the open side of the road, carried large shields as protection against archery, but the defenders were taking a fearsome toll on them. The men on the right of the column were protected by the cliff. Those at the rear, roughly half of the troop, were archers, shooting over the heads of the rest. They must outnumber the castle’s archers by five or six to one, but they were handicapped by having to keep moving. They would stop to span their bows, run forward to the rear of the main force, then load and shoot. Then repeat. Of course they were shooting almost blind, aiming at loopholes and crenels, while presenting childishly easy targets to the defenders. So what were the rest of the men planning, those carrying neither bows nor shields? If they did not do whatever it was soon, their whole force was going to be obliterated.

Yes, more men were busily doing something in the distance, at the mouth of the gorge. Digging a trench to hold the Dragon, most likely.

“Boy!” roared an archer, grabbing Wulf’s shoulder and yanking him out of the crenel. A bolt clanged off the side of the merlon and twanged away into the town. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“Seems I almost did,” Wulf admitted sheepishly. “Thanks.” KD; Idiot! Even a Speaker would be no help if he had a quarrel sticking out of his chest. Steadying his sword, Wulf jumped down off the parapet. He succeeded in lifting the building stone without damage to toes or fingers and then inserted himself in the line of porters heading into the barbican, where progress slowed to a crawl.

Now he could let his mind roam to the south barbican. Anton was standing just inside the sally port, talking with Arturas, the herald. A few men-at-arms were lurking nearby and nobody seemed to be unduly alarmed.

“… cardinal warned me that I might find myself between the dogs and the wolves.”

Arturas laughed and the eavesdroppers exchanged proud smiles.

Of course they would be impressed to hear that their count was on joking terms with the king’s first minister, which was what Anton had intended. The story would be all over town by nightfall. Arturas was a short, nondescript, clerical sort of man in his late twenties, rarely seen without a diffident smile. Today he was wearing a formal herald’s tabard, which meant that Anton’s sudden summons to the south gate had been a call to a parley. Count Pelrelm must have sent up a flag of truce, as required by the Church’s laws of war. Anton was not as experienced in wrangling as Otto or even Vlad, but he was glib of tongue and fast of wit. He had thrown Havel out of the cathedral on Sunday and the great hall yesterday, and would not be easily fooled. If Havel wanted to talk now, it was probably because his bishop had insisted. The Church always tried to arrange a negotiated settlement before a battle. And one would get you ten that the present delay was because the Cardicians were waiting on Bishop Ugne to complete their team.

“One Speaker is defense,” Justina had said. Havel would certainly have brought a Speaker along to defend him against tweaking, assuming he had found one to replace Vilhelmas. The boy Leonas lacked the wits to undertake that sort of task. So Wulf’s place was at his brother’s side. He must quickly do whatever he could at the north gate and get to the parley before the dirty work began.

Madlenka and her helpers were almost at the battle scene. She would be exposed to stray arrows out there on the wall, but she would insist on doing her duty as she saw it. He could do nothing to stop her, short of transporting her to Portugal, Outremer, or the land of Prester John, and she would never forgive him if he did that.

The machine room was less dangerous, with the defenders there enjoying better protection behind the narrow loopholes than the men exposed on the wall. The trickle of bolts that came whistling in through the loopholes had a low trajectory, so that more of them struck the far wall than the ceiling-a real threat, but also a welcome source of replacement ammunition.

Now Wulf realized with dismay that the stone he carried was destined to go all the way to the roof of the tower, so he could not leave yet. He still had more stairs to climb: spiral staircases, narrow and steep, and the up traffic was waiting its turn. He directed his attention to Vla Kents td, who was still up there, supervising the fitting of ropes to the first trebuchet. He was ignoring the Wends, so Wulf could not Look to see what mischief they were up to, but an effort to burn down or undermine the gate was the most likely guess. Their archers were concentrating their shots on the tower roof, dropping a steady barrage of bolts on it. There were a lot of bodies lying there, some with more than one arrow stuck in them. Men were stripping off the lead sheeting, exposing the timber roof below… Why?