Dave Duncan - When the Saints

Wulf poked Anton in the back, under his corselet.

Anton warped around and gave him a what-are-you-doing-here glare.

Wulf returned a knowing, you-need-me smirk. After eighteen years’ practice in dealing with each other in war and peace, the brothers needed few words to communicate. Anton pulled a face and returned to attendance on the bishop.

Ugne was not an especially short man, but he appeared so next to Anton. His conspicuous belly and flat-footed waddle made his legs seem short, though, and perhaps they were. He had a very prominent curved nose. Madlenka said that he looked like a parrot, but today he was enveloped in a robe of snowy ermine with a red miter. Wulf decided he was more o Ningha lof a cockatoo.

“Bishop Starsi is a most holy man,” he proclaimed. “His health has been causing concern of late and it is a measure of his dedicated service to the Prince of Peace that he has made the arduous journey over these hills to participate in this holy discourse.”

“I am not yet familiar with the limits of my own fief, my lord bishop,” Anton said. “I do not even know how far away Pelrelm is.”

“Oh, a day’s ride or less to the border. But Pelrelm is much larger than Cardice, and mountainous. The bishop’s see is in Woda, three days’ hard riding away from here in summer, and more in these conditions.”

They should let the holy man make an early start on his homeward journey, Wulf thought. But this was Friday, and on Sunday Anton had arrived in his new domain and thrown the conspiring Havel Vranov out on his ear. There should not have been time since then for him to ride home to Woda and rout the bishop out of bed to come and negotiate a parley. Havel himself certainly dabbled in Satanism, but was his bishop one of the Wise?

The garrison on the redoubt saluted as the dignitaries arrived. They had already opened a gap in the breastwork, so Arturas led the way through and the others followed. Wulf grinned at a couple of faces he recognized from the banquet and took note of them as people whose eyes he might want to borrow in the near future-especially Master Sergeant Jachym, who was currently in command of this suicide squad.

Less traveled, the snow beyond the outpost was less slushy. A few more yards of it brought Wulf to his first view of what lay around the bend. The road descended more steeply down the side of a V notch in the cliff, which it crossed on a trestle bridge. If Anton had shown some foresight, he could have stripped the deck off of it days ago and given himself a better first line of defense.

Havel’s armed escort of at least two hundred mounted men-at-arms and archers was already on the Castle Gallant side of the bridge, drawn up in rows. The Hound and four companions were closer, still on horseback. Apart from the count himself, there was a portly herald in a tabard, a crozier-carrying bishop in miter and vestments, a man in armor, and a boy on a pony. They now began to dismount, with the herald and the man-at-arms assisting the bishop, and the boy taking charge of the horses.

The groups met halfway. The heralds proclaimed a parley. The two bishops exchanged the kiss of peace and blessed the proceedings. The wind was damned cold. Madlenka was up on the roof of the north barbican, bandaging a wounded boy. Idiot woman! A few Wend arrows were still falling.

Starsi was elderly, with the spare, parchment face of an invalid. He was taller than the tubby Ugne, but sorely bent; the bony hand clutching his crozier trembled constantly. He ought to be home in bed, not out here on a mountain trail in winter.

Ugne presented Count Magnus. Anton kissed Starsi’s ring.

Unnecessarily, Starsi introduced Havel Vranov to Ugne. Wulf had not previously set eyes-his own eyes-on the notorious Hound, but he had stolen Looks at him through others’. He was a heavyset man of middle years, wearing a salt-and-pepper beard that made him seem older than he probably was. His nose was generous and aquiline, although not on the same Alpine scale as Ugne’s, and he had a slight limp.

That should have been that for introductions, for attendants did not matter. The man-at-arms was a squire, taller than anyone else there, other than Anton, of course. Although his helmet obscured most of his face, it revealed enough of his chin to show that he was still quite young, not yet fully matured into his height. His nimbus reflected beautifully in his highly polished helmet and cuirass.

Anton could not see that, but he glanced from Wulf to the youth and back again and guessed what was happening. He begged leave to present his brother and squire, Wulfgang Magnus. Wulf dipped a knee in the snow to kiss the bishop’s ring.

Havel Vranov went through much the same procedure to introduce “My nephew and squire, Alojz Zauber.”

Alojz was probably wearing leathers under his armor, so he would not get his knee wet. He might rust, though. He and Wulf exchanged stares, appraising each other. Possibly there should have been smiles and nods to acknowledge their common talent, but two Speakers had died last night, like an exchange of chessmen, so there could be no trust now. They were there to protect their respective principals and keep each other in line. They and the two counts knew the real rules of the game. The bishops and heralds probably did not.

The six conferees had automatically grouped themselves in a circle, each facing his counterpart.

“Havel,” quavered Bishop Starsi, in an ancient, moss-encrusted voice, “is most anxious to do his duty by our sovereign lord, King Konrad the Fifth, beloved of his people and anointed by God. He believes that the schismatic Wends under that dog turd Wartislaw are planning to attack Castle Gallant and wishes to offer his aid. Yet he tells me that Count Magnus has twice refused it.”

“As he should!” Bishop Ugne declaimed. “Your precious count invaded Castle Gallant last night in the company of Satanists. Four of them came in all. I saw their foul witchcraft with my own eyes. They vanished in the plain sight of all. He is a tool of the devil and should be dealt with accordingly.”

The aged Starsi bleated nervously, “Is this true, my son?”

Havel was showing fangs like a charging bear. “Not a word of it! I was helping my men pitch camp on High Meadows last night and can produce innumerable witnesses. Alojz, for one, will support me in that, won’t you, lad? Whatever you think you saw, my lord bishop, can only have been a foul sending, an apparition raised by evil Wend witchcraft. It has been no secret for years that Wartislaw is in league with Satan. No doubt his purpose was to divide Count Magnus and myself so that we are misled by distrust and fail to unite against him.”

“That is the truth,” Alojz said.

Fires of hell! That had been a flash! Wulf had let his thoughts wander to Madlenka again and had failed to keep an eagle’s gaze on Squire Alojz. Glaring at him now, he was awarded a small smirk of triumph, hidden from anyone else by the Pelrelmian’s helmet.

“It… it could have been a sending, I suppose,” Ugne mumbled uncertainly. He looked to Anton, who did not speak.

Alojz had tweaked at least one of the bishops, perhaps both, and Wulf had no idea what he could do about it.

Old Starsi was clearly relieved. “I would believe anything of those schismatics, those children of Satan. Did you seek to exorcize the apparition, Brother? Did you banish it back to the nether regions?”

Ugne made an effort to square shoulders that were not made for squaring. “I tried,” he boomed, “but the sending was too strong for an impromptu invocation. It did not depart until it had left an offering in the shape of a young dog-which, I hasten to add, we ritually burned as we purified the hall where this phantasma had appeared…”