Dave Duncan - When the Saints

If the castle survived the Wends and the Pelrelmians, he could realistically hope to receive a bonus from the victorious count, perhaps even a raise, and thus the means to afford marriage. If the castle fell… He tried not to think about that. Gallant sat between two armies like a nut in a nutcracker, and the people prayed as they had not prayed in a century.

Near sunset, rumors of a miracle began to circulate. The count’s brother, Sir Vladislav, was reported to be leading a sortie out the north gate, which ought to be suicide. The snow showed signs of ending, but darkness was falling, so perhaps he could still hope to escape detection long enough to damag1C; sih oe whatever the enemy had been doing up at the mouth of the gorge.

Then word was passed for Arturas Synovec to attend His Lordship on the roof of the north barbican. Raise or bonus would depend on diligence, so he ran the whole way, arriving almost too breathless to speak. The bitter wind was still howling up there, and the three men standing by the battlements were all muffled like hibernating bears. He could recognize the count by his height, and he was fairly certain that the one in armor was Constable Dali Notivova.

His footsteps were muffled, but they heard him puffing and turned to face him.

“Herald,” the count said, “have you heard about the river?”

That was about the most unexpected question he had ever been asked.

“No, my”-gasp-“lord.”

“Constable, tell him.”

“It’s stopped flowing,” Notivova said. “Just a trickle here and there. Never seen anything like it.”

And what did they expect Arturas Synovec to do about it? He said nothing, which was usually a wise choice for a herald, or so Klement had taught him.

“We heard thunder a while ago,” the count said, “and the ground shook. We think a landslide must have blocked the gorge. Nothing else could plug up the river. If the Ruzena can’t flow, the gorge will flood. The Wends won’t be able to get at us. They’ll have to go home. They may all be buried under the slide-my brother’s gone to see. The Lord has spoken.”

Arturas found breath enough to shout, “God be praised!”

“Amen. But Havel and his Pelrelmians may not know this. I want you to go down there-”

The third man coughed, thereby revealing that he was Baron Magnus, the eldest brother.

“Um, yes,” said the count. “I’m asking you if you are willing to go down there with a flag of truce to tell them that the war may be over. We don’t want any nasty accidents or unnecessary assaults. But you’re not a man-at-arms, and this could be dangerous, so I’m asking, not ordering.”

“It’s my job, my lord. Of course I’ll go.” There! He was quite proud to hear himself say it. Surprised, too.

“Then the sooner the better,” the count said. “Try to get to see Count Pelrelm himself, or at least Sir Marijus, his son. Tell him we want a truce until noon. By then we should know exactly what’s happened, and if necessary we’ll let him send observers to confirm our reports. You may ortce also tell him that, if they abandon their aggres sion and go home now, we shan’t report this morning’s skirmish to the king. That was just a case of misunderstood orders.”

“Tell him that last bit only if you are pressed,” the baron added. “Don’t sound as if we’re afraid of a fight. They’re the ones sleeping in the snow, not us. The constable will see you out the postern. You’ll need a flag, of course, and a clean-burning torch.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And a clean rag,” the baron said. “They may want to blindfold you, so take a clean rag with you.”

Wulf narrowly avoided losing his left eye on a branch. Away from the avalanche area, where trees still stood, the gorge was almost totally dark.

“You go ahead,” he said to Vlad. “I have snow in my shoes and pine needles down my neck. I am going to strip naked and fall into bed.”

“You’ve earned it.” Vlad heaved half a cedar out of their way. “Don’t suppose anyone will miss you here.”

No. By the time Vlad caught up with his cavalrymen, they would have reached their horses and mingled with Sir Teodor’s men coming in. In the darkness and confusion, the squire’s absence would not be noticed.

Wulf opened a gate to the roof of the north barbican and stepped through it. “All is well,” he said. His brothers jumped like frogs.

Otto crossed himself. “I wish you’d warn me when you’re going to do that!”

“Vlad’s all right?” Anton demanded. “What happened to the river? Why’s it stopped running? A landslide?”

“Just an avalanche, they think; ought to melt in the summer. The war is over. We won. I helped, but it was a genuine miracle. You’d better tell the bishop to organize a Te Deum.” Wulf would attend and give thanks. The full import of what had happened was just starting to sink in.

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” Otto said. “It’s a pity you can’t get the public credit.”

“No matter.” Wulf yawned as if he would never stop. He had been running on excitement for too long, and was almost asleep on his feet.

“Anton’s planning to knight you tomorrow.”

Wulf nodded. “Thanks.” He would try and talk them out of that, though. It was not a good idea-knight him for what? Kortce="-1"›nighthood should be recognition of prowess at arms, not Satanism. “I’m going off watch, my lords. If you need me, sit on it till morning.”

Otto thumped him on the shoulder. “Come to the solar and let us drink a toast to Wulfgang the Great.”

Anton said, “Yes, please. Let’s do that.”

However weary, Wulf could not refuse such a plea. “Just a quick nightcap, then.” The solar was in the castle, on the far side of town. He opened a gate to it and led the way through. After a couple of muttered oaths, or possibly prayers, his brothers followed.

Tonight someone had thought to order a fire and candles, so the little room was cozy and bright after the snowy fall night. The furniture had been shifted around; Wulf slumped into a chair. Anton played host, fussing with a decanter and goblets of fine Venetian glass. He and Otto drank their toast to the boy wonder, although they were too polite to call him that to his face.

“Thanks,” Wulf murmured as they sat down. He raised his own glass without summoning the effort needed to stand. “Omnia audere!”

They chorused the motto back at him and all three drank.

“And to the Magnuses of Cardice,” Wulf added, directing a smile to Anton, but thinking sadly of Madlenka, matriarch of the future line. Tomorrow he was leaving Castle Gallant forever, pestilence or no pestilence. Perhaps in time the pain would end. “May they prosper for a hundred generations!”

Then it was Otto’s turn. One more toast ought to dispose of the rest of the wine, so Wulf could go to bed. But Otto said nothing, just watched Anton, who was leaning his forearms on his knees and staring down into his goblet, studying the wine as he swilled it around. Eventually: “Um, Wulf?”

“Yes, Anton?”

“You love Madlenka?”

“Yes. I told you and I wouldn’t lie about-”

“And she loves you?”

Wulf drew a deep breath. His heart began to thump insanely. “Yes.”

“Then… Oh, I like her. She’d be a good, honorable wife, but… I want her to be happy, not miserable. And you too. You’ve earned… I know she doesn’t love me. To be honest, given the choice, Giedre’s the one I would go for.”

Wulf glanced at Otto, who was now staring innocently at the fire. So that long talk on the barbican roof had not been just about what could be keeping Vlad occupied.

“That’s incredibly kind of you, Brother. I’d leap at the chance and I’m sure she would if… Well, it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re handfasted.”