temper would kill him one day.
He bowed. “Thank you for what you have done already. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, so if you’d rather I just dissolved into thin air, I’ll-”
“Wait!” she said. “That horrible gallows contrivance your hairy brother was building… Now, I am no warrior, only a simple serving wench, but I do hope they call in the bishop to bless it.”
Wulf paused in buckling on his sword. “The wood may be unsound?”
She nodded. “It’s old.”
“A blessing is a sort of curse in reverse?”
She nodded again, eyes twinkling.
“How close must a Speaker be to bless?”
“The closer the better. Laying a hand on it would be best.”
“Thank you, Justina.”
“And hereafter, mind well what you bless or curse or what oaths you swear! You may do more than you intend.”
“Thank you again!” About to open a gate through limbo, he realized that the castle and town would be a whirlwind of activity, people everywhere. “Um… how do I find a safe place to return unobserved?”
She shrugged, seeming amused at his naivete. “You don’t want to be seen stepping out of thin air.”
“No, I certainly do not.”
“So you want not to?”
“Yes.” What was she hinting?
“You think your Voices don’t know that?”
Not wanting to seem stupid, he nodded. “Thank you. God be with you, Justina.”
He went back to Gallant.
CHAPTER 5
Wulf stepped out of limbo in the corner behind one of the outdoor stone st Fyousiiv heiaircases that lined the streets of the town. Even if his Voices no longer spoke to him, they must still be looking after his well-being, because nobody noticed. A band of women was hurrying away from him, but no one was coming in his direction, and he saw no faces peering out of windows. The north barbican tower loomed over the road ahead, so he took off at a run, shouting at the women to get out of his way. They cleared a path at once for a man dressed as a noble.
There was no direct access to the barbican from the town at ground level, so he ran out through the big gate to the Quarantine Road. He found himself in a human anthill, with men and horses bringing in tools, timber, and bales of arrows from the town. Dalibor Notivova, the constable, was shouting himself hoarse in the tumult. There had been no time to erect derricks and pulleys, so men on the roof were hauling the supplies up on ropes, hand over hand. Every few minutes one would lose his grip and screams of warning would announce a load coming down much faster than it had been going up.
Wulf silently cursed the late Count Bukovany, who had done nothing to put his castle on a war footing. But Anton had been keeper for five days now and done no better. He had not even stocked the two barbican towers with ammunition. Anton had still not reached the south barbican. That was a dizzying reminder that the world of ordinary, er, workadays moved at a snail’s pace compared with the Speakers’.
Deciding that he could do no good there, Wulf ran back into the town. He was trying to find a way into his first battle with no orders, no specific duty, and no armor. He wielded the most potent weapon imaginable, but had not been trained in its use. About all he was sure of was that he was not Jove, who could have smitten that advancing column of Pomeranians with thunderbolts. And if he were, that would be a breach of the first commandment.
The nearest house was being demolished by men up at roof level, who were prying it apart stone by stone. Porters below were waiting until they saw a safe moment to dive forward and grab a block from the rising heaps. These they would then carry up the stairs flanking the curtain wall. Wulf needed to go up those stairs. Pride would not let him go empty-handed, so he joined the carrying line and was amused by the astonished expressions, the hasty bows and salutes. Only noblemen wore swords, so they stood aside to let him go next, and of course pride made him choose one of the largest stones he could see. Bent backward by its weight, he staggered over to join the line of sweating, half-naked men on the staircase.
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
