So Wulf refused to answer questions.
He began calculating what he would need. Outdoor clothes, a sword, a dagger. Assassination was always less risky when done from a distance and Vilhelmas’s current companions were almost certainly men-at-arms. A quick trip through limbo, a point-blank shot, and an even faster escape… Yes, a crossbow would be the best weapon.
He knew where the armory was. He promised to find Marek a sword, and made his way there.
The armory was locked, of course, but no light showed under the door and locks were no longer a problem. The windows, although protected by massive iron bars, were large; he could see reasonably well by the lights in the bailey.
The racks held a bewildering choice of crossbows: wood, bone, or steel; old and new, small and large. He chose the best he could see, a full-sized military bow of shiny steel with a hand crank. Locating the stores of strings, quivers, and quarrels took longer. Then he had to string the bow, setting the tiller vertical and putting a foot in the stirrup to hold it steady on the floor. Spanning the bow with the crank required a few minutes’ hard work, but not the monstrous strength needed to draw a longbow. He hooked the string over the nut and fastened it with the pin so it would be safe to carry it like that. He dropped four quarrels in a quiver, although there was little chance that he would have time to reload.
His own sword was upstairs. He chose a shorter one for Marek and slung it on a baldric.
Carrying a spanned bow indoors was antisocial behavior that would invite questions. He took a quick glance through Marek’s eyes to make sure that he was still alone and saw two men with halos looming over him. Wulf had always sympathized with his brother’s lack of stature, but experiencing it directly like this was a shock. It must be like living in a world of Vlads and Antons.
“…still no more than a Four or Five, as that listing was explained to you?”
“Yes, Father.”
Right! — Limbo… Wulf emerged in the corridor outside the door of the Orchard room, took a bolt from his quiver, and loaded it into the groove of the bow. He pulled out the safety pin. Before he could open the door, one of the men backed away from Marek so that he stood directly on the other side of it. Wulf squeezed the trigger.
The noise made by the crossbow being struck by its string was very nearly as loud as an arquebus being fired, and the crash of the bolt going through the planks doubled it. There was no time to reload. He dropped the bow and stepped through limbo into the room.
The friar sprawled facedown on the bed, half on and half off, bleeding copiously and twitching so violently that he might soon slide to the floor. His nimbus flared erratically, as if he might be trying to heal himself.
Marek was struggling to remove his iron gag.
The third person was an elderly Benedictine monk, with a lined face and sparse white hair around his tonsure. He was not tall, but the bulky habit did not hide the outlines of a massive torso. He might be three times Wulf’s age, but he would still be a dangerous opponent to wrestle.
And he must have many times Wulf’s experience as a Speaker. Invisible hands tightened around Wulf’s throat, forcing his head back and downward until he thought his neck would snap. Then his combat training snapped in. He countered with an imaginary punch to the monk’s solar plexus that hurled the man back against the fireplace.
That broke his grip, and Wulf gulped in air.
“Stop this! We must heal your friend!”
“You think I am a fool to be snared by such lies?” The monk clamped Wulf’s neck again, tighter than ever, choking and bending, forcing him down to his knees.
Men of God should not use force. They certainly should not tangle with trained warriors. — Kick! An imaginary boot slammed into the monk’s groin. He screamed and crumpled to the floor. Some contests were not governed by the laws of chivalry.
Wulf rushed to the bed, where the Dominican had fallen still. Before he could even think about healing, the same giant hands closed around his head again, thumbs pressing on his eyeballs.
— Kick!
This time the monk either blocked the kick or cured his hurt instantly, for Wulf’s reprieve was momentary. Marek was still struggling with the gag, unable to call on his Voices for help. The fight continued, two contestants half a room apart trading blows, kicks, and holds that were invisible but felt just as effective as their counterparts in an all-out physical brawl.
Fighter or not, Wulf was outclassed. His opponent knew far more psychic tricks than he did. His feet flew out from under him even as a noose tightened around his throat. He hit the floor and was kicked on both sides of his chest simultaneously. The light was fading. There was no air…
And then there was. His opponent was flat on the floor, and Marek stood over him clutching the poker from the fireplace.
Wulf scrambled dizzily to his feet. “Thanks! I was starting to get worried there.” He turned to the prostrate friar, but Marek came to him, making urgent noises.
Wulf said, “Sorry,” and examined the padlock on the metal gag. He had no time to waste looking for the key. — Open! It opened and he lifted it out of the hasp. “There,” he said. “If you will keep an eye on your prisoner, I will see what I can do here.”
He knelt beside the Dominican and took his hand. He searched inside for that flicker he had seen in the dying Anton. This time he had no trouble finding what he sought-the friar’s soul blazing like a bonfire, about to depart. Quickly Wulf visualized kicking dirt over it, mortal clay. After a moment he even visualized a shovel to bury the blaze. — Live! — Live! It was a strange way to conceive of healing, and it might have worked if he had started sooner, but the friar’s soul broke loose and flew up and away, leaving only a swirl of ash behind, without as much as an ember.
“He’s dead,” Wulf said. He said a hasty prayer, crossed himself, and stood up. He had killed a man, shooting him in the back from cover. It had never been a fair fight and there was no honor in it. He felt sick and shaky.
The monk was sitting up, showing no sign of a distress, so either he or Marek had healed his headache. Marek stood behind him holding the poker, ready to hit him again. Both were murmuring prayers.
When they had finished, Wulf said, “Wasn’t he one of the Dominicans who came to Dobkov for you, five years ago?”
“Yes. Father Azuolas. And this is Brother Lodnicka, who was my master at Koupel.” Marek looked at least as shaken as Wulf felt.
“And who will be again,” Lodnicka said tartly. “So you have murdered a priest, Wulfgang Magnus. You are doomed to the pit!”
What to do with the body? What to do with Lodnicka? Both physically and magically, he was enormously powerful. Killing him would be the simplest solution. Otherwise he would return with an army. But a friar and a monk… Who would ever believe Wulf had slain them in self-defense?
“Brother Marek, you lied to me,” the monk continued. “You told me that Wulfgang was still only a Four.”
“And you lied to him,” Wulf roared. “You told him you were sending him out to find me and then go back to report where I was, but that wasn’t true, was it? Because you knew him, you could watch through his eyes. You could also go to him, anywhere, as you just did. You didn’t know me, because I had kept my face hidden when I came to Koupel. And the abbot’s attempts to eavesdrop on us prove that he didn’t have any Speakers handy just then anyway. So you sent Marek to find me and open the way to me.”
The monk sneered. “We did not lie to him. Telling partial truth in a good cause is a minor sin compared with murdering a priest!”
“But kidnapping is both a breach of the king’s peace and violence forbidden by canon law. We are fighting a war here in Cardice. Pomerania has invaded Jorgary. Your interference is treason and I doubt if King Konrad will pay much attention to benefit of clergy if he learns of it. Do you understand?”
“We fight the greater war of Christ against the armies of Satan!”
“Then fight it in your cloisters and leave this one to us. Take that corpse away and give it Christian burial, because if you don’t… disposing of two bodies in these mountains can’t be much harder than disposing of one. The wolves and the bears will be happy to assist. And stay away from here in future!”
Wulf was now so furious that he could barely restrain himself. Perhaps that showed, for the Benedictine stopped arguing. Scowling, he rose and went to the friar’s body. In an impressive show of strength-physical or
