psychical-he lifted it and draped it over one shoulder. Red with rage, he said, “You will regret this sin for all eternity.”
“So you keep saying. Last chance-take that cadaver and go!”
CHAPTER 33
The murderer sank down on a stool, disgusted at himself. It had been a terrible day, and was likely to get worse. Now the Church had a lot more reason to arrest him. He couldn’t imagine an army of Dominicans openly invading Castle Gallant to get him, but they would surely do something. The blood-soaked bedding where Azuolas had died would have to be explained. Vilhelmas was another Speaker who had to be killed, another shot in the back. Was this how Brutus had felt when he came home with Caesar’s blood on his knife?
Marek was examining the two metal bridles, which the intruders had left behind. “These wouldn’t hold you, would they?” he said. “You weren’t calling on your Voices when you were fighting Lodnicka. Neither was he.”
“No, they wouldn’t hold me now,” Wulf said, but without explaining more. Not even cutting out his tongue would disable him now. How had the English managed to burn Joan of Arc? How had they even managed to keep her in jail?
Marek looked at him disbelievingly, then closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, but he remained stubbornly solid. He opened his eyes again.
“Nothing.”
“It will come in time,” Wulf said firmly. “You’ve been held back for five years, so you need to practice. Bear with me a moment.”
He closed his own eyes and searched for Vranov’s to make sure he still had a chance to get at Vilhelmas. Too late! The Hound was leaving the party-on his feet and walking. Images flashed in nauseating jitter as the man’s attention flickered from one angle to another: men’s faces grinning up at him as he passed, calling out incomprehensible jokes; rough-cut plank walls and the door he was approaching; eye-stinging smoke from the fire; the youth Leonas on the floor in a corner, playing with puppies. That was a good sign, because if his father wasn’t taking him he must be planning to return. No sign of Vilhelmas. An open door, a gust of cool, wet night wind bringing scents of trees and swamp. A sickening lurch as he went down two steps to the muddy ground. No rain penetrated the heavy tree cover, but water fell in heavy drops from the branches.
Then wet tree bark, very close.
Wulf squirmed with embarrassment as his host, unaware that he was being observed, fumbled with laces and pulled down the front of his trunk hose. But once Vranov had himself in position and was enjoying what he came to do, he turned his head to study his surroundings. Through a sparse forest of conifer trunks, Wulf saw cooking fires and a camp of leather tents. He saw horses and heard men singing, oxen lowing. Then the Hound turned his attention to the opposite direction. About a hundred yards away, beyond the trees, stood half a dozen wagons, including one especially massive dray with a large, anonymous package chained to it. Four great campfires surrounded the wagon encampment and at least a dozen pickets were patrolling it. There slept the Dragon! Now Wulf knew he was at Long Valley, which Dali Notivova had described to him.
His business complete, Havel Vranov laced up his hose and headed back to the barracks shed, giving Wulf a good view of it. It was about fifty feet long, built of pine logs and roofed with shingles. There were no sentries posted around it, there in the middle of the Wend army, and almost certainly it was Castle Gallant’s advance post, whose garrison had been murdered two days ago. That crime was about to be avenged.
Vranov stamped his feet on the steps to shake mud off his boots and went inside, where the same nine or ten men still sat in a loose arc before the hearth, arguing in an impenetrable dialect. Father Vilhelmas had the place of honor in the middle, directly facing the fieldstone fireplace. Vranov went back to the stool he had vacated. Wulf opened his eyes and returned to reality and Gallant.
Marek had already changed into layman’s clothes. “Well?”
“They’re at Long Valley. Vilhelmas is still there. It should be easy.”
“Those are ominous words, Brother!” Marek said, with an almost-convincing grin.
“True. But I can open a gate through limbo. Step One: emerge right behind him. Step Two: pull trigger. Three: leave, closing gate.”
Marek nodded. “Let me do it. You’ll have to take us there, but I want to pull the trigger.”
Wulf eyed him doubtfully. “Why? There’s no honor in this. It’s craven butchery.”
Marek pouted. “Chivalry died a long time ago. I remember Grandsire complaining of that. It was only ever a set of rules agreed between Christian gentlemen, and the poor pikemen never got the benefit of it. Did you ever hear Otto tell about the man who tried to steal Balaam? Otto picked up a crossbow, armed it, and shot him dead before he had ridden out of range. Balaam turned around and came back to let his master unload the corpse on his back. Same justice here. Vilhelmas killed the count and his son. You need a cleric to kill a cleric.”
That was the weirdest logic Wulf had ever heard. “I killed Azuolas. They can hang me if they catch me, but they can’t hang me twice.”
They had burned Joan of Arc three times.
“But five years of singing psalms is enough. I’d much rather dance on the gibbet beside you than go back to that. Please, Brother?”
This belligerence was unexpected. Of the brothers, Marek had always been the least interested in martial exercises. What was he trying to prove, and was he proving it to himself or to the others? Wulf had brought only one bow, and if Marek botched the shot, the results might be disastrous. To go back to the armory for another bow would be heartless, showing a complete lack of faith in him.
“If you wish. Let’s do it, then.”
Marek took the bow and tried to span it, but after five years as a monk, he lacked the necessary muscle. He handed it to Wulf to do it for him. Wulf did.
“Ready?” he asked, conscious that his own heart was racing fit to burst. “Tuck it under your cloak to keep the string dry.”
“Ready.”
— Limbo.
Wulf did not feel confident enough in his powers yet to try opening a gate right into the cabin at Long Valley. Instead he put it outside in the glade, facing the door but a few feet away from it, relying on the view that Vranov himself had so kindly provided. The air smelled of wood smoke and trees. Heavy drips from the branches were at least as unpleasant as the rain itself would have been, but at least there was no one close. He stepped through the gate and closed it when Marek followed. Together they ran around to the side of the building in case someone came out for the same reason Vranov had. Sounds of drunken singing showed that the party was still in progress inside.
Wulf pointed out the sentries guarding the shrouded shape of the bombard on the dray. “That must be the Dragon. Nothing else would be so well guarded.”
Marek nodded, and then suddenly gripped Wulf’s arm as he was turning away.
“Look there!” he whispered. “Is that him? Beside that wagon on the right?”
The pickets were too far away to make out any details, not even whether they were wearing armor, but Marek was indicating a group of three men standing in apparent conversation. One of them had a nimbus. Could it be Father Vilhelmas?
“Not enough time,” Wulf said. “He couldn’t have got there since…” Of course he could, because he was a Speaker.
He looked through Vilhelmas’s eyes and was instantly back in the party inside the log building: lamplight, wood smoke, strident laughter. So Vilhelmas was Count Vranov’s Speaker and the Wends had at least one of their own. A Speaker to guard the Dragon was hardly unexpected, but even one must make Wulf’s task of destroying it very much harder. Any more than one would make it impossible.
“No, he’s still inside.” Wulf handed Marek a quarrel. “Tell me when to open the gate. Don’t give them time to react.”
“Ready.”
