Speak to the Devil

CHAPTER 18

In Tuesday’s chill gray dawn, Count Magnus rode out as a member of the Long Valley patrol. His escort wore a motley collection of mismatched hand-me-down mail, both plate and chain, so they had little in common except their Cardice surcoats and the crossbows slung on their backs. His own fine armor marked him as a nobleman, as did his mount, a splendid gray courser named Avalanche that had been a favorite of the late Count Bukovany.

Just because Jorgarian troops continued to man the post at Long Valley did not mean that Duke Wartislaw was not slipping patrols past it, keeping a watch on Castle Gallant. If that were the case, then Anton would make a wonderful target of opportunity. He would be safer riding a nag and wearing the same nondescript gear as the troopers-assuming he could find any to fit him-but it did not become a nobleman to hide his rank like that. Well, if the worst happened, he would certainly not be the first Magnus to be nailed into his cuirass by a crossbow bolt.

The mountains were wrapped in fleece and the valleys blurred by something too heavy for mist and too light to be rain. The first half mile or so was easy enough, with cliff-up on the left and cliff-down on the right. The surface was in need of repair, but not bad enough to hinder an invading army. He had seen this part from the tower. The two roads, the north and south approaches to Gallant, were almost as impressive as the castle itself.

He thought about pestilence. He had thought of little else since the word was mentioned. The stricken landsknecht woman had died before Ekkehardt led his men out, and he had reluctantly accepted a bribe of a thousand florins to take the body away with him and bury it in the graveyard at High Meadows.

So far Ekkehardt had been the only one to mention plague. He might have been bribed to invent it. He might have made a mistake, for other diseases could produce buboes. Even that senile, half-witted doctor in the infirmary ought to have recognized the symptoms of pestilence if he had seen them. Anton clung desperately to the hope that there was no pestilence.

Plague might scare away the Wends, of course, even if he had to drive a thousand plague victims out the north gate to do it. Except that the townsfolk would just disobey him and hide their sick dear ones. Would the bishop forbid it as mortal sin, and if so how much would it cost to buy him off? Counts who quarreled with bishops usually lost. Plague would ruin everything. It was unthinkable.

He had troubles enough without it. He had set the seneschal to work building up food stores against a siege, but the cowards fleeing town were mouths that need not be fed. He would have to start cutting firebreaks through that maze of houses as soon as the enemy appeared, which would not raise his popularity much.

A leader must not be seen to brood. He turned to his new constable, Dalibor Notivova, riding alongside him in the van. Anton had already learned that the man was Cardice-born and had served abroad as a mercenary for a few years before coming home to find a wife and raise a family. Probably that story would turn out to be fairly typical of the whole garrison, but asking questions was the only way to learn. So Father had always said: nobles could learn even from commoners if they cared to make the effort.

“How far up the Silver Road have you traveled?” he asked.

“Only as far as the lake, my lord.”

The trail rounded a spur into the gorge, dank and noisy, with the Ruzena rushing and foaming far below them. The roadway rose steadily, but before long it passed a roaring waterfall, appropriately named Thunder Falls. Beyond that the track and the river were more or less level. Then they came to the first bridge, spanning a small tributary.

Anton dismounted to inspect it. It was built of undressed tree trunks and disappointingly sturdy, able to carry a team of oxen quite safely. Whether it would also hold up under the weight of the great bombard called the Dragon remained to be seen. He sprang into the saddle again, and chose another companion to question.

The gorge was growing wider, the river calmer, the rain heavier. He changed companions again after inspecting another bridge over a tributary. Eventually they came to a point where they must ford the Ruzena itself, at a place where islands of coarse shingle divided it into many smaller streams.

“River’s not very deep, my lord,” remarked Big Herkus, his current companion. Big Herkus was about Marek’s size; Little Herkus must be a giant.

The water barely came up to the horses’ hocks, but the shingle was a welcome sight, because moving an extra-heavy load over that would tax even Duke Wartislaw’s resources. Wheels might jam, axles break, oxen balk at the footing.

Better still, the next bridge was a long timber span, carrying the road back across the Ruzena. It was in poor condition and a gang of sappers should be able to dismantle most of it in a couple of hours. They would need archers and lancers to guard them while they worked, of course, and Anton resolved to organize that expedition for tomorrow. He was starting to feel more comfortable, hoping that the Dragon would never arrive. It might just be a Vranov invention, like the rumor of pestilence.

Less encouraging was his discovery that his army was largely made up of rookies. Only two of his five companions had battle experience; the other three were local-born and locally trained. They might suffice if all they had to do was stand on the battlements and shoot arrows, but would they stand firm when the balls and bolts started coming the other way?

The valley steadily widened; the river wandered off, out of sight of the road. The rain stopped; a slight breeze arose. The lower reaches of the mountains were gentle and painted with grass or lichen; certainly some grass, because a herd of white specks-goats or sheep-was grazing the slope to the north. The floor of the valley was marshy, with ponds showing between stretches of moss and reeds, but there were enough stands of spindly aspens to restrict the view to no more than a hundred yards in any direction. In summer the air would be a fog of mosquitoes. At best, the road was muddy: the worst parts had been patched with corduroy topped with a layer of clay, but some of the tree trunks were rotting. The horses became skittish, testing their footing with every step. Oxen might not care as much, but a duke who planned to bring a monster bombard along here had not listened to valid advice. Or else he had Speakers to help him.

A faster splatter of hooves at his back and Notivova rode up alongside. “My lord!” He looked worried.

“Constable?”

“We should have met the returning squad before now, my lord. They’re supposed to wait at the post until their relief arrives, but they never do. They all want to get home early.”

Anton raised a hand to signal a halt. “You told anyone that I would be making a personal inspection today?” The post garrison might even now be standing in rows, ready to salute their new commander and impress him with their incredible devotion to duty.

“Not a soul, my lord.” If the same image had occurred to the trooper, he did a fine job of keeping a straight face.

“How far to Long Valley?”

“We’re in it. Half a mile or so to the border post. If Your Lordship can see those tall firs? They grow on a small mound in the marsh, the only really dry land hereabout. The post is there. Then there’s another mile or so of this muck on the way to the lake head and the Wends’ landing stage, where the ferry barges come. The lake’s ten or twelve miles long.”

Anton glanced around the scenery. “God made this place to stage ambushes.”

“He certainly did, my lord!” Notivova showed relief that his commander had enough sense to see that.

For the new count to take fright and run away before he had reached his objective would just be good sense. It would also be rank cowardice by chivalric standards. Yet to charge ahead and be mown down would throw away the lives of his five companions, and worthy leaders did not do such things. Anton had no choice. If there was one thing a brainless Magnus colt like him could not tolerate it was a challenge like this. Omnia audere! Other men might call him an idiot, but success would make him a hero in the eyes of the garrison, and he would need true loyalty when the attack began.

“Then let’s see if we can turn the tables. I’ll be bait. Wait behind these trees. Stand still and make no noise. If I come back with the wolves on my heels, try to shoot them and not me, all right?”

“My lord!”

“You have your orders.” Anton wanted no argument that might weaken his resolve. His heartbeat was disgracefully fast already.

He reached for the crossbow slung on his back and tore off the cover. It was designed for use on horseback, being small and spanned with a goat’s foot lever. Now it was already spanned, and he loaded a bolt in the groove. The chances of hitting a target were remote, but just holding a weapon was a comfort. A lance would be even better.

He reminded himself that Caesar, Hector, Alexander-all great leaders-had been men of suicidal courage. If the city shaver sent by the king could prove that he had real balls, then the garrison would follow him to a man. There would be no more sad muttering about Count Stepan and Sir Petr.

Prodded into motion, Avalanche leaped forward, glad of the chance to show his paces. The big fellow was a hunter, able to choose his path, and he swerved around the corduroy patches, preferring to take his chances in the muck.

The trail wound like a snake between ponds and swamp and the little aspen groves. The dark firs were farther off than Anton had guessed, and the ambushers, if they existed, might already have closed the road behind him. His excitement now was as intense as sex. His groin burned with it. Omnia audere! This was what a Magnus did. He had felt some of this battle lust going down the hill at the hunt, but here he had no Wulf to save him. This was his legend, live or die. Ancestors, behold! Even Vladislav might approve of him now.

Where was the enemy? What a fool he would look if he arrived at Long Valley to find the guards drawn up in rows, saluting their count.

Thirty yards off to the right, a man emerged from cover, running toward him as fast as he could struggle through the mud.

Some brainless Wend sounded a hunting horn, three long blasts to mean that the dogs were on a good trail. The woodland hatched about a hundred horsemen, like dragon teeth, a dozen riding out from behind a copse before him, more from trees behind him, on both sides. Some distant, some close. How could he possibly have missed seeing so many?

He swung Avalanche like a sword and headed for the running man. It was the Englishman, Llywelyn, bloodied and clutching a wounded arm to his chest with his free hand. Two enemy men-at-arms were converging on him and seemed likely to cut him down before Anton could arrive.

Assail a wounded man, would they? Anton spurred Avalanche cruelly. He dropped the reins, guiding his mount with his knees and using both hands for the bow. He must hold his aim until he could be sure of hitting the foe and not Llywelyn, but on horseback that might be forever. At the last possible moment, when the nearer Wend had his saber raised to strike, Llywelyn threw himself flat. The bow cracked, and must have sent the bolt right through the hussar, for he toppled back, dropping his saber and unbalancing his horse. Anton had no time to reload. He dropped the bow and drew his sword.

The second attacker veered away from Llywelyn to meet the danger. He was a small man who would not match Anton in brute strength, so Anton ducked low and swung upward. Their sabers rang as the horses passed, and he managed to continue his parry into a backhand riposte at the enemy horse’s rump. That would make it unresponsive for a while. He reined in Avalanche alongside Llywelyn, who was upright again, white eyes staring out of a muddy mask. Llywelyn grabbed for the saddle with his good hand, Anton reached down to grip his cuirass strap, and they both heaved.

With the wounded bowman draped over his withers, Avalanche made a game effort to run, but he was grievously overloaded and the footing was treacherous. Help was coming, though. Horn sounding, Notivova was leading his gallant band to the rescue. By luck or inspiration, he and his four riders had spread out and the aspens made it hard to judge how many they were. The Wends were fewer than they had seemed at first sight, maybe thirty or forty, but now half of them were between Anton and his rescuers.

“The odds are good,” he shouted cheerily. “Good for a good fight, I mean.”

Llywelyn was whimpering with pain, probably because his wounded arm was trapped underneath him and he needed his other hand to hold the saddle, lest he slide off, headfirst or feetfirst.

“Very grateful, my lord.”

“I’m only doing my duty like you were. Hang on.”

Two Wends were converging on Avalanche, timing their approach so they could strike simultaneously. Anton prepared to take the one on his right, a big, ugly, hairy brute.

It wasn’t going to work, though. He had no shield, nothing to parry the other attack with except his vambrace, so he might well come away from this encounter with a broken arm. He might even lose a hand.

Shock!

He wheeled Avalanche to meet the other assailant, but his sword had disappeared. Blood was trickling out of a round hole in his right rerebrace. And also from a matching hole on the other side of it. He had apparently taken a quarrel through his upper arm. It was strange that he could feel no pain. He was spouting blood. He might lose his arm. He was thinking in patches. What should he do now?

Finding his way blocked, Avalanche had stopped, puffing hard and flickering his ears at the stench of blood. Llywelyn uttered a groan and slid to the ground. He tried to land on his feet, but collapsed in a heap among the reeds.

“Yield, my lord?”

A ring of mounted Wends surrounded them, with a dozen spanned crossbows aimed at Anton Magnus’s heart. Not a likely-looking nobleman among them. Yield to a commoner? If he had a sword he could try to take one of the vermin with him. But black mist was starting to swirl around him, and even Vlad had yielded at the Battle of the Boundary Stone.

“I yield.”

“Wise of you, Count Magnus.” The new voice came from his left, and apparently from a priest, since he wore a jeweled pectoral cross and bore no arms or armor. He was clad in black robes and an odd pot-shaped hat; even his horse was black. Above a black pillow of beard his right eye was watching Anton with amusement and contempt; his left was studying the mountains.

“I don’t yield to priests.”

“You will yield to death very shortly if you don’t get down and let us attend to your arm.”

His accent sounded like pottery in a waterwheel, but what he was saying was probably true, and descending voluntarily would be more dignified than falling off in a faint. Anton kicked out of his stirrups and leaned forward to pull his right leg over. From habit he put weight on his right arm. That brought on the missing pain. He screamed, fell off Avalanche, and landed on top of Llywelyn.

He could not have been unconscious very long, but long enough for his captors to strip off his spaulder, vambrace, and rerebrace to expose the wound. A soldier who looked like a swineherd and smelled like the swine was stitching one of the wounds with a needle and gut. Another man was holding the other hole shut until it could be treated. There was no lack of pain now, murderous thunderclaps of agony.

Close by, Notivova and Big Herkus were tending Llywelyn.

“If you live,” remarked the priest, watching from horseback, “then you will have some loss of strength in that arm. But a wound like that is very likely to lead to lockjaw or gangrene or just severe wound fever. You had better speak with your confessor as soon as you get back to Gallant, my lord.”

“You are sending me back?”

The priest laughed. His age was hard to assess under that beard-mid-thirties, perhaps. “We don’t have a jail handy, and you do more good for our cause botching up the defense of Castle Gallant than you would rotting in a cell in Pomerania. Who would bother to ransom you, Anton? We shall empty the Bukovany coffers soon enough without selling carrion to the castle.”

“Who are you and why is a priest leading a band of raider scum- Yeaew!”

“Beg pardon, my lord,” said the surgeon cheerfully. “Did I pull on that too hard?”

The priest was still smiling. “I am merely a humble servant of the Lord, Anton, doing good works in His name. Do not mock, my son. I just saved your life. My unkind companions wanted to leave you there, bleeding to death.”

The surgeon tied the last knot and trimmed the ends of the blood-soaked string with a dagger. Another man wrapped the arm with a strip of Anton’s shirt.

“His own men can dress him,” the priest said. “Let us be on our way home to report a successful day’s work. Tomorrow morning, Anton, you must send a party under flag of truce to collect your dead. After that, any Jorgarian found near here will be put to death. Go with God, my son. I suggest you leave warfare to grown men in future.”

He made the sign of the cross, but he did it from right to left, backward.