When the Saints

CHAPTER 20

Arturas Synovec was twenty-three years old, the count’s herald, a native of Gallant, betrothed to the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and a bastard. His mother had been housekeeper to the bishop-two-back, and such things happened. He and his brothers had received an education out of the situation, and in their cases not much else. Arturas, though, having displayed some talent with pen and brush, and lacking the brawn for physical work or warfare, had become a clerk in the count’s service, then apprentice to Klement, the old herald, and eventually his successor. Life had been simple but penurious, with little hope that he could ever earn enough money to take on family responsibilities. Then Count Bukovany and his son had died suddenly and Count Magnus had appeared even more suddenly. Arturas felt as if he had barely slept since.

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.”