by Cory Barclay
Sturl coughed and spat a wad of blood and phlegm on the ground near Ulrich’s feet.
“In fact,” Ulrich continued, “Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier doesn’t have enough inquisitors for all the witches he’s trying to kill. Enter Sturl here”—he waved his hand at the prisoner—“who has come to Bedburg to recruit.”
Sturl licked his parched lips. “I was sent by Archbishop Ernst of Cologne.”
Ulrich sighed. “So you’ve been saying. The problem is . . . I don’t believe you. Why would Archbishop Ernst help Archbishop Schönenberg? Why would Cologne come to Trier’s aid?”
“Ask him yourself,” Sturl growled.
Ulrich stood and crossed his arms. “This isn’t working.” He turned and left the cell. A moment later he returned with another contraption: two bands of iron, held together by a large screw.
Ulrich sat, placed the device in front of Sturl, then shoved one of the prisoner’s thumbs between the two bands. Ulrich turned to Hugo. “Do you remember the name of this one?”
This one was easy. “A thumbscrew,” Hugo answered.
Sturl groaned.
Ulrich nodded. He put his hand at the top of the screw and began rotating it, forcing the top band down until it pressed against Sturl’s thumb. “Last chance, Sturl,” Ulrich said.
The prisoner looked like he was ready to weep. Instead, he steeled himself, gritting his teeth and sucking in his cheeks.
Ulrich tightened the band one more measure. A loud crack signaled Sturl’s thumb had been crushed. The prisoner wailed in agony.
Hugo flinched, then recoiled. Blood was seeping through the prisoner’s shattered thumbnail onto the floor.
Ulrich unfastened the band. Sturl moaned, breathing in short gasps.
“Shall we try again?” Ulrich calmly asked. “Was it Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier who sent you here?”
Sturl rapidly shook his head.
Ulrich removed Sturl’s hand from the device, grabbed his other hand, and jammed his thumb between the iron bands.
Slick with blood, the screw made a squealing sound as Ulrich turned it. But just before the bands pressed together, the prisoner shouted, “Okay, okay! Please, stop this! No more!”
Ulrich looked at the man with his browless eyes, trying his best to unnerve the prisoner with his gaze. “Well?”
“Archbishop Schönenberg sent me from Trier to Cologne. He and Archbishop Ernst are acquaintances, I s-suppose.”
“So why are you here—in Bedburg—then?” Ulrich asked.
“Because Schönenberg wants Jesuits, and the bishop of Bedburg is one of the most notorious Jesuits in the land—he’s the man who uncovered the Werewolf of Bedburg, after all.”
Balthasar Schreib did not uncover the werewolf, Hugo thought. My father was no monster.
Ulrich gave Sturl another look, as if to say, Continue.
Sturl did. “Everyone knows Bishop Schreib used to be Archbishop Ernst’s ear, when he was still in Cologne.”
“You were sent from Trier, to Cologne, to here,” Ulrich said, pointing his finger in the air three times. “But Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier doesn’t want it to look like he’s asking for help. He wants Archbishop Ernst and Cologne to simply offer their aid.”
Sturl nodded. “Schönenberg is stubborn. He wants to look powerful. I suspect he wants his electorate to be more dominant than the Cologne electorate. He’ll appear weak if he has to ask for help . . .”
Ulrich smiled and undid the band from Sturl’s thumb. “Well, his secret is out.”
Sturl’s eyes bulged. “P-please, I told you what you want. Don’t betray my secret. Schönenberg will kill me.”
Ulrich’s face darkened. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, quickly leading Hugo out of the room by his shoulder.
“Where are we going?” Hugo asked, trying to keep up with the punisher.
“To find the new inquisitors Sturl was talking about, and to report to Bishop Schreib.”
Hugo peeked over his shoulder. “And what will happen to Sturl?”
Ulrich shrugged. “It’s up to the bishop, but I suppose I’ll have to slit his throat and toss him in the Erft River.”
Hugo’s mouth fell open. “B-but he told you what you wanted to know!”
“Yes,” Ulrich said, “but didn’t you also hear him complain about his ‘secret’ getting out? Killing him is the only sure way of stopping that.”
Hugo wanted to say more, but what more could be said? Here I was thinking we were the ones trying to find the murderers,
Not become them.
They came to Bedburg’s church. The lush gardens on either side danced in the wind. The stained-glass doors mesmerized Hugo with their reds, greens, and blues.
Ulrich lightly cuffed Hugo on the side of the head. “Enough staring,” he said, pushing open the doors.
The nave inside was empty, save for two folks sitting at separate pews, heads bowed, and a homely woman sweeping by the pulpit near a gray statue of Christ.
Ulrich approached the woman. “Sister Salome,” he said with a curt nod. The woman held a long frown. Hugo soon realized this was her regular expression.
“Punisher,” she said with slight disgust, standing her broom upright.
“I must speak with the bishop.”
“Why don’t you go to the keep?” she said, her tone bitter. “He seems to be there as much as here.”
Ulrich opened his mouth to say something, then simply shouldered past her instead. “I don’t have time for this. I know Balthasar is here. Mass just let out.”
Hurrying behind Ulrich like a dog, Hugo could tell the torturer and nun had a history—and not a pleasant one, he guessed.
Sister Salome shuffled behind Hugo, putting a hand on his arm. “Boy, let the brute speak with the bishop alone. Their discussion is no place for you.”
Hugo creased his brow, pulling his arm away.
“The boy comes with me,” Ulrich said over his shoulder.
“He’s in a meeting,” Salome protested, walking past Ulrich, trying to get to the door at the end of the hallway first.
“I was hoping so,” Ulrich said, moving the nun aside and knocking hard on the door.
Hugo heard voices coming from the other side. But none offered Ulrich entry, so the torturer let himself in, pushing hard on the door and shoving his way inside.
As Hugo followed Ulrich in, he gazed around the large circular chamber. Shimmering rays of light, in all colors of the rainbow, poured through the many stained-glass windows, casting an almost angelic haze across the room. A large oak desk stood at the front. Hugo had never seen a desk that big. And an equally large man, round-faced and jovial, sat behind it.
In front of the desk, with their backs to Ulrich and Hugo, sat two other men, who both turned quickly at the sound of the door crashing open.
“E-excuse me, father,” Sister Salome exclaimed, dashing into the room. “He wouldn’t be stopped.”
“I have good news, bishop.” Ulrich exclaimed, spreading his arms out like some war-ravaged general greeting his loyal soldiers.
The round man at the desk stumbled to his feet, grabbing his walking-stick leaning nearby. “Excuse me, brothers,” he said to the two men sitting in front of his desk. Taking the hint, the two immediately got up and left the room, not looking at Ulrich or Hugo as they passed.
Nevertheless, Ulrich gave them his best torturer’s smile.
When the door closed, Bishop Balthasar Schreib sighed. “What do you have for me, my son? And who is that?” he asked, wrinkling his face at Hugo.
“Runaway boy I found. Took him in.”
“What do you plan to do with him? Send him to an orphanage?”
“Not sure yet. Guess we’ll see how good he learns. I’ve been bored in that stinking jailhouse, so I could use the company.”
Bishop Schreib chortled. “Are you growing sentimental, my friend? It’s so unlike you.”
Ulrich drew back like he’d been struck. “The man you had
me arrest will be dead by sundown.”
“That’s better,” Schreib said. “Can we talk in front of this boy? I’d hate for him to end up in the same predicament as your prisoner.”
“Yes, we can talk in front of him.” He nodded, eyeing the boy. “He’ll be helping me get rid of the body.”
Hugo’s eyes widened. That was never discussed . . .
Ulrich moved on, saying, “Sturl was sent by Archbishop Schönenberg, as you suspected, father. It seems a storm of shit is raining down on Trier. People are turning up quite crispy throughout the principality.”
“Ah,” the bishop said, limping to a table next to his desk and pouring himself a cup of something. “Wine, torturer?”
Ulrich shook his head. “I don’t drink. You know that. But the boy can.”
The bishop chuckled, holding out the cup. Hugo trotted over and took it. The wine was warm and bitter, almost making Hugo cough.
“Does it taste like the blood of Christ, boy?” Ulrich asked.
The bishop glared at the torturer. “So the man was sent from Trier to Cologne, and from Cologne to here?”
Ulrich nodded.
Bishop Schreib poured another cup for himself, then took a sip as he stared out the green-and-red window. “I wonder why Ernst would keep that from me . . . I’m like a brother to him.”
“Well, he’s giving you work. Maybe he just wants to keep his neck clear of any sharp blades. I doubt he wants a repeat of Bedburg.” Then, thumbing over his shoulder, “And those men?”
Balthasar tapped his tinny cup. “That was the inquisitor and his assistant. Stalwart members of the Society. They should do nicely in Trier.”
“Trier’s a long ways from here,” Ulrich said.
“Not so far, Ulrich. Why? I see that glint in your eye.”
“I have a proposition for you, father.”
Balthasar set down his cup. “I’m assuming you won’t leave until you offer your services.”
Ulrich smiled again, the scar slithering to his chin. “You know me too well, bishop.”
“Where are we going now?” Hugo asked, dodging and weaving around smelly, drunken men smelling of beer, shit and mud, to keep up with Ulrich’s quick pace.
They’d left the church and immediately headed toward the southern slums, a place Hugo knew well. As they neared Tanner Row, the smell of beggars and filth was replaced by the stench of rawhide and rotting meat. This was the slum adjacent to Hugo’s old home, one of his favorite haunts for poaching unsuspecting marks.
“All the drifters and vagrants down here . . . you must feel at home, boy.” Ulrich scowled, pushing his way past two stumbling men. His voice went low. “I know I do . . .”
They stomped through the mud, passing the taverns, brothels, and tanners, until they made their way to a large, open-spaced district that Hugo had always avoided, mainly because no one worth robbing ever frequented the area.
A group of men were huddled in a tight circle, shoulder-to-shoulder, jeering and cheering, hands clenched into tight fists, all gawking at the same spectacle.
Hugo heard repeated rings of steel on steel, singing out like squawking birds.
Ulrich made his way to the loud circle. Hugo stood behind him, peering around on his tiptoes to see what was happening.
Two men were at battle. One with a half-helm on his head, tufts of dirty blond hair sticking out from underneath; the other wore a chainshirt, vambraces on his arms, and a wide full-helmet covering his entire face.
The combatant in the half-helm wore the ragtag leather garb of a mercenary. Hugo could see the man’s jaw locked tight, heavy breathing blowing from underneath the helmet.
The men circled each other, gauging the other’s footwork. The man with the blond hair and half-helm had open holes in his helmet, allowing his piercing blue eyes an unobstructed view. The man with the full-helm had simple slits in his mask, partly obscuring his view but completely protecting his face.
Each man held, double-gripped, a crude longsword.
The blond man, his weapon held high with the blade aimed to the sky, grunted then dashed forward, striking out as quickly as Hugo’s hands moved during a pilfering.
The full-helm fighter staggered to the left, swinging his blade down on top of the blond man’s blade. He swept his weapon along the edge of Half-helm’s, trying to take off his opponent’s head.
Half-helm ducked as the blade swept overhead, nearly connecting with his face.
The people in the circle gasped. Hugo’s eyes moved from man to man, unable to look away for even an instant for fear of missing the imminent mayhem.
Half-helm, the quicker of the two, danced back, shuffling his feet and pacing left to right.
When Full-helm’s head tilted down, to gauge his opponent’s feet, Half-helm struck, lunging and catching Full-helm on the wrist—but only bouncing off the metal vambrace.
Full-helm grunted, then cocked back and punched out with his gauntlet, striking Half-helm square in the face.
Half-helm stumbled back, dazed. Full-helm raised his blade high, moved two steps forward and brought his blade down fast and hard for the killing blow.
The crowd collectively cried out.
But Half-helm ducked at the last moment, bringing his sword around in a low, one-handed sweep, hitting Full-helm’s protected knees. He jumped back as Full-helm twisted, roared, pivoted. He raised up his weapon. Half-helm brought his down.
There was a tremendous clang as the blades met.
Half-helm riposted, digging his back foot into the ground. He leveled his sword then hammered down, Full-helm just barely able to check it with his own blade in time.
But Half-helm now had the momentum, fluid in motion, dancing to the symphony of crackling steel and sparkling crescendos. He continued his onslaught of offensive slashes, his blade swinging down over and over, Full-helm clearly on the defensive.
Finally, the pressure was too much. Full-helm buckled, his back leg slipped, he lost footing and went to a knee.
Half-helm circled the man, still swinging, wild and wolf-like yet precise as a hunting falcon.
Full-helm was no match. He couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t get his sword to his side quick enough, and Half-helm struck him in the shoulder, drawing blood.
Full-helm grunted and fell to his side, dropping his weapon and clutching his shoulder. He reached out for the blade but Half-helm, standing over him, stepped on its handle and Full-helm’s hand with it. The crunch of bones was unnerving.
Half-helm held the point of his blade at Full-helm’s throat.
Some in the crowd cheered and jumped in the air, pumping fists. Others simply stormed away, the battle over.
Coins were handed out to the bettors. The circle dispersed, the working men going in different directions, the entertainment for the night finished.
Hugo let his breath go.
Ulrich walked to the man in the full helmet. The man was still rolling on the ground, no one coming to his aid.
Ulrich kicked him in the stomach, then stepped to the victor. The fighter took off his helmet, his blond hair sticking raggedly to his forehead and scalp. Ulrich patted him hard on the shoulder. Then the two men embraced.
Hugo stayed back. He saw their mouths move, but couldn’t hear the words. He looked down at the man in the chainshirt and full helmet. Broken and defeated, he breathed in ragged gasps.
Hugo bent down, eyes moving over the injured man. His eyes moved past the blood seeping from the man’s shoulder, down to the steel of his longsword. Hugo ran his finger over its cold, flat edge, then wrapped his hand firmly around its hilt.
I want to learn to use this, too, he thought, wide-eyed.
A moment later, he laid the weapon back down and looked up, trying to refocus his mind from its bloodlust. His eyes moved to the man Ulrich was still talking with, the victor of the sword fight. He knew that man.
Ulrich was pointing in his direction, and the fighter’s blue eyes honed in on Hugo.
Ulrich
brought the man over. “Boy, I want to introduce you to Tomas Reiner.”
“Yes,” Hugo said, his eyes getting smaller. “We’ve met.”
“Have we?” Tomas cocked his head.
Ulrich scratched his chin. “He’s going to teach you to fight proper, and he’s agreed to let you tag along with him, at my behest.”
“Tag along where?” Hugo asked.
“I’ll let you two get reacquainted,” Ulrich said, ignoring Hugo’s question. “Bring him back to the jailhouse when you’re done with him, Tomas.”
Hugo wasn’t listening—the voices drowned away. All he could remember was two-and-a-half years ago. When the blond man before him had taken him from his home, from his safety, from his family, and paraded him in front of his father.
The man who had locked Hugo away in the jail cell next to the doomed Werewolf of Bedburg.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GUSTAV
Gustav took the key from the pocket of his tunic and slipped it in the keyhole. The box made a sharp clicking noise as it creaked open. Besides clothing, his plants, some money, and his laudanum, the oak box was the only real possession he’d brought with him to Norfolk.
The pistol rested inside a fuzzy red slotted compartment. He ran his hand over the muzzle, then gripped the wooden handle.
“This was my brother’s,” he whispered to no one.
Hedda was standing behind him, in the detached room off the main den. “What are you doing, Gustav?” she asked.
He turned to her, gun cradled in both hands. Hedda was pretty. Her spectacles too big for her head, her short hair in a tight curl, her button nose. Gustav fought the laudanum lust and shivered. “Those two left for a reason,” he said. “They know something.”
Two men entered the room, both dressed in dark leather, knives dangling from their belts, muskets strapped to their backs. They could have been twins, despite one having dark hair and the other fair.
Both soldiers saluted Gustav. “We searched the house and surrounding land,” the fair-headed one said. “The child was not present.”
