by Cory Barclay
At first Hugo complained, believing Tomas a reckless man. And maybe he was, but his advice was strong and his words held more weight when reinforced by two and a half feet of gleaming steel.
Hugo stood wide-eyed, staring down the cutting edge of Tomas’ blade at his neck. All he could do was hold his breath and freeze.
“You’re too eager,” Tomas said, pointing his sword to the ground. “And too . . . polite. Swordcraft is either a brawl or a dance. It can be brutal or it can be beautiful. What you’re doing is, unfortunately, neither.”
Hugo closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to control his frustration. Tomas often spoke this way—eloquent, but not exactly helpful or encouraging.
“Is that what you have to say to me? Or do you have some kind of critique?” Hugo asked.
Tomas stared at Hugo for a long moment. “By being eager, you open yourself up to danger. You leave yourself vulnerable, unprotected. You tell me your next move before finishing your last one. You’re an easy read.”
Hugo quashed his first instinct—to object. He was smart enough to know that swordcraft was more than physical. It also required training the mind. And a big part of that was learning patience.
Too eager, too quick, not defensive enough, Hugo thought, trying to absorb Tomas’ remarks.
“It’s like playing chess,” Tomas explained. “If you try to check the king before you’re in position, you’re likely to lose your queen—or your head.”
That was another thing Hugo noticed about Tomas’ sword-teaching traits. He used every analogy imaginable—wrestling, dancing, chess.
“Pick up your sword and come at me again,” Tomas said before Hugo could finish his thought.
The ringing in Hugo’s ears subsided. He cracked his knuckles, then bent down and picked up his sword. By the time he looked up, Tomas already had his sword at his throat. Again.
“Don’t ever turn your back on your opponent,” Tomas said, frowning.
“You told me to pick up the sword!” Hugo whined.
“Don’t ever trust your opponent. Not even me.”
God be damned. Hugo sighed. He stepped back, loosened his grip on the sword, and tossed the blade from hand to hand. Be more unpredictable, be more savage, less polite.
Hugo circled his opponent. Tomas remained impossibly still, gazing out the corner of his eye. When Hugo rushed in from his flank, Tomas sidestepped, bringing his sword down on Hugo’s, ready to knock it flat.
But Hugo’s sword wasn’t where Tomas expected it to be. The boy had moved at the last moment. Rather than lunge, he swung his sword high.
There was a brief pause in Tomas’ eyes. Hugo smirked. Tomas backpedaled. Hugo hammered down at Tomas’ sword, trying to get past the man’s defenses.
Tomas kept retreating, then suddenly flicked his wrist.
But this time Hugo was ready. He’d expected it, learning from his earlier mistake. He let Tomas roll his wrist outward, as Hugo stepped forward, close enough to hear Tomas breathing. Then, putting a foot behind Tomas’ ankle, he pushed him with his free hand.
Tomas’ eyes faltered and widened. He realized he was falling, tripping over Hugo’s foot. He managed to catch himself, but in the process Hugo was already moving to his side. He had his blade at Tomas’ waist, edge-forward.
They both stopped moving and, as far as Hugo could tell, breathing.
A long moment passed.
As the wind rustled his hair, Tomas clapped his hands. “There we are,” he said. “That’s the kind of heartlessness I’m talking—”
Hugo finished Tomas’ sentence for him. He pushed again, with both hands this time, and Tomas lurched over Hugo’s foot and fell on his back.
Tomas snorted at him from the ground, his mouth open in a silent gasp. “You rogue!”
Hugo was smiling. “Don’t ever trust your opponent,” he said.
After one week of practice, it was Hugo’s first victory against his teacher.
As the sun fell behind the horizon, Hugo realized how exhausted he was. In fact, nothing he knew of sucked the energy from him the way swordfighting did. And with his adrenaline now depleted, rest was all he could think about.
Unfortunately, that’s just when Ulrich decided to make his appearance.
Addressing both him and Tomas, Ulrich wiggled his fingers. “You two, follow me.”
Obediently, they followed Ulrich toward Bedburg Castle.
“How’s the boy with a blade?” Ulrich asked Tomas as they strode side-by-side, as if Hugo wasn’t there, three steps behind.
Flipping his blond hair from his shoulders, Tomas smiled. “I think I’m too good of an instructor.”
Ulrich chuckled. “Is that right?”
Tomas nodded. “He definitely shows promise.”
Without looking back at Hugo, Ulrich said, “Then you must be something special, boy, because I’ve never heard this man say that about any of his students.” Neither Tomas nor Ulrich could see Hugo’s smile, stretching ear to ear.
Tomas snorted, turning toward Hugo. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, boy. And wipe that smirk off your face. Remember, your eagerness will surely get you killed. I offered no compliment—only the observation that I haven’t yet beaten the vagrant out of you.”
Hugo chuckled to himself. He could tell Tomas was still irritated about being played by his own trick.
The trio made their way up a winding hill, passing a church where several people were huddled.
A voice called out, “Jailman, over here!”
Ulrich looked perplexed as two men approached. One, about Hugo’s age, and nearly as thin; the other, a soldier with facial scars, tufts of salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, and a thick, unkempt beard reaching his chest.
“I told you to meet me at the castle,” Ulrich barked at the older man.
The soldier said, “I reckoned we’d cut you off, give your old legs a bit of a rest. Plus, I wanted to hear the bishop speak.”
“How was he?” Tomas asked.
The man hesitated, then said, “Still full of piss.”
Ulrich smirked. He moved over so Hugo was no longer hidden. “I nearly forgot. This is the boy I told you about—”
“The one you took for a son?”
“Easy there,” Ulrich said with a frown. “Hugo, this is Arne,” he said, gesturing to the younger boy. “And this”—pointing to the soldier—“is Grayson.”
Considering the color of the old man’s beard and temples, Grayson seemed an apt name to Hugo. Then he turned to the boy, studying him.
“Arne is the best tracker we have,” Ulrich added. “He has a nose stronger than a hound’s, ears bigger than a bat’s, and eyes wider than an owl’s.”
The mention of an owl instantly brought back memories of Ava. When she was taken away, before she’d betrayed him. It had been Severin—playing the role of the “Owl”—who had failed to play his part, causing Ava’s capture.
The young boy interrupted his thoughts.
“Is there something the matter with you?” Arne asked, his voice much deeper than his small frame suggested.
Realizing he was scowling, Hugo shook off his expression. “No, no, my apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
Grayson grunted. “I’m sure.”
“These men will make the rest of your company,” Ulrich said. “So you’d better get to know each other.”
“Our company?” Hugo asked. “Company for what?”
Ulrich put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re going with them to Trier, boy. As guards for those slippery inquisitors.”
“I’m an escort now?” Hugo said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t agree to that.”
Ulrich smiled, the shadows playing tricks with his scar. “You said you wanted to learn to do what I do? Well, here you go. There will be adventure and good pay. All the things a boy your age should enjoy.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“No, son. I am content here. Besides, if I came, who wo
uld be Bedburg’s executioner? Just because Trier may need more executioners and inquisitors doesn’t mean I can abandon my post. There are still plenty of people here I need to make dead.”
As the group dispersed, planning to meet bright and early the next morning, Tomas spoke to Ulrich. “There’s one more I’d like to bring along. Make it an even five of us.”
Ulrich frowned, staring at his friend. “Five isn’t even, Tom.”
“You know what I meant, dammit.”
“Who is it?”
“My nephew, my sister’s son. I promised her I’d help him get out of his transient life. Like you’ve done for young Hugo here.” Tomas gestured behind him, to Hugo, who was struggling to keep pace with the taller men. “He’s in a bit of trouble right now, in fact. I fear he might end up dead—probably by your hand—if I don’t help her.”
“Who?”
“My sister!”
“Oh,” Ulrich said. “What’s wrong with him? Can you trust him?”
“He got caught stealing something, I heard. I told my sister I’d help, but she’d have to let me do it my way.”
“Is that why we’re heading to the slums?” Ulrich asked.
Tomas stopped walking, allowing Hugo to catch up. “I’d like Hugo to get a try at him in the ring. I deem the boy ready.”
Ulrich shook his head. “In only a week?”
By the time they reached the edge of the southern slums, all traces of daylight were gone. Hugo’s heart started racing. I’ve never fought in the dark before, he thought, running his hand over the rough hilt of the sword hanging at his waist.
The crowd had already gathered at the square. Hugo groaned. They talk of bettering people—getting them out of their former lives—but then bring us to this . . . vagabond justice, archaic and violent.
Several people in the circle held torches. As Hugo was pushed through to the center, the orange light of the torch flames danced shadows across the ring.
He sighed, drawing his blade, preparing for the worst.
The other side of the circle opened—a silhouette was shoved through.
Hugo almost dropped his sword in shock.
Across from him stood Severin—his nemesis and former leader of his gang, the coward who Hugo blamed for getting Ava captured, the man he’d almost killed once already—less than ten feet from him, a nasty scar now adorning his forehead.
The crowd hooted and hollered. People began passing coins around, judging the combatants by their appearance. Because Severin was taller, a bit older, and had a hawkish face, Hugo assumed most of the money favored his opponent.
A brooding rage swelled within Hugo, quickly consuming him. But he understood that his anger really wasn’t directed at Severin. After all, Severin had never done anything out of character. He had always been consistent in playing his part: the jealous, angry, bullying fool. Yes, he’d tried to steal the ring Hugo had stolen for Ava, but that should have been expected. Making life miserable for Hugo was just Severin being Severin.
No, Hugo’s rage was traceable to what Severin reminded him of—the whole chapter of memories during that period in Hugo’s life. Flashbacks flooded his memory of Ava and Karstan kissing; of the miserable, pathetic existence they all led; of their little troop gallivanting through Bedburg, carefree; and the shock and fear when that whole lifestyle came crashing down on them.
And now Hugo was staring at the ringleader of that entire debacle.
Hugo’s sword was out of its scabbard before his brain could react.
At first, Severin looked scared. But his hawkish features softened once he recognized his opponent. He narrowed his eyes, offering a concentrated stare. A man in the crowd shoved a sword into his arms. He took hold of it, then awkwardly lowered it to his side.
With white knuckles, Hugo gripped his weapon tightly, his jaw tensing.
“Perhaps they know each other,” Ulrich murmured from behind.
Then all sounds faded away. Hugo felt the pulsing behind his ears.
He leaped forward.
You’re too eager.
Severin barely had time to react, jerking his sword up at the last moment, eyes bulging, trying to block Hugo’s onslaught.
Hugo rushed into him, point-first. Severin managed to slap his sword away. Hugo reeled back, preparing to swing again as Severin began taking cautious steps backward in retreat. But hands from the crowd propelled him forward, pushing him back into the middle of the ring.
Hugo prowled around Severin like an angry wolf protecting its cub. He swiped his sword a few times to test Severin’s reaction, but the taller boy was clearly lost with a sword in his hand.
Hugo charged again, howling.
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
At the last moment, Severin somehow managed to stick his blade out. Hugo ran shoulder-first into the point. Searing pain shot through Hugo’s body, instantly replacing rage with momentary shock.
Severin took the opportunity to reach his arm back, ready to stab Hugo again.
Fighting through the pain, Hugo growled, dropped his sword and smacked away Severin’s blade as it whooshed in.
Hugo was now inches from Severin’s body.
Swordcraft is either a brawl or a dance.
There was no time for dancing.
Hugo wrapped his arms around Severin, pushing the taller boy back while planting his foot behind Severin’s ankle just like he’d done to Tomas.
Severin crashed hard on his back, crying out for help. Hugo jumped on him, punching him in the face repeatedly.
The first strike froze Severin in panic, allowing a clear second shot which exploded his nose in a cloudy mist of blood. By the third strike, Severin’s eyes had rolled back.
The fourth . . .
Hugo couldn’t move his arm. Something held it back. He snarled, trying to free it, desperately wanting to finish the job his former friend Karstan had stopped him from completing the last time he’d had the chance.
This time Severin had to die, pummeled to death as savagely as possible.
But it was not to be.
“Save that anger,” said a low voice.
Hugo twisted his head. It was Tomas.
“I can’t let you kill him,” Tomas whispered, as the crowd booed and jeered at the sudden intrusion.
“He’s my sister’s son,” Tomas said, pulling Hugo off the beaten young man.
“And besides, he’s coming with us.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GUSTAV
Leaving the blazing monument in their wake, they’d spirited away by moonlight. Gustav’s carriage bounced along the uneven roadways through the night, maintaining a steady gait.
Gustav did not regret razing Dieter’s church. A self-described man of science, he saw religion—and followers of Christ in particular—as sheep at best, or wolves in sheep’s clothing at worst.
And while the church could have been a great source of income for him, he wrote off the fiery inferno as a necessary loss.
Anything that will help destroy these two devils is worth doing, he thought.
Gustav’s eyes drifted to his two captives seated across from him. Sybil was staring out the window, likely wondering where they were headed. Dieter, however, gazed straight ahead at nothing, the depth of his sadness etched in the lines on his face, clearly visible even in the darkness.
After a while, Gustav figured it was time to tell the two what was to come. “We’re going to Yarmouth,” he said. “It’s a coastal town between the River Yare and the North Sea.”
Neither Dieter nor Sybil responded. They all rode in silence for several more minutes. Finally, Dieter spoke. “And from there?”
Gustav ignored Dieter’s question. “It’s a more ancient town than Norwich, in fact.” He cleared his throat. “And from there, we set sail for the Dutch coast.”
Knowing it was pointless to object, Dieter simply stared out at the passing landscape.
Hedda turned to Gustav. “Given our premature arrival, Kevan and Paul
say we may have to spend a night in Yarmouth since our boat might not be ready.” Kevan and Paul were the two soldiers outside on the driver’s bench.
“It’s no matter,” Gustav said, “I doubt anyone will follow us that far.” He faced Dieter again. “Once you no longer offer them a service, you’ll find your friends will quickly forget you.”
“That’s not true,” Sybil said, turning to Gustav for the first time all night.
“Oh, dear, so beautiful and naïve. I hope I haven’t angered that pretty face—we wouldn’t want it tainted by early wrinkles.” Gustav smirked, then grew serious. “Those people have families and lives of their own. You suppose they can afford to venture out thirty miles from home, for a futile rescue attempt? They couldn’t even rescue you when they were sitting outside my doorstep!”
“Why are you doing this?” Sybil asked. “Is this really about your brother—about Johannes?”
Gustav scratched his scalp, then brushed several errant hairs from his face. “In part,” he said, shifting in his seat. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “To be honest, I always lived in the shadow of my brother.”
“Gustav . . .” Hedda began, but his raised palm quickly stopped her.
“Quiet, woman. Even though these bastards don’t deserve answers, I’ll give it to them if I wish.” He reached into his tunic, produced his bottle of laudanum, and raised it to his mouth.
But nothing came out.
“Dammit.” He stared at the empty bottle, then with a quick jerk tossed it out the window. It clinked against a passing tree.
Agitated, Gustav continued talking. “Yes, always in the shadow of my brother.” He paused, thinking about a distant memory. “My father, Ludwig, always put my brother before me. Father saw me as a nuisance. He saw Johannes as an heir. In my father’s eyes, I was emotional and erratic, while my brother was cold and ruthless—perfect qualities for a politician.” Motioning his head out the window, probably at the bottle he’d just thrown out, he added, “That probably didn’t help father’s opinion of me.”
