by J. K. Swift
“This is an interesting piece,” Thomas said.
“I call it a baselard. Seeing as that is where I made it.”
A blade from Basel. Urs had never been one for fancy names or frills in the weapons he designed. He was far too practical.
Thomas slowly guided the sword back into its scabbard. As good as it was to see his old friend, this was the last place he wanted him to be.
“This is not your fight,” Thomas said. “But Max and Ruedi could use your help getting Ruedi’s sister and family out of Altdorf. You should seek them out.”
Urs shook his head. “Blood and ashes, Thomas. Who do you think told me you were putting together a rebel army in the first place? And they said I was to tell you to put their names on one of your lists, as well. Seems Ruedi’s sister is refusing to leave her farm. They would have come themselves, but they know what kind of a bastard you can become once training starts, so they decided to spend their last free afternoon drinking.”
He tapped his foot and pointed at the pile of parchment in front of Thomas. “And I mean to join them, just as soon as I see your quill finish scratching. So get on with it, would you?”
Chapter 16
It had snowed in the early hours of the morning. A light skiff covered the still frozen ground, but with hundreds of men churning it up, Thomas knew it would be a field of mud before the end of the day.
He watched the men come through the gates in groups of five or ten with their training swords in hand; fathers, sons, brothers, friends, and more than a few wives and mothers leading the way with packs of provisions to see the men through the day. One minute the courtyard was empty, the next filled to overflowing. Was it his imagination, or were many of them newcomers, men not yet on any of his lists?
They took up places on the ground, forming a semi-circle around the center of the yard, in front of Thomas and Noll. Behind the two men stood Ruedi, Max, Urs, and Anton.
The murmurs of the group began to grow louder, until Thomas stepped forward and held up his hand. He waited patiently for silence. He looked out over the crowd and felt curious eyes on him and his men. He saw many grin and sit back, exchanging nods with their neighbors. They expected a show, like the Venetians had put on.
And they will get one. But no one will be smiling at the end of this day.
Thomas scanned all those seated, looking for one man in particular. He found him almost instantly, for he was not hard to pick out: Gruber, Hans Gruber. The young giant from the Fall Festival that Pirmin had wrestled in the Schwingen finals. He had become a hero that day by defeating Pirmin with a skilfully executed hip throw.
Thomas called him up. The men around Gruber slapped the man on his broad back as he stood and made his way to the front.
“Today will be devoted to bare-handed training,” Thomas said.
Gruber removed his vest and rolled his massive shoulders. Thomas met the man, well aware that he must look like a sapling growing next to a giant cedar.
“What do you want me to do, Thomas?”
“You will fight one of my men,” Thomas said.
Gruber nodded. “All right.”
The first row of spectators had overheard, and Thomas could feel them vibrate with anticipation. He looked to his men, and nodded to Max. The gray-bearded man took a drink of water, removed his sword belt, and began to walk toward Gruber.
Thomas caught Gruber’s eye, and as he backed away from the man, he said, “What you do here today will save lives.”
Gruber’s brows knit together as he began to puzzle out Thomas’s words, but he did not get very far, for without warning, a loud scream erupted from Max and he charged the bigger man. Gruber’s eyes went wide and he backpedaled, but Max lunged forward and struck him in the soft hollow beneath his sternum. Gruber tried to cover up but Max shuffled forward, yelling and hitting him in the face and body.
Gruber realized he was having difficulty breathing and his body tensed as he struggled for air. Panic overtook him. Max smashed his nose with the palm of his hand and wrapped the other in his hair. He bent the big man in half and delivered a series of forearm strikes to the back of his head, shouting with every blow. By the time Max brought his knee up into the young man’s face, knocking him to the ground, many in the crowd had averted their gaze or closed their eyes to shut out the bloody spectacle.
Gruber hit the ground and a sickly wheeze came from his mouth as his body struggled to get air. Max jumped on top of him and straddled his chest. He rained down more blows until Gruber’s thick, flailing arms gave up trying to protect his head and fell limp to the ground.
“Enough,” Thomas said.
Max pushed himself off the still form of Gruber and wiped the blood off his hands onto his breeches. He turned his back on the young man and walked slowly over to stand with the others.
Sutter and another man hurried over to where Gruber lay curled up in a ball.
Sutter put one hand on the young man’s shoulder and his head snapped up to look at Thomas. “There was no need to hurt this boy,” he said.
“There was every need!” Thomas shouted, and all eyes fell on him.
“Look at him,” Thomas said, pointing to Gruber. The man lay on his side, shaking. Soft whimpers came from somewhere beneath the huge arms still covering his head.
“He froze. His body shut down. To be paralyzed with fear is not just a saying. It is God’s way of sparing us pain when we are about to die. When a lion begins eating you alive, there comes a point when you no longer feel the agony of crunching bones. Your breathing slows, your muscles no longer respond to your commands, and pain is nonexistent. God is merciful. When we are convinced we are about to die, God shuts down our minds and our bodies, so that our passage from this life can be eased.”
Thomas drew his new short sword and pointed it at the crowd.
“The first time you meet a fully armored knight in battle, a man trained from birth to kill, you will wish he were just a lion. Your lungs will stop working, and you will freeze. Your muscles will betray you, your mouth will go dry, your sense of smell will play tricks. But, if you can manage to stay alive for a few seconds, and remember to breathe, God will know you want to live and he will give you back your body.”
As he spoke he bent down and helped Sutter lift Gruber to his feet. The young man’s face was swollen and bloodied, but he stood without difficulty. He dabbed at his red-rimmed eyes quickly with the back of his sleeve and looked at his feet as he straightened his clothing.
“There is no shame in being paralyzed with fear, for we all have felt it at one time or another. But we must learn to recognize it when it happens, and realize it is merely God’s test.”
“Today, you will fight your friends and brothers as if your life depended on it. Your goal is to paralyze the man across from you, and if I see any man holding back,” Thomas pointed at Max, Ruedi, Urs, and Anton, “his next opponent will be one of my men. We will devote a portion of every day to this exercise until every single one of you has experienced this fear and pushed his way through it.”
Thomas re-sheathed his sword. The crowd was silent. Men averted their eyes from Thomas’s stare and glanced at each other nervously.
“Today,” Thomas said. “I will teach you how to breathe. Tomorrow you will begin training with naked steel. Take your wooden swords home tonight and burn them. You will not be using them again.”
***
Seraina stepped over the raised threshold into the keep’s kitchen where a score of women and a few younger children were working hard to keep everyone fed.
“Seraina!” Mera called out to her from across a large cauldron of soup, its vapors rising up and mixing with the steam from many other pots to contribute to the mugginess of the warm room. She ran over and grabbed Seraina’s hands. Her face was flushed.
“Where does the tally stand now?”
Seraina had been helping Mera and the other women in the kitchen most of the week, but she was so excited she found it impossible to stay
indoors for more than an hour at a time. She kept making trips outside to check on how the training was going and to see how many new faces she could spot. She pestered Thomas constantly with questions about his lists.
“Another hundred and fifty have come from Schwyz so far this week,” Seraina said. She could not keep her voice from rising. “Thomas says they are past seven hundred men now!”
Mera bounced once and gave Seraina a quick hug. “Noll was right to ask help from Thomas. People trust him and after he stood up to the Habsburgs last fall, there is no one in the valleys who does not know his name. Many more will come. I am sure this is just the beginning.”
Despite her earlier doubts, Seraina had to admit that Noll had made the right decision to hand control of the army over to Thomas. Seraina was proud of Noll, for it must have been a hard thing for him to relinquish control like that. But that is what Catalysts did. They made the difficult choices, the ones no one else had the courage, or insight, to make. They were, after all, the agents of change.
Seraina smiled and allowed herself to get caught up in Mera’s enthusiasm. Seven hundred men did not make an army, but it was a start. A very good start.
Chapter 17
Abbot Ludovicus sat in the library of the Einsiedeln monastery. The large space was cold, for it had no hearth and the stone walls did little to keep the winter chill outside. He did not particularly like working in the library. But its three arched windows, with glass of such good quality they were almost clear enough to see through, provided the best light of any room in the monastery.
Beside the Abbot, on the same table, three monks labored silently copying texts. Two of the men’s fingers were stained completely black. But one of the three, a younger man whose eyesight had not yet deteriorated, held a half dozen delicate brushes in one multicolored fist. He hunched over his work protectively, like someone trying to start a fire on a windy day. He dipped his brush in a vial of red ink and with almost imperceptible movements, added color to one of a hundred regal-looking characters squeezed into the margins surrounding a page of flowing script. Watching the illustrator at work stiffened Ludovicus’s neck and he returned his focus to the ledgers in front of him. Horse revenues were the highest he had ever seen this year, but ale sales were low. Suspiciously low. He would have to talk to the brothers about that.
The timber door squealed on its hinges and a monk entered the room. He stood beside the Abbot and waited to be acknowledged. Ludovicus finished adding the numbers he was working on and then did another calculation before he set down his quill.
“Yes?”
The monk cleared his throat. “There is a Schwyzer at the gate demanding to see you.”
“Demanding?” Ludovicus turned back to his ledger and picked up his writing feather. “Send him away. I do not have time.”
The monk hesitated. “It is the Hospitaller. The one who brought in the black.”
This got the Abbot’s attention and he placed the quill back down. With a groan he pushed himself to a standing position, being careful not to jostle the table.
“Tell him I will see him,” he said. “Once I have finished lunch.”
The Hospitaller was sitting on the snow-covered ground outside the main gate when Ludovicus emerged an hour later. He did not stand when the Abbot approached.
“Nice to see you again, my son. Thomas, was it not?”
“I want to buy him back,” Thomas said.
“Who would you like to buy back?”
“My horse.”
“Ah, yes of course. Forgive me. My mind gets addled easily these days. Now, which horse was yours again?”
“You know well enough. His name is Anid.”
The Abbot nodded after a moment. “Yes, I remember now. The Egyptian with the infidel name. We call him simply ‘the black’ these days. But I am afraid he is not for sale.”
Thomas lifted a bag he held on his lap. “This will change your mind.”
Ludovicus grinned and shook his head, the flesh below his chin swaying with the movement. “Perhaps. If it is filled with gold florins.”
He could tell it was not filled with gold simply by the ease with which Thomas lifted it. Thomas lowered the bag back into his lap and undid the length of rope securing it shut. He reached in his hand and pulled a manuscript halfway out.
Ludovicus laughed. “I know to someone like you a book must seem a true treasure. But I have an entire library filled with those.”
“Not like this one,” Thomas said. He pulled the bag down some more. “Read the title.”
Ludovicus stepped closer and put his hands on his knees to lend some support as he bent over. He began reading aloud.
“Malleus Malefic…” his words died out and his eyes widened. By the Devil’s breath, it was Duke Leopold’s missing manuscript! And it was no forgery. He would recognize Bernard’s bold script anywhere.
“Let me see that,” Ludovicus said reaching for the book.
Thomas pulled it away and closed the sack around it once again. “You bring Anid out and we will talk.”
Ludovicus smiled. That book was worth ten infidel stallions. The Schwyzer was about to receive another lesson in the fine art of commerce, although the Abbot doubted it would make him any wiser. For, like most peasants, the ferryman most likely lacked the capacity to truly learn anything.
They exchanged sack for reins simultaneously, watching one another like stray cats who had accidentally wandered too close. Ludovicus clutched the bag with Leopold’s tome in it to his chest, while he watched Thomas step up to the horse and whisper something in his ear. As he patted the stallion’s neck with one hand his gaze got caught on the animal’s saddle.
“That is not my saddle,” Thomas said.
“Our agreement was for a certain horse. I recall no mention of a particular saddle.”
A knife appeared in the Hospitaller’s hand and Ludovicus took an instinctual step back.
“This one is too long for an Egyptian’s back,” Thomas said. He carefully sliced through the leather straps holding the saddle in place and let it and the under-blanket slide to the ground. “You can keep it.”
“Very well,” Ludovicus said. This deal kept getting better by the moment. “I must say, I will be sorry to see him go. He is a magnificent animal. Does the heathen name you gave him hold any special meaning?”
Thomas raked his fingers through the black’s mane to pull out a tangle. He grabbed a handful of hair and swung himself up onto Anid’s back in one easy motion. He looked down at the Abbot.
“It means ‘stubborn’.”
“How fitting,” Ludovicus said.
Abbot Ludovicus eased open one of the library doors with care. He did not particularly care about disturbing the monks working within, but he did want to avoid having them pester him with questions about how he managed to acquire Leopold’s manuscript.
He slid into the room with the bag containing the book clutched beneath one armpit. He wound his way through shelves lined with books and scrolls until he came to a pedestal desk situated in the farthest corner of the library. His hands shaking, he reached into the bag.
What to do, what to do? Sell it back to Leopold outright? That could indeed prove lucrative, if Leopold ever paid him. No, it would be safer to approach the Duke and mention he knew someone who had a knack for acquiring lost objects… for a price of course. Playing the third party in this scenario would be much safer. Even being the Abbot of Einsiedeln would not count for much if Leopold got it in his mind that Ludovicus was in possession of something he wanted.
Ludovicus withdrew the manuscript and placed it on the stand before him. Biting his lip, he undid the buckles and flipped open The Hammer of Witches.
“No…” He shook his head in disbelief.
The interior parchment had been torn out and replaced with wads of sack cloth.
He scattered the worthless rags to the floor as he dug through them looking for even one page of text. But there was none. He reached the end cover and
threw the last bit of stuffing against the wall in a silent fit of rage. He grasped the podium with both hands and ground his teeth together to keep from crying out. He stood like that until his temples throbbed and his jaw muscles ached.
Finally, he opened his cramped fingers and released the podium. He eased the cover of the manuscript shut and refastened its buckles. After a quick look around to make sure no one was near, he climbed a step-stool and shoved the book into the middle of a great wall of manuscripts and scrolls dusty with neglect.
Then he left the library, and this time, he slammed the doors on his way out.
***
As Seraina walked across the courtyard in the darkness to the forge building, snow fell on her in swirling, dry flakes. She had put away her dress for the season, and now wore breeches, lined with rabbit fur, and tucked into high-cut boots that hugged her calves like a second skin. She wore a similar looking fur-lined vest over her white shirt and draped over everything was her simple, greenish-brown cloak. Even though her hood was up, snow worked its way under and melted on her eyelashes, making her squint. She could have easily wiped the moisture away, but her mind was on other things.
The Weave was quiet. Seraina had not even heard a whispering from the wind, never mind a full vision, since she and Thomas had brought back the ancient swords.
Had she made a mistake? Perhaps the swords of her ancestors were not meant to be used for Noll’s cause. But the Weave had led her directly to them. It had been so easy and felt so right at the time. Now, she had her doubts.
As she approached Thomas’s lean-to she noticed the heavy end-flap was opened part way and a thin tendril of smoke escaped into the night sky. Thomas did not usually have a fire inside, for the forge furnace was always burning and provided more than enough heat through the common wall. But tonight it would be especially warm.
