by J. K. Swift
Chapter 28
Count Henri of Hunenberg and the captain of the thirty cavalry troops Leopold had sent along with Henri and his knights, sat atop their horses and eyed the village in the field below. It consisted of a dozen thatched-roof huts and a common building. The one street was empty; all doors were closed. The villagers had seen them coming a long time ago. Just as Henri had wanted it. But the captain, a career soldier of the Holy Roman Empire, was beginning to suspect that perhaps Henri was not quite up to the task Leopold had charged him with.
“Shall we attack, my lord?” the captain asked.
“No. Not until we have word from Duke Leopold.”
“We received his orders, and his blessing I might add, when we marched from Habsburg,” the captain said.
“And I have ordered you to await confirmation from the Duke. If that is not to your liking, captain, then I suggest you find another Count to take orders from.”
The man fidgeted in his saddle, making the leather squeak. “No, sir. Was just wondering is all.”
Well, you will not have to wonder for very long, Henri thought, for in the distance he could see his messenger returning. Henri shielded his eyes to get a better look.
Something was wrong.
The man was bent low in the saddle, and his cloak billowed out behind him as he came at them full speed. His horse was foaming at the mouth when he pulled up before them.
“What is it?” Henri asked.
“The Duke’s army, it is… it has been routed, my lord.”
The captain let out a loud exhalation. “Come on, man. Talk sense. Routed by whom?”
The messenger looked at Henri. “It is true, my lord. The Schwyzers ambushed them on the shores of the lake. Thousands are dead, the rest are in full retreat.”
“Who told you this?” Henri asked.
“I saw it with these eyes, my lord. The Duke’s entire army scattered, running for their lives. I heard from one survivor, the Schwyzers are executing any man taken prisoner. Who could have predicted this?”
“What of the Duke?” the captain asked.
The messenger shook his head. “I saw no sign of him. They may have captured him. Surely the godless peasants would not execute a prince!”
Henri thought of Thomas and what he knew of the man. “You are wrong on both accounts. They are not godless, and yes, they are quite capable of executing a member of the royal family.”
The captain turned to Henri. “This is dire news, but we should push on with our objective.”
Count Henri stared at the man. “Take your men and return to your homes.”
The captain looked at the defenseless village below. Henri could see him imagining the possible treasures that could be uncovered inside the simple buildings.
“I have been ordered by Duke Leopold to take this village,” the captain said.
Henri shook his head.
“It seems Leopold no longer has any claim to these lands. But, as of this moment, that village is under the protection of the House of Hunenberg. You set one foot in there, and you will hang. The day is over, captain. This war is over. And if you set one foot in that village, your life is over.”
Henri turned his horse and headed home.
Chapter 29
Thomas knelt beside the Rubin boys. One held the other’s lifeless head in his lap, while silent tears streamed down his freckled cheeks.
Marti. That was the boy’s name. Had it really been that difficult to tell them apart?
Thomas put a hand on Sepp’s shoulder and said a prayer for Marti. As he stood, he saw Ruedi leading two horses toward him.
“Cap’n, they found Leopold.”
“Where?”
“A short distance to the west. I hear the men he is with is giving our boys a hard time.”
Leopold. Thomas suddenly wished Seraina were there to help him decide what to do with the ‘boy tyrant’, as Noll so often called him.
“Lead the way,” Thomas said, taking one set of reins from the crossbowman.
When Thomas and Ruedi arrived, twenty Schwyzers had formed a large circle around the three men. Leopold, his fine clothes and armor splattered with dirt and blood, sat on the ground at Franco Roemer’s feet. The captain of the Sturmritter did not look as shiny as the last time Thomas had seen him. Gone was his polished armor and peacock-plumed helmet. He wore simple cotton breeches and a sweat-ringed shirt that may have been white at one time. Now, it looked like it had been pulled from a pig bath. Beside him stood the hulking form of Klaus, his long sword held before him, daring anyone to come within its reach. His armor seemed intact, save for his helmet, which he had either lost in battle or discarded.
“Open a path,” Thomas said. He drew his short sword and mace as he walked into the circle. “Throw down your weapons and surrender Leopold.” He pointed his sword at Franco.
When Leopold saw Thomas, he screamed. His eyes bulged and he dug his heels into the soft ground to propel himself away backwards, but Franco held him in place with his knee planted firmly in the Duke’s back.
“Stay where you are,” Klaus growled at Thomas. His voice sounded like he was badly in need of a drink of water. Or, perhaps, he always sounded that way. Thomas was not sure he had ever heard the man speak.
Thomas kept walking, and soon discovered Klaus was not the type of man to warn someone twice. With a loud cry he charged at Thomas. His sword carved a murderous arc straight down at the Hospitaller’s head. Thomas swayed his upper body to the side just enough for the sword to miss making any contact. Then he swung his mace hard against the side of the large man’s knee. Klaus groaned, his leg buckled, and Thomas stepped in to slide his short sword straight through the man’s throat. He pulled it out as quickly as it went in.
A fine spray added to the red of Thomas’s tunic, but most of the blood was deflected by the older man’s gray beard. It collected there for a moment, hidden from sight, but then it welled up and poured down Klaus’s chest. Without even a whimper, he fell over backward, his body stiff when it hit the ground. His unseeing eyes stared at the clouds.
“No!” Leopold screamed and began crawling on his hands and knees toward Klaus, but Franco reeled him in and unceremoniously threw him behind his legs. Leopold fell over on his side, in a fetal position, and with his eyes clenched tighter than fists, began to moan.
Franco raised his sword and pointed it at Thomas.
“You will not find my throat so easily, Hospitaller.” He cut the air with his sword. “Come. Let us duel for the Prince’s life.”
“Ruedi,” Thomas called out, keeping his eyes on Franco.
“Cap’n?”
“Shoot this man.”
Ruedi bent over, fastened the hook at his waist onto his crossbow string, and with a grunt, cocked the war bow by standing up straight. He pulled a bolt from his belt quiver and set it to the string.
Franco looked from Ruedi to Thomas, and his lips curled in disdain.
“You would have your man shoot me?”
“You have something I want,” Thomas said.
“Then fight me for it! I took you for a man of honor when we first met. Will you prove me wrong now, here, in front of your men?”
Thomas felt his blood rising. Why should he care anything for honor?
“I was told my entire life that only the nobility and knights are capable of true honor. Well, as you may have noticed, I am neither.” He waved his arm over the men surrounding them. “There is not a drop of blue blood in any one of us. But what we do have is loyalty. Loyalty to our countrymen, our children, our wives and husbands, our friends. So tell me, with all this, what need do we have of honor?”
Franco was quiet for a long time as he glared at Thomas.
“Your men have been executing prisoners. And do not deny it, for I have seen it several times already.”
“I know. I gave the orders. From this day forward, any man who comes into our lands with intent to do us wrong, must expect to die if he is caught. That is our law.�
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“Peasants, yes, I can understand that. But a noble man’s ransom could make you a rich man! It makes no sense to kill him.”
“We do not want your kind’s gold. We wish to be left alone. So why would we suffer, even for one day, the company of a man who comes to our door looking to take everything we hold dear?”
Thomas could see Franco weighing his words. Leopold tried to crawl away once again, but Franco stepped on his leg to keep him in place. He stared at Duke Leopold trapped under his boot, and then met Thomas’s eyes.
“Very well. I will agree to lay down my sword and be executed, but only if you allow Duke Leopold to live.”
“You negotiate a poor bargain,” Thomas said. “This is my counter-offer. You will take Leopold from our lands and see him delivered safely to Habsburg. When his mind has recovered, you will explain to him that if he ever sets foot within our borders again, his life will be forfeit. As will the lives of anyone he brings with him.”
Franco’s eyes narrowed. “You would let us both go?”
“Someone must tell what happened here today,” Thomas said. He pointed at Leopold cowering behind Franco’s legs like a child hiding in his mother’s skirts. “Since he is unlikely to remember many details, that someone must be you.”
Franco sheathed his sword and pulled Leopold to his feet. He pushed the young Duke ahead of him, while he walked behind. He took a few steps and then turned around.
“This is not over. The princes will not let this stand. Sooner or later, one will work up the courage to march another army through your valleys.”
Thomas remained silent. What could he say when he knew Franco was right?
“But when they come,” Franco continued, “Do not look for me, Schwyzer. For I will not be counted among their number.”
He turned back to Leopold and gave him another shove up the road.
***
Seraina stood beside the sacrificial stone with Oppid at her side. The druids closed around her, chanting, while Orlina stooped and carefully picked up Gildas’s white robe. The chanting became softer, and no more intrusive than the sound of a nearby creek.
Orlina held up the robe and slipped it over Seraina’s numb shoulders.
“If we are to survive,” Orlina said, “there must be balance.” She pulled Seraina’s head down gently and kissed her forehead. Without another word, she turned and began walking down the Mythen.
Each druid, in turn, followed Orlina’s lead, and after kissing Seraina on the forehead, they too began winding down the rocky path. Soon, only Seraina and Oppid stood upon the Mythen’s summit. She pulled the robe around her shoulders and knelt next to the white wolf. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and stared at Gildas’s walking stick until she could no longer feel her legs.
The trees told her where to go, but she took her time. Seraina was in no hurry to see Gildas’s body.
She arrived at the great pile of blown over trees, and scanned the area. There was no sign of him. She cringed. The Habsburgs took him, she thought.
But then, from the forest a short distance to the east, the wind carried to her a voice. A singing voice.
Seraina saw the white robe through the trees as she approached. The druid’s hood was up and he stood over a low mound of rocks. He continued singing until Seraina was at his side.
His voice was soft and gentle, and the song was one Seraina did not know the words to, but somehow, she felt it was perfect. When the man turned to her and took down his hood, she was sorry the song had come to an end.
“Blessed be the Weave,” he said. It was the man who had stood beside her in the circle. The one who had held her hand so firmly. He was pushing the far side of middle life, but his eyes shone with the wonder of youth.
Much like Gildas’s, she realized. Uncannily so.
He smiled, and looked at the stacked rocks. “He was my elder brother,” he said.
“I am sorry,” Seraina said. “I never knew he had a brother.”
The man shrugged. “Gildas was not one to talk about himself. Being an Eye of the Weave, I suppose he did not allow himself the time.”
Seraina nodded, and swallowed the emotions building in her throat. “I never saw him much these last few years. He always seemed to be on his way somewhere, searching for new adepts.”
“That is because he was the only one of us who could. We all have our part to play in the pattern, but Gildas was the only one who had the ability to identify talent at an age young enough to nurture it. As he did with you.”
“But I have never found an adept before. I do not understand why Orlina thinks I can take over Gildas’s duties,” Seraina said.
“Because Gildas told her that you could.”
“And if I cannot?”
The man chuckled. “Every thread in the Weave has an end. Time is sure to outlast us all, Seraina. But some threads twist and wind their way through the pattern of life in such a complicated and unpredictable manner, that it is virtually impossible to find where it finishes. I like to think our kind are one of those.”
Seraina liked the sound of that. She had always felt in her heart that it was not yet time for this world to say goodbye to the Helvetii. She stared at the grave before her. Gildas had taught her so much, not just about the Weave, but about herself as well. She owed it to him to pass on as much as she could.
“I will leave you so you can say your goodbyes,” the druid said.
“Where do you go now? What will you do?” she asked.
He scratched at a tooth with his index finger for a moment. “I think I will compile a manuscript.”
“A book? Druids have never kept written records. What kind of book?”
“I think I would like… a white one,” he said, laughing. “Yes! We need more white books to give our people hope for the future. There are more than enough dark ones already in the world.”
Seraina could not help but smile at this. “Do you think it will work?”
He shrugged and held up his hands. “You should ask yourself that question. Unlike you or Gildas, I do not have the sight to know what the future holds. My role, is simply one of support. If you are the Eye of our order, I am but one of many pieces of skin, trying to hold us all together.”
“Will I ever see you again?” Seraina asked, hoping the answer was ‘yes’.
He nodded. “Even if you do not want to.”
He held up his hand in farewell, pulled up the hood of his white robe, and began to walk into the trees. As she watched the man leave, she noticed how small he looked. Speaking to him up close, he had given off the energy and stature of a much taller person.
Just before the druid disappeared into the forest, a soft breeze rustled his cloak, and as the same wind blew over Seraina, for the briefest of instants, she swore she could hear the tinkling of bells.
***
Seraina waited until well after dark, until a time when she knew the celebration festivities in the Schwyz market square would be well under way. She put out her small fire and poured the cauldron of hot herb water that had been simmering over it into a wooden bucket.
Minutes later, with the bucket of warm water in hand, she eased open the flap to Thomas’s tent. Still dressed in his red Hospitaller tunic, he sat on a stool with his weary head in his hands, staring at a single tallow candle on the small table before him.
He looked up, his face still streaked with dried blood and sweat. His mouth fell open, but no words came out. He made to stand, but when Seraina saw pain flicker across his face, she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. She pressed him back down onto his stool and set the bucket down. Then she produced a clean cloth from the pocket of her white robe, Gildas’s robe, dipped it in the water, and rung it out. The sound of the water falling echoed in the silence of the small space.
“Seraina, I—”
She cut him off by putting her finger over his lips, and then began wiping his face with the hot cloth. He closed his eyes, and she was thankful he did not sp
eak. For she knew he would have so many questions. Ones that she could not answer because she simply did not know.
Why am I here?
She knew she should not have come. Thomas was the Catalyst, and his time had just begun. He would do things for her people, their people, that she would never dare dream. They were about to enter a new era, filled with much risk to be sure, but it would also be one which promised to set her people on a new path. One with opportunities the like of which they had not seen in a thousand years. So long as, no one came between the Catalyst and his gift to sense the Weave’s patterns.
She knew the danger. And yet, she had still come.
She dropped the cloth into the bucket and a red cloud billowed out into the scented water. Slowly, she lifted his tunic over his head. Then she removed his chainmail vest and the padded cloth below. Finally, she unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it away. He winced every time she raised his right arm. His sides were covered in bruises but nothing was broken.
Seraina took out a fresh cloth and, starting at the hollow below his throat, washed down Thomas’s entire body. When she was finished, they made love. Neither one of them uttered a single word.
Afterward, in the coldest hours just before dawn, with her head resting on his chest, Seraina began to speak. Her words were heavy with the power of her voice, and she hoped that with Thomas being so exhausted from the day’s events, she would be able to make him forget how he felt for her. She would have to deal with her own feelings at another time.
She had spoken no more than a dozen words, when she felt Thomas’s finger across her lips.
“I want to remember,” he said. “I know you think you are doing me a kindness. But if we cannot be together, I do not wish to lose a single memory of you, Seraina. Painful or not, I should like to have them to look back on.”
Seraina closed her eyes, but that did nothing to stop the tears.
A kindness. It was the perfect choice of words, she thought. For what is love, if not a perfect kindness?
