ALSO BY OLIVER PÖTZSCH
The Ludwig Conspiracy
The Castle of Kings
The Hangman’s Daughter series
The Hangman’s Daughter
The Dark Monk
The Beggar King
The Poisoned Pilgrim
The Werewolf of Bamberg
The Play of Death
The Council of Twelve
Adventures Beyond Dragon Mountain series
Knight Kyle and the Magic Silver Lance
The Black Musketeers series
Book of the Night
This book is a work of fiction. While based on historical events relating to the Thirty Years’ War, it is not a history.
Text copyright © 2016 by Oliver Pötzsch
Translation copyright © 2018 by Jaime McGill
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die Schwarzen Musketiere—Das Schwert der Macht by bloomoon in Germany in 2016. Translated from German by Jaime McGill. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2018.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904415
ISBN-10: 1503904415
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
In memory of Ulrich Kiesow, inventor of the German fantasy roleplaying game The Dark Eye.
Through that game, I became a storyteller.
Thanks, Ulli!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
PROLOGUE
July Eighth in the Year of Our Lord 1633, near Hamelin in the German Empire, during the Thirty Years’ War
Count Leopold von Torgau stared out at the swords clashing all around him, thrusting, piercing—and at that moment, he knew the battle was lost.
Men were gasping and shrieking in mortal fear. A twenty-pounder cannon thundered not far away, shaking the ground. Shortly thereafter, clumps of earth sprayed into the air and rained down on those few imperial-camp tents still standing.
Torgau’s charger whinnied and reared up when a second cannonball hit just a few paces away. The explosion was so powerful that at first Torgau thought it had deafened him. He was thrown off balance for the briefest of moments. The reins slipped out of his hands, and he tumbled to the ground as his horse fled in terror. He crawled into one of the abandoned trenches and immediately found himself stuck knee deep in mud. He crossed himself and prayed silently.
Help me, O gracious God! Let this nightmare end . . .
The long-serving and highly decorated officer had already fought in many other battles of this German war. He was certainly no coward—he was a Black Musketeer, a member of General Wallenstein’s legendary elite troop. Duke Albrecht von Wallenstein was the German Kaiser’s most important general, and the Black Musketeers were known as the finest soldiers in the entire Reich. However, this battle was the bloodiest and most horrific Torgau had ever experienced, and even he was beginning to think the Devil himself had a hand in it all. How else could it be that every one of his men had been either killed, injured, or driven to desertion?
That their mission was on the brink of failure?
The German Reich had been at war for many years now: Catholics against Protestants, imperial troops against the princes’ soldiers—even Swedes, Danes, and Saxons against Bavarians and Spaniards. There was no end in sight to the war, and each fighter hoped to make off with the greatest spoils. Through the thick fog of gunpowder, Leopold von Torgau saw the enemy men-at-arms storming the imperial camp with pikes, short swords, and long knives, bellowing and shrieking. A musket ball whizzed past, mere inches from Torgau’s helmet. He ducked and loaded the only remaining shot into his pistol.
I’m the last, he thought. I must not fail!
The Kaiser had sent a good twelve thousand men here, near the town of Hamelin, to defeat the accursed Swedes. But the terrain was rough, full of treacherous rocks and hills, and soon riders had encircled the army, thrusting sabers and firing pistols at the foot soldiers from atop their horses. Even Torgau’s Black Musketeers, normally so brave, had scarcely put up any resistance. Their courage had vanished—mainly because of unnerving rumors that had been spreading through the camp since the night before.
The enemy, the rumors said, was in league with the Devil.
There were whispers of invincible spirits, so-called frozen ones, soulless creatures who brought death and destruction wherever they went. Word had it that a wizard of black magic fighting on the Protestants’ side had given them eternal life: neither bullets nor sword blows could kill them. Indeed, Leopold von Torgau had already witnessed a few eerie sights in this battle—a bolt of flame tearing through three tents, for example, or men walking upright even after numerous swords had pierced them. Perhaps Torgau had simply imagined it all; he wasn’t entirely sure.
Cautiously, the old officer poked his head out of the trench and glanced around. To his relief, he discovered that the enemy forces had moved on without noticing him. He stuck his loaded pistol back into his belt and hoisted himself out of the trench. It was time to secure the powerful artifact that the Kaiser himself had entrusted Torgau to retrieve.
Torgau’s Musketeers had been tasked with bringing the object back to Nürnberg. But they had all failed, and failed miserably. Now Leopold von Torgau could only hope that the enemy had not beaten him to it.
He hastened past the many wounded and dying men around him, toward a nearby hill, where a nondescript tent sat hidden amid a dense shield of trees and bushes. Torgau climbed the hill and stumbled into the abandoned tent, where he swept aside a table full of maps and battle plans, revealing a wooden panel in the ground, covered by grass and leaves. With anxious anticipation, Torgau pushed the panel to one side and reached into the hollow underneath. He felt damp wood and the cold iron of a padlock. The old warrior breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank God, it’s still there!
Torgau withdrew a fine, polished walnut chest the length of his arm. He ran his fingers over the wood, tracing the silver fittings and ornamentation. The chest was old, but what it contained was far older: an artifact that, together with a few other objects, could seal the destiny of the German Reich. And now, at last, it was to be returned to Nürnberg, where—
A sudden noise made Torgau freeze.
He turned around and, to his horror, saw the point of a saber boring through the tent canvas. It sliced the cloth from top to bottom, creating a slit the length of a man.
The Devil stepped through it.
Gasping, Leopold von Torgau stumbled backward a few steps, still clutching the chest in both hands. The man who h
ad just entered the tent through the tear in the fabric was towering and broad shouldered, with long, oily black hair. He wore a helmet, a cuirass, and pantaloons—a typical mercenary, probably from the southern Spanish lands. But what shocked Torgau was not the soldier’s size, but the look in his eyes.
These were the eyes of a dead man.
Now that the man was close, Torgau saw the many gaping wounds on his body as well—each one surely a fatal blow, yet none of them stopping him from closing in on Torgau. The soldier with the dead eyes growled.
“Stop, you monster!” Torgau commanded. With grim determination, he clamped the chest under one arm and aimed his pistol at his adversary. He only had this one shot; he had to make it count. His mission was too important! If this chest fell into the wrong hands, all was lost. “Not another step or I’ll shoot!” Torgau gasped. He cocked the gun, ready to fire at any moment.
The huge man with the dead eyes grinned. “Try . . . it,” the mercenary said in a strangely sluggish, creaky voice, as though dragging each word from the depths of a grave. “You . . . can’t . . . kill . . . me.”
“Nonsense, of course I can! See for yourself!”
There was a loud bang; the weapon’s recoil sent Torgau tumbling back. He stared, dumbfounded. The mercenary was still standing there grinning at him, a fresh hole in his breastplate.
Right at the level of his heart.
“As I . . . said,” the mercenary creaked. “You . . . can’t kill me. I’m . . . already . . . dead.”
The giant lurched slowly toward Leopold von Torgau, who could only stand there gaping, awaiting his fate. His hands trembled so violently that the chest crashed to the ground.
Ghosts! So these frozen ones really do exist! My men were right. Black magic, the Devil . . . The count tried to wrap his mind around this realization.
Then the man with the dead eyes reached him.
I
Two Weeks Later
Near Heidelberg in the Palatinate
The old buck stood peacefully at the edge of the clearing, perfectly unaware of its imminent death. It was a magnificent twelve-pointer with sharp antlers and powerful flanks. Lukas lay on his stomach about thirty paces away, holding his breath. From behind the cover of a blackberry bush, he aimed his crossbow at the beautiful, noble animal.
Lukas hesitated for a moment, but he knew he could not allow himself to feel pity. He and his comrades had caught only a couple of small rabbits and partridges in the past few days—not nearly enough to feed all the residents of Lohenfels Castle. The war had brought poverty and hunger to the Palatinate; the fields had been trampled or scorched in the summer heat, and the people desperately needed something to eat. Lukas said a short prayer of thanks and then curled his fingers around the trigger.
Just as he was about to fire, the buck collapsed as though it had been struck by lightning.
“What the hell?”
Lukas stared at his crossbow, baffled. The bolt was still in the groove. So what had brought the buck down so suddenly? Was there another hunter hiding somewhere in the clearing? Perhaps even some malicious assassin? Mercenaries were always wandering through the woods, robbing and murdering without pity—even here, near Lohenfels Castle, Lukas’s home. He glanced around cautiously as he reached for the dagger on his belt. A twig snapped somewhere in the dim light of the forest, birds fluttered up, and a jay screeched over his head.
All at once, peals of laughter rang out like bells, and Lukas exhaled in relief.
“Elsa!” he sighed, sheathing his weapon again. “Damn, I should have known you’d be snooping around.”
His younger sister stepped out into the clearing, just a few paces away. Elsa had flaxen hair that contrasted sharply with Lukas’s black mane, and now, in the summer, she had more freckles than there were stars in the sky. At eleven years old, she was impudent at times, precocious at others. Both often got on Lukas’s nerves.
“You didn’t see me!” she giggled. “Admit it, I scared you!”
“Ha ha, very funny!” Lukas gestured at the motionless buck. “I swear, Elsa, if you had anything to do with that, then—”
“You should have seen your face!” she interrupted, laughing. “That alone was worth the spell.”
“Spell?” Lukas gave a start. “You . . . you mean you used magic again?” He straightened up and gave his younger sister a stern look. “Didn’t you promise me you would only use magic in emergencies?” Lukas still couldn’t get used to the fact that Elsa could actually do magic. Not cheap village-fair tricks, but real magic. She’d apparently inherited the ability from their mother, Countess Sophia von Lohenfels, who had practiced white magic and had been a healer.
Elsa shrugged, pouting. “I do have to practice. What if a real emergency happens and I can’t defend myself, hm? What if Spanish mercenaries suddenly show up, or frozen ones, or even Waldemar von Schönborn—”
“Be quiet, Elsa!” Lukas broke in. “We agreed we would never mention his name again.”
Finding out that Elsa was only his half sister, and that the dark inquisitor and magician Waldemar von Schönborn was Elsa’s father, had come as a shock to both siblings. Even though Elsa hated her father, Lukas feared she was more like him than she would admit.
Especially when she used her magic.
“Not talking about him doesn’t put us any less in danger,” Elsa spat. She turned completely serious; the sneering look vanished from her eyes. “Lukas, you know we aren’t safe here at Lohenfels. Not as long as we have no idea what he’s planning. He’ll seek revenge, one of these days!”
They both lapsed into sullen silence, and Lukas found himself thinking back on the past two years, which had changed him and his younger sister so much. It had been two summers since Inquisitor Waldemar von Schönborn and his battalion of Spanish mercenaries had descended upon their home, Castle Lohenfels. Lukas’s father, Count von Lohenfels, had been killed in the attack; their mother had been burned at the stake as a witch in Heidelberg, and Elsa had been abducted by Schönborn. It had taken Lukas over a year to find his sister again—and to discover a secret long kept by their mother.
It was the secret of the Grimorium Nocturnum, the Book of the Night, the most powerful magic book in the world.
That book was now in Elsa’s possession—which was why she was able to perform real magic. The Grimorium and Elsa’s powers had driven Inquisitor Schönborn away, but Lukas suspected that he would one day return to recover the book.
“You mean you have the Grimorium with you now?” Lukas asked quietly. “If you’re right about us being unsafe at Lohenfels, then we’re even less safe here in the woods! We agreed the book would remain in the castle library.”
“Don’t worry.” Elsa shrugged. “I no longer need the Grimorium to do magic. At least, not the smaller spells. I’ve already memorized quite a few.”
“I was afraid of that,” Lukas murmured, mostly to himself. The very thought of the Grimorium sometimes robbed him of sleep. He was afraid that any spells might draw Schönborn’s attention. But that didn’t stop Elsa from spending nearly every evening paging through the book and occasionally using the spells.
“Not knowing what our enemy is planning is all the more reason to be cautious,” Lukas admonished his sister. “Magic is no game, Elsa!”
“Fine, then, we’ll just remove the spell, since young Master Lohenfels prefers it that way. EVIGILIA ACUTUM!” Elsa clapped her hands, and the buck got back to its feet again, wobbling a little, as though just awakening from a deep sleep. Before Lukas could reach for his crossbow, the animal bounded off into the woods.
“Damn it, Elsa, I didn’t mean it like that!” he exclaimed. “You know how badly we needed that meat. You finally cast a useful spell for once, and then you go and do this!”
“So do you want me to use magic, or don’t you?” Furious tears sprang to Elsa’s eyes. “I only wanted to help, but there’s no pleasing you! You’re . . . you’re just jealous that I can do magic and you can’t!”
Lukas rolled his eyes. “Elsa, that’s not true. It’s just that . . .”
But Elsa had already turned and run off into the forest. Lukas wanted to hurry after her, but decided to let her go. Even though he was fourteen now, nearly a young man, Elsa rarely listened to what he had to say anymore. He decided to abandon his hunt for today and go back to the castle. He was sure Elsa would show up again once she was finished pouting.
He uncocked his crossbow, slung it over his shoulder, and set off for home. The late-afternoon sun shone pleasantly warm though the dense foliage; birds twittered, and a rushing stream gurgled somewhere nearby—but Lukas was still uneasy.
Again and again, he found himself thinking of the evil Waldemar von Schönborn and his black magic.
Lukas left the forest behind him and hastened up toward the castle. Lohenfels sat enthroned atop a rocky promontory, a hundred paces above the Neckar, the broad, languid river flowing toward Heidelberg. Several fields and farmhouses to the west of the castle walls belonged to the estate as well. It still amazed Lukas how quickly they had managed to rebuild his parents’ property. When he’d returned here with Elsa six months ago, they’d found Lohenfels almost completely destroyed at the hands of the Swedes. But thanks to the help of the rest of the castle denizens and many other farmers in the area, the castle now stood above the river once more, nearly as proud and mighty as it had been back when Lukas’s parents were still alive. Lohenfels was a small, humble manor—nothing like the Kaiser’s huge castle in Vienna—but Lukas had always been proud of his home.
He strode quickly across the broad ramp leading up to the open castle gate. Beyond it was a courtyard surrounded by several stone buildings. Completing the scene were a tall tower, the servants’ quarters, and the main building itself, which looked more like a defiant fortress than an actual palace.
Two farmers in tattered garments were unloading a sack from a cart and carrying it over to the storehouse. Standing beside them was an older gray-haired man. It was Eberhart, the castellan, who was managing castle affairs until Lukas came of age.
Eberhart gestured sadly to the two small sacks remaining on the cart. “This is all the barley the farmers were able to reap this year,” he explained. “The hailstorm a couple of weeks ago destroyed almost everything.”
Sword of Power (The Black Musketeers Book 2) Page 1
