At Witches' End

by Annette Oppenlander

  “I have no coin,” the boy said with a flicker of fear in his hazel eyes.

  I stared at him. I knew this kid. “Alexander?”

  The boy was either too afraid or too stupid to answer.

  “Hey, clotpole, speak!” Bero said, smacking the kid in the chest.

  “Go easy,” I said. “A couple years ago he worked for Schwarzburg.”

  “He gave me thrashings and kicked me out,” the boy whined. His pants were coated with dirt and his shirt had lost its color under layers of stains and had holes in the elbows. “Do not make trouble or I will starve again.” He lifted an arm to fend off potential blows.

  “We won’t hurt you,” I said. “Just need to know something.”

  “I know nothing. Only started here last month.”

  “Who else works the stalls? Tell me quick,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. If the innkeeper showed up, we’d have to force our way past him. There were no other exits.

  “Thomas. He has been here a long time.”

  “Can you call him?” I said.

  “Why should I? He will beat me up for waking him.”

  Bero pulled out a Heller. “This is yours if you get Thomas. Do it now.”

  Alexander’s eyes zoomed in on the coin. Without another word he turned and dove into the darkness in the back. Someone grunted, followed by something crashing and a cry of pain.

  Bero and I nodded at each other and followed Alexander who appeared massaging a welt on his cheek.

  “He throws things,” he mumbled.

  Whoever this Thomas character was, he had fashioned himself a sort of hut within the barn. Rough-hewn strips of wood formed two inner walls and were lined with bits of fabric and leather to keep out the cold. In the dim light inside, I made out a crumpled shape on a platform of straw bales. The stink of old sweat and unwashed clothes made me gag.

  “Rise and shine,” Bero shouted into the gloom. The form on the bed slowly came to life.

  With a groan that reminded me of rusty hinges, Thomas pulled himself into a sitting position. “Get out. My room.”

  When we didn’t move, he peeled himself off his bed. I froze. Thomas towered a foot above us, a pro-football player on steroids, his shoulders massive and his legs tree trunks.

  “We need information,” I hurried. “We’ll pay for it.”

  “What?” the giant grumbled. His inch-thick eyebrows were overshadowed by a bony forehead and the dumbest expression I’d ever seen. Thomas didn’t just look like a Neanderthal, he sounded like one.

  “D’you know what happened to my cape I left here last week?” I asked. Thomas stared at me, obviously trying to figure out what I was talking about. “I was here last week,” I said, emphasizing every word, “and the innkeeper caught me in the cellars. I jumped out of the window and landed on the pig barn. Remember?”

  Thomas stared. Hello anybody home up there. The guy was even stupider than he looked.

  “You must’ve heard about it. They did a search.”

  Slowly, Thomas nodded.

  “I left my cape and a trinket. A green thing,” I tried. No way to explain a lighter to the village idiot.

  “If you tell us, we give you a coin. Do you know where it is?” Bero yanked his Heller from his belt. No matter that we’d promised it to Alexander, too.

  “Green thing?”

  “Yeah, it’s small and bright green like an apple.”

  “Apple?”

  I shook my head in frustration. You could have a better conversation with a loaf of bread.

  “I sees master with something green,” Thomas said. “He looks at it in the bar once.”

  “What about my cape?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Pays now.” He held out a pan-sized hand.

  “After you find out where my things went.”

  Thomas stared at me with dull gray eyes.

  “Ask around,” Bero said, patting the sword handle as if by accident.

  I sighed. It’d never work. The guy was way too dense. Still I had to try. “If you go and ask, we’ll give you the coin.”

  Bero shook his head. “This is an ill-nurtured idea. We better go.”

  “And give him the money for nothing. No way.” I turned back to Thomas. “Can you go now and ask?”

  Thomas slowly nodded, his eyes glued to the coin. He stretched and yawned before laboring outside, scratching his butt as he went.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Bero said. “The lad has knotholes in his skull.”

  “He knows horses, though,” Alexander said.

  We moved toward the barn entrance when I remembered Karl’s wallet. What if Thomas had it?

  “Wait here, I’m going to check something,” I said and rushed back. Thin sunbeams like blades of light trickled through the outer wall of Thomas’s quarters. It stank to high heaven. The summer’s heat had cooked the air, removing all oxygen. No wonder the guy was dense. Nobody could think in this place.

  The space was almost bare, except for the straw platform and a wooden barrel that served as a nightstand. I picked it up. It was empty.

  Breathing shallowly, I moved aside the threadbare linen blanket. It had all sorts of stains. Better not think about what they were. I stuck a hand underneath and between the straw bales. Nothing.

  Along the wall hung a few pieces of ragged clothing. None looked familiar but I checked each one anyway. Nothing. Karl’s wallet wasn’t there.

  I stepped back to the bed, trying to imagine what I’d do if I wanted to hide something. Think, I ordered myself. I stomped on the ground, but the dirt floor beneath the rotten straw was rock solid. There was no trap door, no floorboards.

  Boards.

  I remembered Bero’s shack and the hollow wall. Maybe. I climbed back on the bed and ran my fingers along the wooden boards that formed the outer wall of the barn. I knocked. Something was hollow all right.

  Bending closer I noticed a short wooden peg camouflaged among the boards. I twisted and pulled until it came lose.

  In the space lay several items. A silvery belt buckle, a heavy ring with a blue stone, bits of lace embroidered with gold thread, and there was a blackish piece of leather. I pulled it out, the jewelry clattering into the crack between the straw bed and the wall.

  My eyes were drawn to the leather and when I unfolded it, I saw into the mildewed, yet smiling faces of Karl and his wife, a young Emma between them. Little Emma was cute even then. My breath caught. I was supposed to hurry and what did I do? Waste time thinking about a girl with red hair.

  Karl’s driver’s license was still there but there were no coins or paper bills. Outside the room someone was talking. Had Thomas returned already? Hopefully Bero would somehow distract him for a minute.

  I stuffed the wallet into my shirt, swallowing a curse. I had to replace the jewelry. Fishing in the crevice below, my fingers made contact with the buckle. I crammed it back into the hole. The stupid ring was another matter. I had to put my face against the straw to make my arm reach. Disgusted I held my breath, rummaging blindly.

  There. The ring felt cool against my fingertips. I put the peg back in place and climbed off the straw bed.

  “That is him,” the innkeeper shouted from the door. “We finally caught the spy.”

  “My room.” Thomas shoved the barkeep aside and circled around the space.

  The peg wasn’t in all the way if someone looked closely. Big Thomas was patting down his rags and hadn’t noticed. Not yet.

  I had to get out now.

  Two more figures pushed past the innkeeper. They wore chainmail and helmets with the yellow and blue plumes of Schwarzburg. “We take it from here,” one of them said. “The commander will be pleased.”

  I threw a last glance at the barkeep’s smug face and imbecile Thomas, feeling the urge to smack them both. The wallet rubbed against my chest. If they searched me now, Thomas would beat me to a pulp with a few swipes of his paws.

  But Schwarzburg’s guards had other plans. They drove me through the door
out of the barn, applying targeted kicks to my thighs and butt. I clamped my jaw tight. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of making a sound. Somehow I hoped Bero had managed to hide or escape.

  No such luck.

  Bero stood surrounded by four more guards; one of the men inspected his knife and the single coin. Our eyes met, Bero squinting a tiny nod.

  “Not so tough now, squire,” one of them said. The metallic sound of his sword leaving the scabbard, made me turn around. To my horror, Schwarzburg’s man scraped the tip of his blade up Bero’s chest. It stopped under his chin. Bero remained silent as the sharp point moved to the neck. One slash and he’d be gone.

  I wanted to shout, but somehow I couldn’t. I just watched in horror as the tip of the sword moved toward Bero’s ear. The color had drained from his face and he stood absolutely still.

  “Stop your games,” someone barked. I recognized the voice, cold and raspy, from the first day, Schwarzburg’s ringleader. “Bind them.”

  “At once, Wolf.” The guard yanked away his sword, but not before nicking Bero in the cheek. Blood seeped from the wound, dripping off Bero’s chin.

  And then it came to me. Two years ago I’d heard that voice, the very minute I’d entered the game for the first time. Wolf was the guy who’d ordered the men to cut off Karl’s finger. I shuddered. That man was capable of anything.

  “Will you partake in some nourishment?” the innkeeper sniveled as he rubbed his hands and bowed at the soldiers.

  “Our orders are clear,” Wolf said. His beard was even blacker than last time. “We must take leave at once.”

  Bero started wiping his face, but I shook my head. “Let it bleed. You’ll get it dirty.”

  “Shut your face,” the guard with the happy blade shouted. He smacked me with his chain-mailed gauntlet so that I stumbled sideways, my jaw throbbing. A kick to the lower back followed. I wanted to buckle and roll into a ball.

  “Where are we going?” Bero said.

  “Nobody asked you, squire,” another man said. “You should choose your friends more wisely.”

  “Let him explain it to the Duke.” The sword cutter chuckled. “A few weeks in the dungeon and his tongue will loosen just fine. Unless we cut it out now.” They laughed except for Wolf, the leader, who shot them a nasty look. The chuckles stopped. One by one our hands were tied with chains and attached to the saddles of two horses.

  As the sun grew bold in the September sky we marched east.

  Chapter 12

  I tried ignoring the dust and thirst burning my throat. No matter how I sniffed and spit, the grit invaded my nose and mouth and clogged my eyes. I tried protecting my sore wrist by holding the chain with the other hand, but the horses kept yanking and I wanted to scream with pain and fury.

  Bero wasn’t doing much better, but he was lighter on his feet as he hopped across the roots and boulders in his squirrel-like fashion. The blood on his face had dried into a brownish cake.

  “Nice plan,” he mumbled, throwing me an angry glance. “For you I missed breakfast.”

  “Nobody asked you to come along,” I spit. I didn’t want to admit that I’d been secretly glad that Bero was with me. Our renewed friendship made me forget the terrible longing I felt for my modern-day life.

  “Quiet,” the guard barked. “Or we shorten your tongues.”

  I wanted to scream at them, the guard for being cruel and Bero for attracting attention and stating the obvious. Instead I grew dizzy while my stomach turned into a rock.

  Bero was right, of course. Why had I brought so much useless stuff? Instead of finding my cape, I’d found Karl’s wallet—much good did it do me or him now that I was marching to another prison. We were obviously going away from Bornhagen.

  With every hour, my thirst grew. My tongue had the consistency of a sunbaked brick, my throat was raw and a dehydration headache spread through my skull. The men never stopped. They handed each other flagons, they laughed and shouted, farted and grunted. But they kept going.

  By early afternoon, I had a clear view of a low-rising mountain: Rusteberg. Even though I’d been sick I recognized it from last time. We were going to visit Schwarzburg. And I knew exactly what was next. A stinking cell with an extended family of rats. I shuddered. Bero shot me a strange look. His cheeks were flushed and he wasn’t quite as bouncy on his feet.

  At last the trail widened to resemble a one-lane road. Undoubtedly many travelers used it. To our left, shacks with reed-covered roofs and lean-tos came into view, their garbage-filled yards reminding me of the shantytowns I’d seen visiting the Dominican Republic. That had to be Marth, the village near Rusteberg. But the men neither slowed nor turned toward the village. Instead they followed the road. I had been wrong.

  The riders took great pleasure pulling their prisoners’ chains, forcing us to fall. Unable to use my left hand, I smashed to the ground hard. I bit my lip and banged my chin, the blood disgustingly sweet in the gravelly dryness of my mouth. My shoulder throbbed with bruises and my ribs ached with every breath.

  We overtook an occasional peasant, yanking along a goat or sheep or carrying a basket. Everyone was going the same direction. The meadows and pastures along the road were fenced now, paddocks crammed with contentedly grazing cattle. When at last we stopped, I was ready to collapse.

  I didn’t care anymore where I was going. All I wanted was something to drink. Anything.

  Bero didn’t seem nearly as sick despite the cut on his face. Or he didn’t show it. I took in the twelve-foot stone walls extending in both directions, the clay-covered rooftops beyond and the line of travelers waiting to be let in through the gate.

  “Heiligenstadt,” Bero whispered.

  I jerked out of my stupor. What? I strained to glimpse past the muscled horse butts. Impossible. This was the town where I went to high school, where I hung out with Jimmy and watched movies, ate pizza with my dad.

  I was still staring at the gate when the chain yanked at my arms. Schwarzburg’s troops had special privileges and passed by the line of peasants waiting to be allowed inside. Most of them stared blankly or averted their eyes while we staggered past them.

  The roads I knew as clean, paved with flowerpots and benches for tired shoppers, were cracked dry and dusty paths with an occasional puddle of urine or wash water. I tried to avoid the piles of excrement, dead rats and assorted rotting garbage.

  A few beggars loitered near a church, their eyes dull, their faces sunken and their clothes in such tatters that it was hard to tell if they had color at all.

  Worst was the stink that hung over the city in a suffocating fog. With every step the smells grew viler, they seeped into my skin and strangled me. I barely noticed when the horses finally stopped. Half-standing, half-leaning, I tried to focus. My brain refused.

  “Hey, dimwit,” Bero murmured. It sounded as if he were speaking through water. I kept my head low, trying to ignore the pounding migraine and contemplating if I should throw up. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but my stomach was sending a constant stream of bile up my throat. Damn the Middle Ages.

  Most of the guards had disappeared, two stood watch. Again they passed a flagon between them and I smelled the hoppy odor of ale. I licked my lips which immediately stretched more tautly. Something reeked terribly, a stench that made me sicker yet.

  My gaze fell on a wooden platform to the side of the building. Above swung the lifeless bodies of three men or what was left of them after the birds, sun and wind had finished.

  The hollow sockets of their eyes stared blindly. Their noses were gone and what was left of their skin looked like cracked leather pulled over bones. An incoherent squeak escaped me as I forced myself to look away.

  “Criminals,” Bero muttered.

  I wasn’t so sure. After all, we were here and if I knew one thing, it was that neither Bero nor I had done anything illegal.

  One of the soldiers reappeared. “In there,” he said, unhooking our chains from the horses, keeping us on the leash
like two pigs going to slaughter.

  As my eyes adjusted I noticed a fancy foyer, tiled floors and a sweeping staircase at the back. We turned left and passed through an oak door the size of a truck and reinforced with steel.

  “My Lord, we present to you the spy and his companion.”

  Bero straightened and stood to attention. I just glared at Schwarzburg who presided over an enormous desk and looked even thinner this time. Underneath the velvet red hat, the greasy hair was striped with gray. His nose protruded like a bird’s beak, sharp and curved and ready to peck.

  “Max Nerds, you have chosen to visit again,” the Duke said. His lips turned upward as if to smile, but his eyes were black ice. “Still spying for the Lord von Hanstein, I presume? You managed to leave us last time. I assure you it will not happen again. And you brought an accomplice.” Schwarzburg’s stare moved to Bero who began to tremble in response. “You look familiar.”

  “Nay,” Bero said. “I don’t think so.”

  Schwarzburg shook his head. “You are a Hanstein squire?”

  “We have done nothing, Your Lordship.” I knew Bero was scared, but his voice sounded strong. “The Lord shall not like it if you arrest his squires.”

  “Squire? Ha,” Schwarzburg said, spraying spittle across his desk. “Insolent bastard. We should have finished you along with your swine a long time ago. And your Lord is no more than a common street robber and arsonist.” He waved a bony finger. “Take them away.”

  I stood frozen, too numb to comment. I’d been rescued last time. Karl had been there. The same Karl who was rotting in Hanstein’s dungeon right now. He wouldn’t come to help. Without the extra rations and my pep talks he’d get worse by the minute. How was I going to free him now?

  I needed a pep talk myself, I mused as we marched back to the foyer and the staircase. But instead of going up, we followed winding stone steps into an endless abyss. Deep beneath the building, we entered a narrow corridor with a row of doors—the city’s prison.

  “In there,” the jailer said.

  The cell’s ceiling was so low that we couldn’t stand upright. I slumped into the filthy straw, intent to curl up and sleep.