[Angelika Fleischer 02] - Sacred Flesh

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Angelika bounded up the slope, relying on the others to keep up with her. It was as if she’d never been ill at all. Corpses littered the hillside, many abandoned as they had fallen: some were lying face down in the gravel or with limbs pinioned under their torsos. Others had been left under blankets, carefully arranged on their backs, with hands clasped together over their chests. Up ahead of her, Angelika saw one such blanket being taken by the wind and blown across the slope to land on a troop of struggling sisters. Angelika whistled happily. She had already found a pair of golden earrings dangling from the dead lobes of a sunken-eyed maiden; their green stones were jade, from the distant Cathay. From the wrist of a wire-haired old woman, she’d helped herself to a silver bangle, bristling with dwarfish-cut diamonds. Seven pendants, each bearing Shallya’s dove emblem, tangled together their chains of gold and silver in Angelika’s pocket. Then there were the parses—four in all so far, just left there in the open, for anyone to take. One of them had given up nearly a hundred crowns! Her total now stood at one hundred and forty-two, bringing her nearly to where she’d been before the robbers came. She bent to roll over the bloating remains of a fat-bellied burgher. Though he lacked a purse, his cloak-clasp was exquisitely enamelled and would earn her five or six crowns. None of the dozens of pilgrims around them, who were heaving themselves up the slope, puffing and dull-eyed, shook so much as an impotent fist at her. If it weren’t for Gerhold’s dismayed clucks and Waldemar’s showily averted eyes, she would have felt no judgement upon her at all. Angelika’s pack of feckless pilgrims had led her to a grave-looter’s paradise.

  She had also found a surprising quantity of food, and so many containers of water that she had to leave some behind. Angelika parcelled out figs, salted fish, slices of dry sausage and misshapen lumps of hardtack. Intertwined in the deceased fingers of one emaciated traveller, she found a jug of bitter brown ale. She poured most of it out before handing it over to the others. As much as they deserved a good drink, it would not help their progress any.

  Devorah sank to her knees. Franziskus caught her.

  Angelika bounded down to his side. “I thought she was recovering.”

  “The disease has relapsed.” The sister drew tortured, shallow breaths. Angelika felt her forehead. It was hotter than it had been during her first bout of fever.

  “I think she’s dying,” Franziskus whispered.

  “No, I won’t let her do that,” said Angelika. “I’ve already explained this.”

  “We need to find a sheltered place, where she can rest.”

  “Over there,” it was Ivo, pointing off to the north where big buttresses of raw stone burst out of the earthen hills. “Behind those rock formations. I think,”—he stopped for breath—“I think there are some ledges there, where we can stop safely for a while.”

  Richart came up behind the pardoner and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve never been in these hills before,” he said.

  Ivo stepped deftly away from him, slapping at the landowner’s unwelcome paw. His eyes worked from side to side. “No, I haven’t.”

  “It just seems curious.” Richart turned to face the formation he’d pointed at. “That you should know what’s behind there, without having seen it.”

  Ivo was quick to answer. “I said I think there’s probably ledges there. Based on my observations of similar formations that we’ve seen before throughout this journey.”

  Devorah stirred in Franziskus’ arms, then fell back into unconsciousness. “We’ve no time to debate the principles of geology,” he snapped. “If we don’t get some food into her…” There was no need for him to complete the sentence.

  Angelika’s attention flew to a couple of figures on the ridge above them. “Yes,” she said. She drew her knife. She addressed Franziskus without looking at him. “You take her around to see if Ivo’s right about the sheltered spot. Anyone who feels like a tussle, come with me.” She pointed at the men in the distance with the tip of her blade. “I thought I saw them earlier, and there they are. Our robbers.”

  Her targets stopped for a moment, as if to consider why their ears were burning. The bright sunlight clearly highlighted the features of the lead bandit. Another of them was by his side. There were only the two of them.

  “I’ll go,” said Waldemar, grim and eager.

  “Me too,” said Gerhold.

  “We’ll get above them before we go at them,” said Angelika.

  Angelika crept up the hillside, heading for a point about a hundred feet to the north of the robbers’ position. Waldemar and Gerhold kept close by her. Ivo stood in contemplation and then took off after them. Richart followed him.

  This left Lemoine, Stefan and Udo to help Franziskus with the girl. Lemoine bent to help pick her up, gently lifting her by the legs. Franziskus held her under her arms. Stefan took the lead, picking his careful way along the slope toward the rock formation Ivo had shown them. Udo followed the procession, watching their war party scramble cautiously up the hill. “If they get themselves killed, we’re all done for,” he said, but no one was listening.

  Angelika, nodding meek apologies, threaded her way through a group of unlikely-looking, bearded penitents cloaked in heavy furs. Waldemar and Gerhold did the same. The furry men grumbled and closed ranks, staunchly blocking Ivo’s path.

  “What are we,” one of them said. “A herd of sheep, to be walked through willy-nilly?”

  Ivo turned to check on Richart’s progress. There was a boulder beneath his foot. He kicked it loose. It rolled down at Richart, then bounced. Ivo spun on his heels and ran crabwise up the hill, away from Angelika, and away from the robbers. Richart hugged flat to the hillside; the rock flew well past him. He cursed and bolted up to chase the pardoner.

  Angelika stopped, holding a halting hand up to Gerhold and Waldemar. They’d moved quicker than the robbers, who seemed not to have spotted them among the swarm of climbing pilgrims. They were now about twenty feet higher than the two bandits, who’d stopped to lie and catch their breath with their backs flat against the steep hillside. Waldemar stole a backward glance and saw that Ivo and Richart had gone missing.

  “Weren’t they—”

  Angelika ssshhed him. He reached for the hilt of his rapier. She shook her head. They moved diagonally to close the lateral distance between themselves and their prey. The robbers had chosen to rest under an especially steep spot, and it was all Angelika and her companions could do to remain upright.

  “Now,” said Angelika. Waldemar hauled his sword loudly from its scabbard. Gerhold brandished a thick oak branch, which he’d been using as a walking stick. They had to skid to prevent themselves from overrunning the men and rolling down the slope. The bandits beheld them with weary faces and held their hands up. The leader coughed; vomit caked the other’s tunic. They reached slowly for their belts and undid them, tossing aside their still-sheathed blades.

  “The vengeance of the gods is complete, then,” the leader choked.

  “Where are your friends?” Angelika demanded, her dagger jabbing their way.

  “Claimed by the plague you gave us,” said the robber-pilgrim.

  Angelika gestured to a pack by the man’s side that bulged like a sausage. Gerhold slipped over to it and hefted it.

  “Is our food in there?” Angelika asked.

  The leader tried a laugh; it came out as a croak. “Except for one meal, we haven’t had much of an appetite.”

  The second robber groaned and shifted in discomfort.

  “Don’t drag it out,” the first man said, addressing Angelika. “Do what the deities command.” His dry tongue came out to brush his whitened lips.

  “I don’t work for them,” said Angelika.

  With a gesture, she got Waldemar and Gerhold moving. She waited until it was clear that the sickened robbers wouldn’t try anything, then turned and followed them.

  * * *

  Ivo ran, curving around a knot of barrel-chested, naked-backed men, w
ho were making resolute progress up the hill, whilst simultaneously flaying themselves with long, delicate lengths of spiky chain. Richart scrabbled up the slope behind him and leapt, hurling himself at the pardoner. He hit Ivo in the midsection, bringing him down. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pushed Ivo’s face into the dirt. Ivo’s hand shot down to his scabbard. Richart seized him by the wrist. Ivo wormed his way onto his back and out from under the smaller man. Richart smacked his free elbow into Ivo’s teeth.

  One of the flagellants shambled over. Blood dripped down from his shoulders onto Ivo’s face. “Do not strike each other,” he intoned. “To gain salvation, you must strike yourselves.” He placed his hand on Richart’s shoulder. Richart shrugged him off; Ivo took advantage of the distraction and jumped to his feet. He kicked Richart in the throat. Richart fell to the ground, saw-horsed. The flagellant gulped and scurried off to rejoin his fellows.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Ivo petulantly demanded. He directed several kicks, one of them well aimed, at Richart’s ribcage. Richart groaned. “You’re working for them, aren’t you?” Ivo howled, his absurd voice fluting upwards to its highest pitch. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. “You’ve cracked open my lip!” Seeing that Richart’s hand was near his foot, he brought his heel down on it, twisting. “You’re with the damn priests, aren’t you?”

  Richart hung his head and caught his breath. “And what quarrel have you with priests?”

  “If you’re so cleverly ignorant of what we’re speaking of, then why did you chase me?” Ivo kicked at him.

  Richart spun around and wrapped both hands around Ivo’s flailing calf. He pulled on it, bringing the pardoner down on his backside. Ivo grunted. Richart reached for his sword. Ivo struck out with his legs, wrapping them around the scabbarded blade, and bending it, so that it could not be drawn. “I bet you wish you weren’t posing as a landsman now,” he triumphantly yowled. “Then you could carry something stronger than an effete nobleman’s blade.”

  “And when I’m done with you, you’ll wish you were truly a mere stinking pardoner, not a purloiner of holy relics!” Richart tugged fruitlessly again at his weapon hilt, then threw himself on Ivo, punching furiously at his face and chest. He took hold of his enemy’s oversized ear and twisted. Ivo shrieked childishly, then found his knife. He swooped it past Richart’s throat, with scarcely an inch between his enemy’s jugular and the edge of the blade. He brought it stabbing down at Richart’s face. Richart clawed his hands onto Ivo’s arm and wrenched the muscle until he dropped the knife. Ivo brought his knee smashing into the side of Richart’s face. Richart fell back, stunned, and Ivo turned to run.

  With blurred vision, Richart sat and watched as Ivo fled, bounding around wary climbers. Richart stood, shook off the pain, and followed him. Ivo’s movements were a paradoxical mixture of the nimble and the clumsy: he slipped often as he skittered along the hillside, but deftly incorporated these mistakes into his stride, somehow using them to propel himself onwards. Richart pounded ahead; Ivo was faster now, with his longer legs, but he also had less muscle on his bones, and his sprint would likely falter before long.

  Richart ran straight at a nobleman’s palanquin, borne by six breathless, purple-faced strongmen. He ducked under it, regained his full height, and saw Ivo standing stupidly on the edge of a precipice. He took his scabbard in hand, unbent his measly rapier, and drew it. He advanced on Ivo, swishing it experimentally through the thin, cold air. A plume of steam escaped from Ivo’s worried lips.

  “Well, thief,” said Richart. “It appears you’ve run out of mountain.”

  “There must be an arrangement we can make, you and I.” Kirchgeld said, holding his palms pleadingly before him.

  Richart halted. “You still have the stolen implements?”

  “Not on me.”

  Richart advanced. “Do you still have them somewhere, or have you already sold them?”

  “Yes.”

  An aggravated scowl twisted across Richart’s round, brown face. “Don’t play games with me, worm. Which is it?”

  Ivo formed his mouth into a small, open circle of hurt and outrage. “There’s no need to insult me.”

  Richart lunged at him, grabbing around, trying to get a good bunch of Ivo’s hair into his fist. Ivo smiled and slipped aside. He seized Richart by the shoulder and heaved him off the precipice. He spun to watch Pfeffer fall, but by the time he was safely around, his pursuer had already dropped out of sight.

  Ivo rubbed his hands together and treated himself to a heaving, blissful breath. People thought Ivo was stupid. But it was in fact they who were stupid.

  Angelika hugged the robber’s pack to her chest and made her way down and around to the rock shelf Ivo had shown them. Gerhold and Waldemar trailed behind her. Sure enough, it was sheltered from the view of other climbers, and offered a large, flat surface for the entire group to rest on. Franziskus stood beside a prone Devorah, who slept, wrapped in a blanket. Franziskus’ cloak lay under her head, bunched up into a pillow. Angelika performed a count: Udo, Stefan and Lemoine sat ringed around Franziskus and Devorah, staring dully into the middle distance. So with Gerhold and Waldemar, they now had six pilgrims and two guides.

  “Where are Ivo and Richart?” she asked.

  Franziskus’ face was drawn and mournful. “They left with you.”

  “We got split up. I thought they’d come back here. Ivo knew where it was.” She sat cross-legged and opened the robber’s pack. She found her accumulated treasure and threw it aside. She dug out sacks and emptied them: she located the trail sausages, the sacks of nuts, the crusts of cheese and the desiccated fruits that had been stolen from them. They were still wrapped in brown paper. At the bottom of the sack were skins full of water, cold to the touch. She drank heartily herself and passed the skins around.

  “Gulp down all you want,” said Angelika. “There is no need to ration: we’ll soon be up on the glacier, and we can scrape the containers full of ice.” All but Franziskus pounced on the food, stuffing their mouths with more than they could chew or swallow. The young deserter took a handkerchief from his pocket, wetted it with the mouth of a water skin, and then dabbed it carefully onto Devorah’s lips.

  “How long do we wait for them?” said Udo, taking a fastidious pull on his recovered water skin.

  Angelika cast a doubtful glance up at the mountain. “With or without them, I think we should spend the night here. I’m spent, and I look better than the lot of you.”

  “Is it safe?” Udo inquired.

  “It’s a little late to be asking that.”

  Waldemar shifted himself closer to Angelika. “What could have happened to Richart and Ivo? One moment they were behind us, and…”

  Angelika shifted away from Waldemar. She shrugged.

  “Should we go look for them?”

  She got up and wandered over to Franziskus. “How is she?”

  Franziskus shook his head.

  Stefan came up behind them. He spoke quietly. “Our only hope is to get her up to Mother Elsbeth for healing. Otherwise we’ve lost her.”

  Angelika stood back. “But we’re likely to finish her off trying to get her up that mountain.”

  “Nonetheless we must try,” Stefan said.

  The three of them stared for a while at Devorah’s peaceful, dying face. “Maybe,” Angelika said, “the true mercy would be in letting her slip away from this rotten charnel house of a world.”

  “You can’t think that way,” Franziskus said.

  Stefan deftly performed the sign of Shallya. “If you had asked me, even a few days ago, why I embarked on this pilgrimage, I could not give you a good reason for it.”

  “That’s because—”

  began Angelika. Franziskus silenced her with a forbidding look. For some reason, she obeyed him, and let the advocate go on.

  “It was just a feeling I had,” Stefan said, fixed unwaveringly on Devorah’s features. He touched his chest. “In here. I have always been a man of th
e mind, not the heart. Of argument, debate, precedent. Law. For once, though, I felt impelled to follow the dictates of my heart, so I joined this group of fellow fools and sinners, without knowing why. Only now do I understand. It is Shallya’s mercy that has placed me here, to ensure that this one innocent girl is carried into her arms, to gain intercession through Mother Elsbeth. I do not need healing. I am already healed. It does not matter what the rest of you say: I will do my best to get her to Heiligerberg, and if I die, I shall do so in a state of divine grace.”

  Gerhold’s eyes glistened. Lemoine tottered over to fold his arms around Stefan. Udo joined the scrum from behind: “I know of what you speak, good Stefan! I, too, came here insincerely! I was even more insincere than you! And, although I do not feel it yet,” he said, his voice breaking, “if I act like I feel it, I know I surely will!”

  The moon hung low and bright in the black sky over Heiligerberg. Winded, Ivo fruitlessly choked in ragged breaths of thin mountain air. He paused to pound on his sunken chest, in a desperate attempt to pummel his lungs into greater efficiency. His head spun; the last bit of the climb had been punishing, even more so than the last time he’d done it. He bent; hands clasped onto his thighs and pointed his head earthwards. He waited. Gradually his body quieted its protests. Ivo straightened up, hummed merrily, and pushed his way through the pilgrims who thronged the gate.