by J. K. Swift
He turned slowly to see a mahogany-bearded man pointing a small crossbow at his face and holding another larger one at his side. His hair was cut short but the reddish brown beard was braided into a fork that reached down to his upper chest. The man lightly pressed the point against Erich’s forehead.
“It may be small, but it will tear a hole clear through your head, boy. In fact this bolt is under so much pressure, and the tickler so touchy, it goes off by itself sometimes. Stay very still.”
He raised the other heavier crossbow, took his eyes off Erich for a moment to sight down its length, and shot one of Erich’s men standing forty yards away through the chest. With a pop, the bolt spread apart the man’s chainmail like thin spring ice and embedded itself far into his chest, the leather vanes on the back end of the shaft all but disappearing.
He turned to Erich and said, “Walk.”
On the road the horsemen began their second charge. A few unwise bandits raised their swords and tried to sidestep the horses but were cut down by the riders’ weapons. Most fled into the trees, as did the others further up the road that came from around the bend to see what the screaming was all about. In minutes it was over.
The bearded man marched Erich through the trees. They passed Erich’s three archers crumpled in the underbrush, lying in pools of their own blood with their throats cut. One of them still in his teens. Erich knew the circuitous route back to the road was taken solely for his benefit. He fought to push down the guilt building inside.
***
Thomas took a slow drink from a water skin and then rotated his mace arm to work out the throbbing in his shoulder. The ligaments had been stretched one too many times, but he refused to admit he needed a lighter weapon. He watched Ruedi march his captive out of the trees and force him down hard on his knees in front of the small group of men.
“This one is the leader,” Ruedi murmured through his forked beard.
Thomas nodded, his dark eyes narrowing. He appeared tall because of his lean, wiry build, but he was still a full head shorter than Pirmin Schnidrig, the fair-haired titan of a man standing next to him.
“Just a kid,” Pirmin said, his words strongly accented.
“Old enough to put a knife in your back if you show it to him,” came another voice. Hermann Gissler, an angular man bordering on gaunt, with small eyes and black hair greying at the temples, strode forward and put the tip of his long sword in the middle of Erich’s chest. “Do we hang him? Or spare the tree, and run him through now?”
“Not worth the rope,” said Urs, a short, stocky man with forearms thickened by years at the forge. “Let us take him to Schwyz and turn him over to the Vogt. Judging from the size of his band they must have been quite active in this area. Might be a reward.”
“Waste of time,” Gissler said shaking his head. “He will only slow us down, and no village in these lands has money for a reward. Besides, they would just hang him anyway.”
Thomas gave his sore shoulder a hard squeeze to get the blood moving, and looked at the dead men littering the road. He turned to the man on his knees, who looked straight ahead, head held high and eyes unseeing. A small crucifix hung from the man’s neck.
He was healthy and better fed than the few people they had seen since crossing the Gotthard, nevertheless, his eyes showed no hope. He had the look of a man who knew he was going to die. And perhaps that is what he deserved. Thomas had no way of knowing how many innocent deaths this man was responsible for, and he did not care.
He had, of course, killed Christians before. But they had always been a threat in some way to the Christian Kingdom in Outremer; Saracen spies, or lowly mercenaries loyal to God only until the gold ran out. But here, in this cold valley, hidden in the shadows of rocky peaks so high and numerous you could ride for hours without seeing the sun, it felt different. Senseless. As though God had no interest in how the lives of these people played out.
“We let him go,” he said.
Gissler looked at Thomas, eyes wide in disbelief. “We might not spot him next time. To show his appreciation for the mercy you have shown, he will put a quarrel in your back first chance he gets.”
“You confuse mercy with indifference. We are God’s soldiers, chosen by Our Lord to protect those who follow the one true faith. This man wears the cross at his neck. It is not our place to discipline half-starved ruffians.”
He looked at the brigand, whose eyes had come alive and were darting side to side with a newfound hope that he may not be killed.
“You forget Thomas, we no longer fight in His army,” Gissler said. His mouth moved to say more but he stopped himself.
“Bind him to a tree. By the time someone sets him free, we will be hours away,” Thomas said. His tone left no room for debate.
Gissler narrowed his eyes but lowered his sword. He knew there was no point arguing with Thomas once he decided on a course of action. But then he brightened, as a new solution presented itself in his mind.
In one fluid motion he reversed the grip on his sword, stepped in and slammed the pommel into Erich’s forehead. Stunned, Erich fell forward and reached out his hands to catch himself on the ground. Gissler whipped the blade onto Erich’s right hand, cleanly severing away half of his first three fingers. The sword clanged as the steel made contact with the rocky ground, and just as swiftly, Gissler wiped and resheathed his blade.
Erich screamed and pulled his hand into himself, curling up into a ball.
“No need to waste rope on his likes. He will not be any good with a bow for the rest of his miserable life,” Gissler said, his mouth turning up slightly.
Ruedi leaned on his larger crossbow and laughed. “Gissler the problem solver,” he said, shaking his head. “Of course he could still use one of these,” he said holding up his small crossbow with one hand.
Thomas let out a breath and stared at Gissler, but said nothing. It was not his fault. The others stood around drinking water, checking their weapons, or comforting their mounts. No one was surprised by Gissler’s sudden action for they were all men shaped by a lifetime of war, Thomas included. It was, after all, common practice to cut off the fingers of enemy archer captives.
Finally, Anton, a small man with several earrings in his right ear who had taken to wearing perfume and bathing as frequently as the Saracens, wandered over to the writhing form on the ground and skillfully tied off the man’s fingers, stemming the flow of blood. Then he began gathering kindling for a fire.
“It will not take me long to cauterize this mess. Go on ahead—I will catch you soon enough,” he said to Thomas.
“Once you are done, take a moment for those on the road,” Thomas said. “No man should die unshriven, but since they did not unburden their souls in confession, I am afraid a blessing is the best we can do. We leave them to God’s mercy.”
“Yes, Captain,” Anton said. His face paled briefly as he contemplated the horrors of facing his maker with an unshriven soul, and then he remembered the groaning man at his feet who was still alive. “Max, leave me some of your kirsch.”
Max, a barrel-chested man with a sour face and hair more grey than black, balked at Anton’s request. “Get your own—this is one of my best batches. Who knows when I will have the means to make more?”
“Oh calm yourself. Soon you will have all the cherries you want. You are back in the land of kirsch, remember?”
Grumbling, Max rooted through his saddlebag filled with packets of saffron, turmeric, pepper, and other exotic spices he had hoarded and brought from the east. It was worth a small fortune in the right hands, and if he remembered correctly, his family in Zug had connections with buyers. He found a small flask of one of the poorer quality cherry alcohol batches he had distilled himself and tossed it to Anton.
“That should be for drinking, not burning,” he said.
“Was hoping to hear that,” Anton said. He popped out the stopper and took a long swig, grimacing as the hard alcohol burned its way down. Then he roughly pulled Eric
h up to a sitting position and forced the young man to drink a few mouthfuls. He coughed and sputtered, but managed to keep most of it down.
Max turned his back in disgust.
The men mounted up leaving Anton building his fire in the middle of the road amidst a handful of motionless corpses. Erich moaned beside him, cradling his stumped fingers.
They resumed their traveling pace. By nightfall the party would be in the village of Schwyz, where they would split up and go their separate ways. After so many years together this weighed heavily in the thoughts of each man, but with no desire to speak of it, they rode mostly in silence.
“I hate to say it, but Gissler was right Thomi,” Pirmin finally said in his melodic Wallis accent. “We should have made an example of the leader and left him twisting at the end of a rope.”
The way he sung his words made even a hanging sound like a cheery event. He came from the Matterhorn area and everything about the man was big, from his almost seven foot frame to the custom-made, eight-foot long battle-ax he carried. He was larger than life; an oversized blonde Adonis, both terrifying and beautiful to behold, and he was Thomas’s closest friend.
“A year ago you would not have taken any chances with that outlaw. I fear you are getting soft. As usual God only knows what is rattlin’ around in that head of yours.”
Thomas first looked slowly at the thick woods, patches of snow still visible at the bases of most trees, and then higher up at the white-peaked Alps surrounding them on every side. He could not recall any particular memories of this road, but breathing the clear air and taking in the majestic scenery of the Alps stirred up a warm, comforting feeling that was at the same time both new and familiar.
Strange, he thought. There was no reason for him to have any feelings for this land. Unlike the others he rode with, he had almost no memories of family here. None that still lived, that is. He did not even know his true last name. For that matter, when he thought about it, he only knew two of the men’s original last names. For the purpose of making record keeping matters simple, the Hospitallers gave all the boys from the alpine areas the same last name: Schwyzer, meaning ‘one from Schwyz’. The boys were forbidden to use any other last name. Hermann Gissler refused to surrender his family name. He got around the rules by telling the monks his first name was Gissler. As for Pirmin Schnidrig, well the monks tried to beat his last name out of him, but that only made him all the more determined to make sure everyone knew he was a Schnidrig.
“Not soft. Just tired. I think I am getting too old to be one of God’s soldiers,” Thomas said.
Pirmin laughed and rolled his eyes. “Thomi, you were an old man when you were five.”
This made Thomas grin just enough that he could feel the scar tissue tighten and resist along the length of his face.
His saddle leather creaked as he twisted and looked behind them. A thin tendril of smoke rose above the trees from Anton’s fire in the distance.
He turned back to the road ahead and wondered what God had in store for him. He had been a leader of men and a war galley’s captain for twelve years, a soldier of the One Faith for over twenty. Almost a year ago to the day, Grand Master de Villaret had said, “Gather the Schwyzers, Thomas, those who remain, and take them home. This is the last order I shall give you.”
In a few short hours, that order would be fulfilled.
They rode on in silence, and no one looked back when the brigand leader screamed long and hard, like he was being dragged away by the furies of hell.
***
Seraina was leaning against a young oak, listening to the wind, when she heard the far-off scream reverberate gently through the woods and drift up to where she stood. She opened her pine-needle green eyes and stood up straight; her long, auburn hair sticking to the bark of the oak as though the tree was reluctant to give her up. Although miles away, she could hear the scream because she stood at the edge of a clearing shadowed by the towering presence of the Mythen.
The Mythen were two mountains, standing side-by-side, one taller with the upper reaches treeless and jagged, while the shorter one had a mane of green running up the side closest to its companion. They jutted out of the earth with a statement; distinct from the low-lying hills surrounding them, their pyramidal shapes too grand and symmetrical to be ordinary. They were sentries of the ancient world, forgotten now by most, and although their rock surfaces had been ground down and large pieces had sloughed off over the millennia, they were not without power.
Seraina came to this place often to visit the Mythen, and in return for her company, they helped her listen to the wind. The wind guided her thoughts and through them, her actions. Without the voice of the wind she would be lost, her place in the Great Weave unknown.
But the messages were never clear, and today’s bordered on cryptic. She had not yet seen thirty harvests, a child in the eyes of the elders. Seraina cursed her youth and lack of wisdom for not being able to discern the exact message, but just as quickly she thanked the Mythen for bringing her what they could. This day, laced together with the sound of human suffering, the warm wind whispered its message over and over. Her heart pounded in her ears.
The Catalyst’s time was near.
Chapter 2
Salzburg
THE HABSBURG FOOL was a stringy gnome of a man, easily twice Leopold’s twenty-four years but little more than half his height. He wore no hat but his purple hair was cut short and plastered to his head in a star pattern. His frilly tunic was black on the left and white on the right, while his tights were the opposite. Yellow, pointed, soft-leather shoes completed the ensemble. When Leopold approached, the Fool made a flourishing gesture with his arms and bowed to the young Duke before thrusting open the double doors to the council chambers. At the last second he stepped in front of Leopold and strutted ahead to escort him into the large room, the soft tinkling of bells on the Fool’s pointed shoes marking every step.
The sound had infuriated Leopold since childhood, for somehow the Fool had complete control over the loudness and intensity of the bells and, Leopold felt, used them purposely to mock him. He could walk without making a sound when he wanted to, for despite being a garish entertainer, the Fool had always been by King Albrecht’s side when he was alive and could in fact blend in when he so wished. Since the King’s assassination the previous year, the Fool had attached himself to Frederick, Leopold’s older brother by a year, and who now sat at the head of an ornate rectangular table in the council room.
Frederick smiled and held up a hand in greeting as his brother entered, relief etched deep in his face. Seated around him were eight older men, the advisors to his late father, but unlike Frederick, not one of them looked pleased at the entrance of the younger Habsburg Duke.
“The fool has arrived!” the jester announced.
Leopold shot him an angry glare and imagined what it would feel like to have his hands around the insufferable creature’s throat, shaking him until the only sound that escaped was the tinkling of those cursed chimes.
“Welcome brother, we are happy you could join us on such short notice.” Frederick ‘the Handsome’, as he was called, came around the table and the two brothers embraced. Only a year separated them but they looked nothing alike. Leopold was fair haired and willowy in build while Frederick was dark and stocky, like their father had been. Most women would not say Frederick was any more ‘handsome’ than Leopold, but there was a beatific honesty in his smile that made people feel comfortable. When under Leopold’s bold stare on the other hand, people were never at ease. He had his mother’s sharp features: glistening blue eyes and a high-bridged raptorial nose.
Six of the men were nobles of prestigious Austrian houses, powerful members of the German Empire, but Leopold’s sudden presence made many of them shift in their seats. His open disdain for his father’s advisors was well known. He trusted none of them and felt sick when he thought of his brother in this room alone with these carrion eaters. He made a point of looking at each man and
noting who met his eyes and who seemed surprised to see him here. The few who met his eyes quickly looked away, but that in and of itself was not a measure of guilt.
The Archbishop was seated to one side of Frederick along with a simpler dressed monk Leopold had never before seen. Though he wore the robe of a Dominican, his face had the smugness of a merchant.
“Forgive my lateness brother. I should have liked to be here sooner but the messenger bearing your summons was waylaid on the road some miles from Habsburg Castle.” Leopold let his eyes wander over the nobles, openly accusing anyone who met his stare.
Count Henri of Hunenberg, a veteran knight in his late forties who was renowned for spending much of his family’s fortune on several campaigns to the Holy Lands, shook his head and said, “This is further evidence of what I spoke—even the roads in the Aargau are no longer safe since so many of our soldiers were sent north. We must have more patrols to ensure the safety of messengers and merchants. And from what the Archbishop here tells us, the monks of Einsiedeln also require enforcers in their pastures near Schwyz.”
“Ridiculous,” Otto, the late King Albrecht’s grey-haired military adviser grunted. “Louis the Bavarian openly defies Frederick’s tutelage and is marshaling his forces as we speak. We must maintain a show of force in the north. Only war will decide the German kingship now. I must be granted direct control of the Sturmritter if Habsburg rule is to prevail.”
Leopold looked at Otto, shocked by the old general’s cunning. No one understood Otto better than Leopold, for Otto had been his principal tutor growing up. King Albrecht had recognized the natural gifts of his children; Frederick, with his easy smile, was the natural politician, but in Leopold he had seen the future Marshal of the Habsburg armies, and his father had seen to his education accordingly.
Otto had just made his play for control of the most fearsome fighting force in all of Europe. The Stormriders were a cavalry force created by Leopold’s grandfather, the first Habsburger to become King of the Germans. He had assembled the top fighting men in Europe, provided them with the best horses and equipment, and granted them their own castle from which they would serve the Habsburg rulers. They were full-time warriors and the highest paid knights in the known world. Competition to join the Sturmritter was intense and every year men died during the fierce tournaments that served as auditions for young men seeking to earn fame and a place amongst the elite.
