ALTDORF (The Forest Knights: Book 1)

by J. K. Swift

  Faces looked up but quickly turned away again when someone from Thomas’s group met their gaze. Good things rarely came from prolonged eye contact with six heavily armed men weary from the road.

  The owner, a thin, tight-lipped man with strong hands, watched the new arrivals suspiciously from behind a high counter, which separated the crowd from several tapped kegs. He seemed to relax slightly when Max paid some coins up front and negotiated for rooms and horse stabling.

  Soon, heaping bowls of chamois stew and ceramic mugs of ale were placed before the six men. As the owner brought the food out of the kitchen, Thomas glanced an older woman and a younger pretty girl with sand-colored hair. She stared at Thomas and his companions with wide eyes, and then the door swung shut obscuring her from view.

  Thomas surveyed the patrons. A few tables of traveling merchants, and another with two grizzled and grey men and a woman hunched over their drinks, talking in hushed tones. Then he looked at his own group of dirty, rough men-at-arms as an outsider might and did not blame the innkeeper for hiding the womenfolk away in the kitchen.

  While with the Order, Thomas and his men had always worn brown cloaks and tunics with the white Hospitaller cross prominently displayed on the chest or shoulder. His friends looked different now in plain traveling garb, albeit their weapons and partially visible chainmail marked them as more than simple travelers.

  “Our coin will go a long way in this land,” Max said, obviously pleased with the outcomes of his negotiations.

  “A good thing that is. Since you still owe me for re-shaping that sword you carry,” Urs said. During his years of service to the Order of Saint John, in addition to being a sergeant-at-arms, Urs had been apprenticed to one of the Order’s weapons-makers. A quiet perfectionist with forearms almost as large as Pirmin’s, Urs was far happier handling hammer and anvil than using the quality weapons he forged.

  “I told you. Once we get to Zug I will sell some of my spices at the market and buy you a new horse. A good mountain pony that will carry your bulk to Basel without balking at every slope.”

  Urs grunted—a noncommittal sound that meant he neither agreed nor disagreed with Max. For a moment it looked like he might say more but instead wrapped his thick fingers around the mug in front of him and drained it.

  Since leaving Ruedi at Altdorf, the reality that their journey together was at an end had finally sunk in, and Thomas had been debating with himself where his own path would finish. Max had family in Zug, Urs was from Basel, Gissler’s father was a steward of land in the Aargau, Anton was headed to Appenzell, and Pirmin could not stop talking about the mountains of Wallis and his family’s black-necked goat farm, although he seemed to be taking the long way home by going through Schwyz.

  Schwyz. This was where their journey together had begun so many years ago. It was fitting that it should also end here.

  “Max, I would collect my share here in the morning,” Thomas said.

  Conversation within the group ceased and as one they turned to look at Thomas. When they were on campaign, Max had always looked after the troop’s money. He had a mind that never forgot a sum and he could write numbers. He knew a few letters, but the only one of the group who could truly read and write was Thomas.

  Money had not played a large part in the sergeants’ military lives, since their everyday needs were supplied by the Order, but they were given a small salarium every month to be spent how they chose. Before leaving Rhodes for the last time, Max had collected the meager life savings of his friends together and exchanged the coins for a letter of credit from the Order of Saint John, which was redeemable at any of the Order’s hospices or estates scattered throughout Europe. Many merchants took advantage of this deposit and withdrawal system offered by both the Hospitallers and the Templars, since it was a safe way to conduct business in lands rife with thieves and highwaymen.

  Max had redeemed the letter at a hospice they found in northern Italia a week ago, but since everyone trusted him, he still held all the coin himself, doling it out carefully when they needed to purchase meals or lodging.

  “So you will be staying here in Schwyz then?” Max asked, looking over his half-eaten bowl of stew.

  Thomas shrugged. “For awhile. Remember that old man and his ferry we passed on the lake close to Brunnen? It gave me an idea.”

  “You will be wasting yourself here in the poor country,” Gissler said. “Come with me up north to the Aargau. My father has connections—I am sure he knows someone who could put our swords to use.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Gissler, but I mean to try my hand at something different. It seems the Good Lord has more than hinted that my time as one of His sword bearers has come to an end, and frankly, I have no desire to see it put to another’s use.”

  “Thomi, Thomi. Your days on the water are over. What would you be wanting with an old rotten barge I wonder?” Pirmin said, already drinking from his third mug of ale.

  Thomas’s eyes came to life. “She will not be rotten when I finish with her.”

  Pirmin stared at Thomas for a moment while he sopped up the juices of his stew with a chunk of crusty bread. He popped it into his mouth and spoke around it, which had the effect of lessening his Wallis accent, and curiously, made his speech easier to understand.

  “Well I know as soon as I get back home to Tasch my family will want to marry me off to keep the Schnidrig line going strong. And I admit I look forward to one part of that. Those Wallis women are easy on the eyes and know how to keep their men warm at night, I tell you that much.”

  “What do you know about Wallis women? You were eight the last time you saw one,” Thomas said.

  “Must be talking about his mother,” Anton said.

  “It is the air and the water,” Pirmin said, ignoring them both. “Something about it produces the most handsome animals, and people. Similar to how the bitter water in Appenzell keeps all Anton’s people small and stunted. Talk nice to me lads, and maybe I will bring some of that Wallis nectar and sell it to you. No reason your children need to be ugly—God knows you and your kin have suffered enough already.”

  Anton punched the giant man in the shoulder, while Gissler dipped his fingers in his ale and flicked them at Pirmin. Pirmin wiped his face and crossed himself and then held up a finger.

  “But first, I think I will stay here for a time and help Thomi build his boat. Raise up gentlemen and let us drink to making ugly people better looking!”

  “To new ventures,” Max said, raising his mug.

  They echoed Max’s toast and clanked their mugs together, splashing ale over the table. They laughed hard and drank long into the night, reminiscing over thirty years of shared exploits. For the remainder of the evening, they peeled back the years until each man saw only the faces of boys before him, and the aches and pains inflicted by a lifetime of war dissolved into the night.

  Chapter 4

  NOLL MELCHTHAL sprinted up the treed slope, breathing through his nose and pacing himself carefully so the armored men cursing and shouting behind did not fall too far back. His powerful legs pumped with a rhythm all their own. These were his woods, his mountains. No foreign lapdog soldier could touch him here.

  He stooped and picked up a good rock. Taking careful aim he wound up and launched it at the closest man. A boiled-leather breastplate emblazoned with the red fist insignia of Berenger von Landenberg, the Habsburg appointed Vogt of Unterwalden, protected the man’s chest, but the stone hit him high in the shoulder and he let out a squeal of pain. Noll laughed and ducked behind a tree as a crossbow bolt flew past and skittered off the rock bluff behind him.

  He pulled up the hood on his cloak, stepped out from behind his cover to make sure the soldiers got a good look at him, and started climbing again. A minute later he crested the rise and the path leveled out for a straight stretch through the forest.

  Squatting against a tree was Aldo, a tall boy in his late teens wearing a cloak the same drab brown as Noll’s.
He stood up and grinned at Noll with a questioning look on his face. Noll slowed to a walk and counted slowly to ten, then he made a forward motion with his hand and the young man pulled up the hood of his cloak and ran away through the forest.

  Noll veered off the path and sat down in the underbrush. He could hear the soldiers crashing up the slope for some time before they finally appeared at the top. They spotted the figure running through the trees in the distance and, heartened by the level ground, immediately gave chase with renewed vigor. They charged by so close to Noll’s hiding spot he could see the sweat on their red faces and hear the bellows of their breathing.

  Seconds later, Noll stood and watched the clumsy soldiers crashing through the underbrush in pursuit of their quarry. He shook his head, then turned and began walking back down the hill to the Austrian soldiers’ deserted camp.

  ***

  Trees were the most vocal beings in the forest. They were kind and generous souls and although Seraina rarely comprehended what they were saying to one another, she never tired of listening to their creaks and murmurs. Occasionally, she would even understand a reference to a creature or an upcoming storm, or experience a sense of emotion such as the joy of stretching out towards the morning sun or the cooling relief of a summer rain. It did not bother her that she understood so little of their language, for the sound of their voices was comforting enough.

  She tended her garden behind the small cottage she had come to inhabit three years ago. It was in thick forest that allowed only sporadic beams of sunlight to pierce the canopy of trees, and perhaps that is why the previous owner deserted it. But she was no ordinary gardener. She knew how and where to plant vegetables and herbs so they flourished.

  The foundation of the cottage and lower half were made from stone, upon which rough-hewn timber comprised the walls. It was a sturdy shelter and had been built with great skill many years ago, but when she found it, the thatched roof was mostly rotted away and needed to be replaced. A nearby farmer and his wife assisted her with the necessary repairs, and in return, she helped them when they needed a healer’s skill.

  It was three hours from the nearest village, and the village of Schwyz easily twice that, for to reach it, one must first cross an arm of the Great Lake or walk around. Seraina could not imagine why the original owner had chosen to live so far from the towns, but it suited her fine. It was far enough away that the townsfolk could pretend she did not exist, yet near enough to seek her out when they needed help.

  She had not always lived so far from her people.

  Like their trees, the people of these lands were capable of great kindness and looked after one another fiercely. Yet they were a private lot and devoted Christians. For a time she lived amongst them in the small village of Tellikon, near Zurich, where her skills with growing herbs and in the healing arts became well known. Even though she did not share their Christian faith, many people came to accept Seraina as a member of the community.

  Until one night, with frozen rain pelting the village roofs, she assisted in a breached childbirth that left the mother dead and the baby a cripple. Death during childbirth was a common enough affair, and all would have been fine, but the baby had the misfortune of being born with misshapen feet. The parish priest called them hooves.

  He tried to take the child but Seraina refused to give her up. The next night the priest appeared at her shack with a rabble of angry villagers and they tore the child from her arms. He named her a witch and a servant sent by the Devil to corrupt the people of Tellikon. Few believed his words but even fewer were foolish enough to take the chance that a demon lived amongst them.

  She was driven from the town but managed to escape her pursuers and watch from the safety of the trees as they burnt her shack and the entirety of her few belongings. The torches set to her home were lit from the same bonfire used to burn the child.

  Lost in her thoughts of the past, Seraina did not hear the young man approach until he spoke.

  “Pretty girls should pay more attention when alone in the woods. You never know what beast might be lurking nearby.”

  Seraina started and stood from her garden. She cocked her head, her ears still picking up the voices of the trees, loud and unconcerned. Noll grunted as he dropped a large sack on the ground that clanged as it hit.

  The trees were extremely sensitive and Seraina could tell when people, and even some animals, approached by how they reacted. She used to think it strange that Noll’s presence never disturbed them, but that was before she knew him. Before she had come to realize he was the Catalyst.

  “The only dangerous beasts in this area are of the human variety,” Seraina said. She nodded toward the bag on the ground. “What treasures have you liberated today?”

  Noll shrugged. “Soldier provisions mostly. Bread, some cheese, a few cooking pots. Choose what you want and I will take the rest back with me to the men.”

  Noll walked over to a barrel of rainwater, splashed some on his face and ran his fingers back through his short dark hair. He removed his shirt and began splashing water under his arms and on his neck and chest, his wiry muscles tensing under the cold water. At least five years younger than Seraina, he was lean but wide at the shoulders. For one so young he had a rare self-confidence women found irresistible and men respected.

  “Oh, and I need a refill on the ivy powder,” Noll said, his blue eyes glinting as beads of water ran through his hair and down the stubble on his cheeks. She allowed herself to stare for a moment before responding.

  “More? You must be using too much. Where did the last three vials go?”

  Noll grinned and dried off his face with his shirt. “Been lots of bedrolls to attend. Our Habsburg lords seem to be sending more soldiers than usual out into the woods these days.”

  Seraina shook her head. “These are games you play Noll. Really, what good are they? You steal from soldiers, taunt them, make them angry. It does nothing for the people. It changes nothing.”

  “Ah, but it is entertaining. And who is to say it does nothing for the people? It shows them that if my men and me can stand up to Landenberg then they can too. Two more men joined us last month.”

  Seraina smiled and shook her head. “Aldo and Martin? They are boys. Boys that should be at home working farms, not running through the forest playing tricks on real soldiers.”

  “The boys of today make up the armies of tomorrow,” Noll said.

  “And what if you are caught and hung? What will your men do then?”

  Noll laughed and pulled on his shirt. “They would have to find me first. These are my woods, Seraina. I refuse to bend to the will of a foreigner who thinks because he has soldiers and the blessing of some King I have never seen, he can take land my family has lived on for a thousand years.”

  Seraina felt a flutter in her breast. She liked it when Noll spoke with such conviction, but she also knew better than to encourage him. Once Noll got started he was an unstoppable force and she would rather see that energy directed somewhere that it would do some good.

  “I hear you moved your camp again,” Seraina said, changing the topic.

  “You are well-informed,” Noll said, surprised. “Spying on me are you? Jealous perhaps? No need to be, you know. We are so far away from civilization we cannot even get camp whores to come to our tents.”

  “So where are you now?”

  Noll shook his head. “You know I cannot tell you,” he said, then his eyes took on a mischievous glint. “But I could show you. Why not come with me? We could use someone with your talents and it is too dangerous for you to be out here on your own. Too lonely. Come with me and I promise you would want for nothing.”

  His smile was bold and tempting. The invitation was not subtle, for that was not Noll’s way. He lived for the moment, and at the moment Seraina could sense his desire. As enjoyable as helping him sate that desire might be, Seraina knew she could not go with him. He was the Catalyst, and to share his bed would cloud her visions of the Weave.

/>   He was right though. She was lonely at times. But the horrors of Tellikon had taught her that to serve her people she must maintain her distance.

  Seraina shook her head. “I have responsibilities here. I cannot just leave.”

  Noll exhaled and held up his hands. “You have an overgrown garden and some birds that you feed. What is so important that you have to be here?”

  Seraina laughed and took his arm.

  “As I have told you before. I must be close enough to help you but far enough away that I can still listen to the wind. Come. Let us go get you some more ivy powder.”

  Noll shook his head and fixed her with a puzzled smile.

  “You are the strangest woman I have ever known.” And then he remembered something. “Seraina, a few miles from here I found wolf tracks—the biggest I have ever seen. He was all alone, so probably driven out of the pack and hungry. Keep an eye out and be careful, will you?”

  Seraina’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Seraina, did you hear what I said?” Noll asked.

  Her only response was a curt nod, for she was not sure her voice could be trusted.

  Chapter 5

  Aarau, capital city of the Aargau region

  THE TWO ARMORED MEN, thronged by cheering spectators, circled each other. Both let their shields drop slightly to ease their aching arms and sucked in ragged breaths to prepare for the next assault. Then, one man charged forward to swing his hand-and-a-half sword down upon the other’s shield.

  “I never understood what the point is in hitting another man’s shield,” Leopold said, holding his goblet out to be refilled by a servant standing ready with a pitcher of honeyed wine. “Why not simply aim where the shield is not?”

  “Intimidation,” Berenger Von Landenberg, the Vogt of Unterwalden said, taking a pull off his own mead. “Shake a man’s shield arm to the core and it takes the fight out of him.”