Sword of Power

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Well, those are certainly spectacular prospects,” Jerome said with a sigh.

  When the rabbi was finished wrapping the bandage, Giovanni moved his arm cautiously back and forth, and then blinked in disbelief. “Amazing! It doesn’t hurt as much anymore!” he exclaimed. “What kind of magic is that?”

  “It’s not magic.” Rabbi Bushevi smiled. “It’s only faith.” Then the rabbi spread out his arms and looked around at the friends. “And now, go with God!” he said in a firm voice. “May gevurah, fifth of the sephirot, the strength of the Eternal and Almighty, be with you all, and—”

  “Yes, yes, fine, enough pompous words.” Paulus’s schiavona clattered in its holder as he rose abruptly to his feet and cracked his knuckles loudly. “Let’s go see if this lump of dirt is really plodding around the graveyard watching the imperial sword.”

  XX

  Thick fog descended around the synagogue and drifted in pale wisps through the alleys. The single oil lamp in Giovanni’s hand gave off a hazy glow.

  Rabbi Bushevi had given them directions to the cemetery, along with the lamp and several pine-pitch torches. Lukas had been briefly tempted to ask the old man to join them, but the rabbi had to be over seventy, and nobody knew what else awaited them in the cemetery besides the golem. After their last encounter with the alchemist Polonius and the bear-man, Lukas was expecting the worst. And then there was Elsa . . .

  Lukas walked up front beside Gwendolyn. Since they’d left the synagogue, she’d hardly spoken to him. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “Ah, listen,” he began. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for us to fight this golem without Zoltan and the others. The rabbi said it could only be defeated through magic.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Gwendolyn replied, smiling. “You can do magic, can’t you?”

  “Are you making fun of me now?” he asked, pained. “You know I can’t, you saw it yourself!”

  Gwendolyn’s face turned serious again. “You saved my life when I was lying in the rose garden dying,” she said. “And I know you used magic to protect your sister in the alchemist’s laboratory. I saw that strange little cloud just before I passed out. So you do have magical powers, Lukas.” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “You just have to remember how to unlock them and believe in yourself. Preferably as soon as possible.”

  “I hope I can,” he mumbled. Wanting to turn his thoughts in a different direction, he asked, “So, what exactly did you do here in the quarter to make the rabbi and the guards like you so much? I doubt you just came over and showed them a few archery tricks.”

  Gwendolyn grinned. “Amazingly enough, that’s exactly what I did. About a year ago, a mob of so-called Christians decided it was a good time to storm the Jewish quarter again. Just as they were about to break down the gate, I sent a shower of arrows flying at them.” She giggled. “Those idiots thought that the Jews had hired an entire army of English bowmen, and fled with their tails between their legs. Since then, everyone in the quarter has been nice to me and my brother, Jussi.” Her expression grew solemn again. “Which is more than I can say for a lot of Christians.”

  “Christians were the ones who burned my mother to death, too,” Lukas replied in a dark tone. “Sometimes I wonder if God actually exists. Why does he let things like that happen? This whole eternal war is being waged in his name.”

  Gwendolyn shrugged. “Maybe God doesn’t care about us.”

  “I don’t believe that. My mother always said God loves us. Love is the strongest power that—”

  “Well, well, turtledoves, what’s all this chatter about love?” Jerome broke in, trotting up from behind them. “We’d be happy to give you two some time alone, but I’m afraid we have a golem to kill first.”

  “Very funny, Jerome.” Lukas turned away, walking faster. How had he ended up talking about love like that with Gwendolyn anyway?

  A chest-high wall faded into view through the fog, and dozens of gravestones were just visible in the darkness behind it. A few paces to the left, there was a small gate standing wide open.

  “Look, up there,” Giovanni said, gesturing with the lamp. “I think we’ve reached the cemetery.” He knelt down with the lamp and squinted at the ground. There were numerous footprints in the mud around the gutter. “They’re still fresh,” he said quietly. “Men’s footprints, and one set from a small girl. We’re on the right track.”

  Lukas’s heart began to race. Elsa was somewhere in this cemetery, and she wasn’t alone—it seemed that Zoltan and the others were with her. He listened carefully, but all he heard was a distant bell chiming the twelfth hour.

  “The witching hour,” Paulus grunted. “Perfect time to visit a graveyard. What did the rabbi call the spirits of the dead? Dybbukim? Well, let’s go say hello.” He stalked through the gate, and the others followed him.

  Only once they were inside the cemetery did Lukas notice just how many headstones there were. Innumerable markers of all sizes poked out of the ground, many crooked or crumbling. Tendrils of fog floated overhead; an owl hooted somewhere nearby. Oil lamps were burning beside a few of the graves, but otherwise it was completely dark.

  “The Jews only have this one cemetery,” Gwendolyn said in a soft voice. “People are buried on top of each other, because there’s simply not enough space. I’m afraid that before long, there will be so many gravestones in here, you won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other.”

  “You don’t happen to know where that Rabbi Löw’s grave is, do you?” Jerome asked.

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “We’ll have to look for it. Rabbi Bushevi said we’d recognize it by the lion.”

  Together they wandered around in the darkness, trying to navigate the labyrinth of headstones. Although it was summer, the cemetery’s few trees were all completely bare of leaves; their twigs and branches stretched out over the graves like spindly fingers. Peering more closely at the stones in the lamplight, Lukas saw that many had symbols carved into them: a book, a harp, a loaf of bread. After a while, he found a few with animals on them as well. But none showed a lion.

  “Let’s go a little farther in,” Giovanni suggested. “There are more graves over that way.”

  Furiously, Jerome kicked a loose clump of earth. “Mon dieu, doesn’t this cemetery ever end? It’s like the entire world is buried here.” A soft moaning sound interrupted Jerome’s complaining. “A dybbuk!” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have disturbed its rest. Now it’s rising from the grave!”

  “I’m not so sure,” Paulus muttered. “That sounds more like the eternal song of the battlefield. If you ask me, someone is badly injured.”

  “Maybe it’s an injured dybbuk?” Jerome speculated.

  “It’s coming from over there.” Lukas pointed toward the back wall of the cemetery. “Let’s go take a look. Stay cautious, we still don’t know where that golem is.”

  Quietly, they tiptoed from grave to grave until they came to a single marker standing by itself near the wall. It was about hip height, and its two angled stone slabs made it look like the roof of a small house. Lukas took the lamp and hurried over to it.

  He saw stone pinecones, bunches of grapes . . .

  And the figure of a lion underneath.

  “I’ve found it!” he called softly to his friends. “The grave of Rabbi Löw.”

  Suddenly the eerie moaning started again, but much louder this time. Whoever it was, they were right nearby. Lukas turned around and saw a large figure lurching toward him from out of the fog. Its arms were outstretched, and it was stumbling more than walking.

  Like a dead man dragged from the grave, Lukas thought. A dybbuk or . . . ?

  Or a creature made of earth and clay.

  The golem! Lukas realized. Guarding the grave of its old master!

  And then it reached him.

  XXI

  Only when the sinister-looking figure was standing right in front of him did Lukas see its clothing, which was all too familiar: black leathe
r, bucket-top boots, a hat with a red feather in it. This was no dybbuk and no golem.

  “Zoltan!” he cried. “It’s Zoltan!” To his horror, Lukas saw that Zoltan’s doublet was streaked with blood, and his left arm hung lifelessly at his side. He was dragging his right leg behind him, leaning on his sword for support. He looked half-dead.

  “Betrayal,” Zoltan rasped. His face was pale as ashes. “Flee, boys . . . you . . . must flee . . . from here . . .” He collapsed right in front of Lukas with a groan.

  “What happened?” Giovanni asked, breathless, as he and the others ran over to join Lukas and Zoltan.

  “He said something about betrayal,” Lukas replied. “Apparently Zoltan and the others have been lured into a trap yet again. I bet it’s that damned Jurek!” He knelt down to Zoltan, who was gasping for breath. The commander of the Black Musketeers had his eyes shut tight and looked like he was in terrible pain. In the glow of the lamp, Lukas saw blood pouring from a wound on Zoltan’s stomach that had been hidden under his leather doublet.

  What happened? Lukas asked himself. Who did this to Zoltan?

  “Where are the others?” Gwendolyn asked. “Elsa, Matthias, Bernhard?”

  “Well, we know what happened to Bernhard, at least,” Paulus spoke up in a dark voice, stepping from behind a nearby gravestone—and dragging a heavy, lifeless body into view. Lukas flinched. It was Bernhard, and there was a crossbow bolt in his neck.

  “My God,” Lukas breathed.

  Paulus knelt down and examined Bernhard’s wound. “There’s nothing more we can do for him.” He shut Bernhard’s eyes, which had been staring vacantly up into the night sky. “God rest his soul. He was a good fighter.” He balled his hand into a fist. “To hell with the cowardly assassin who did this!”

  Jerome glanced around. “It had to have been several. Zoltan and the other Black Musketeers would have had no trouble with one. We’d better take cover—those cockroaches may still be nearby!”

  Though Bernhard’s death filled Lukas with grief and outrage, he immediately sprang into action like a soldier in battle.

  Just as Zoltan would have advised me to, he thought.

  He crouched down beside his commander, so that the rabbi’s grave protected him from at least one side. The others sought cover among the gravestones as well.

  Gwendolyn slipped behind one of the stunted trees. She nocked an arrow and gazed out into the darkness. “Damned fog,” she grumbled. “This is worse than in Wales. Can’t see more than three paces ahead!”

  Lukas bent down over Zoltan and shook him gently. He was still alive, but judging by the large red stain on his doublet, the commander had already lost a great deal of blood.

  “What happened?” Lukas asked him again. “Where is Elsa? Is she injured? Dead?”

  Zoltan shook his head slowly. “Not dead,” he panted. “He . . . has her.”

  “Who?” Lukas asked. “The golem? Schönborn? Jurek, the traitor?”

  Zoltan clenched his teeth and moaned, apparently overwhelmed with pain again. “Jurek . . .” he began.

  “I knew it!” Lukas hissed. “I never trusted that fellow, not once!”

  Zoltan tried to say something else, but all he got out was a groan.

  “Ah, mon dieu!” Jerome’s voice echoed out from behind another gravestone farther on. “Here’s another body.”

  Please, let it not be Elsa! Lukas thought. Please, God, not Elsa!

  “Who is it?” he asked, desperate. “Is it Matthias?”

  “Non,” Jerome replied. “It’s . . .”

  Just then, a crossbow bolt slammed into the gravestone Paulus and Jerome were crouched behind. There was a crunching sound as the bolt bounced off the stone and fell to the ground. Another shot whistled across the cemetery and landed in the dirt not far from the badly injured Zoltan. Instinctively, Lukas ducked down and reached for the bolt to study it more closely. It was very long, and it seemed strangely familiar to him, shot from a large crossbow.

  From a very large crossbow.

  “Give up!” a voice rang out from some distance away. “You don’t have a chance!”

  Lukas flinched. He knew that voice, but he never would have thought he’d hear it like that, so evil, hissing like a snake, without its usual friendly note—the friendly note that had fooled him for so long.

  Matthias was the traitor.

  “Matthias!” he whispered. He shook his head, still hardly able to believe his own ears. “Oh, God, why? Why?” Lukas cautiously raised his head, and sure enough, he recognized Matthias standing there in the moonlight. The fog had lifted for a moment, revealing his broad shoulders and the pearls in his black hair. Lukas had trusted him! He had always been kind to Lukas and Elsa. How was he the traitor and not Jurek?

  “Matthias!” Jerome exclaimed in disbelief. “Ce n’est pas vrai! Please tell us that you don’t have Zoltan and the others on your conscience!”

  “Nothing personal, boys,” Matthias replied in an almost friendly tone. “I actually like you all. But we Black Musketeers are mercenaries. Killing people for money is what we do. Everything else is just empty words.” He spat audibly on the ground. “With the money I’ll receive for this, I’ll be able to buy my own tavern, get married, and enjoy the sunset for the rest of my life. I was just tired of doing other people’s dirty work and getting only a few silver coins for it.”

  “Talk all you like, you’re still a filthy, dishonorable traitor!” Paulus screamed from his hiding place beside Jerome. “You’ve dragged the name of the Black Musketeers through the mud. Shame on you!”

  Matthias shrugged. “Better dishonorable and rich than honorable and dead.” As he spoke, he set another bolt into the magazine of the crossbow. Lukas knew it held up to ten shots, and he assumed that they were the same bolts that had killed Bernhard—and Jurek, he now realized. He looked at the severely injured Zoltan. The wound was that of a crossbow as well. They’d probably been so shocked that they hadn’t even defended themselves.

  “Come on out, boys!” Matthias called again. “There’s no point in hiding any longer. You can still avoid a bloodbath.”

  “Oh, and what will you do when we all rush out together?” Paulus growled. “It doesn’t matter how many bolts you have, you can’t fire them all off at once.”

  Matthias sighed. “Surely you don’t think I’d come here alone.” He stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled. The shadows of three large soldiers appeared from behind the nearby headstones. From their helmets, Lukas could see that they were Spanish mercenaries. In their massive hands, the swords and sabers they held looked like cute little toys.

  Frozen ones! Lukas realized. The Devil’s mercenaries! Doesn’t this nightmare ever end?

  Then he spotted the Marquis de LaSalle, standing a little farther back in his ruffled shirt and powdered wig, holding a rapier. Apparently, all of their enemies had joined forces against them!

  “Your friend is right,” the marquis called, swishing his rapier through the air. “Surrender! There are five of us, including three invincible frozen ones. You three boys may be good fighters, but you see what we did to your commander and those other two Black Musketeers.” He giggled. “Bernhard and . . . Jurek, was it? It’s amazing how easily a couple of crossbow bolts can take down legendary mercenaries.”

  “You won’t have it so easy with us, coward,” Jerome replied. “We will avenge our friends’ deaths. Je te le jure!”

  Lukas’s heart beat a little faster when he realized what the marquis had just said. He’d counted three boys, not four. LaSalle and Matthias didn’t know about him and Gwendolyn. Matthias probably assumed they were still locked in the tavern cellar.

  Gwendolyn wasted no time taking it to their advantage. She left her hiding spot behind the tree and was now sneaking from gravestone to gravestone with her bow in hand, preparing to ambush their adversaries from behind. Lukas glanced over at Jerome and Paulus, who were already reaching for their weapons with determination. Giovanni was nowhere to be seen.
Lukas could only hope that nothing had happened to his friend.

  “Try and stall them,” Lukas hissed at Paulus, who was only a pace or two away. “Until Gwendolyn can attack from behind. Then we’ll strike.”

  Paulus nodded. “So, Matthias,” he called loudly, making a noise of contempt. “What does it feel like to be a miserable traitor? Did the marquis promise you so much gold that it will be worth burning in the deepest pits of hell for?”

  The Marquis de LaSalle let out a taunting laugh. “You fools. Matthias has been betraying you from the very beginning. He was the one leaving you those messages outside your door, and none of you had the faintest idea.”

  Lukas froze. Could that be true? The messages leading them to the three hiding spots had come from him? That didn’t make any sense. Even if Matthias had been working for the marquis, why would he do something like that? Why would he tell them where the Imperial Regalia was hidden? Lukas didn’t understand anything anymore. Paulus and Jerome looked confused as well. Lukas wished Giovanni was nearby just then, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

  “Matthias, is that true?” Jerome called. “Did you lead us to the places where the pieces of Regalia were hidden?”

  “How else do you think you ended up in the marquis’s armory?” Matthias asked, still refilling the magazine of his crossbow. “Without me, you would never have found the imperial scepter. And you only discovered the poisoned chest in Polonius’s laboratory with my help.” He laughed softly. “You all stumbled past it like blind men.”

  Lukas thought hard, and one by one, he recalled all the little moments that they should have noticed, all the clues they’d missed. Matthias had probably also been the one who hid the book about the alchemist Polonius from him and Elsa in the cloister library.

  “None of it matters now,” Matthias went on, raising his crossbow again. He glanced up at the sky as though checking something. “The fog will lift soon, and then nothing will be standing in the master’s way,” he said, looking pleased. “Now all that’s left is the cleanup. I’ll get my gold, and I can finally leave this rotten city. So come out already, before the marquis sets the frozen ones on you.”