by Cory Barclay
Heinrich felt his blood boil. “So do I! You know that!” he blurted, and immediately regretted his outburst.
Bishop Solomon eyed Heinrich and Balthasar suspiciously. Before Solomon could open his mouth, Heinrich added, “There is no higher power than the law.”
The hall became stuffy and quiet. The investigator had overstepped his bounds, and he knew it. Claiming the laws of man superior to the laws of God could be considered heretical, and he’d just said it in front of the two most powerful clerics in Bedburg.
Bishop Solomon’s mouth fell open, but Balthasar Schreib had other concerns. “What, exactly, is the archbishop giving you, Herr Franz, for what you’re doing here in Bedburg? How much land and wealth are you getting from this? A new title, perhaps? And you still believe your ‘laws’ are greater than God’s glory?” The Jesuit missionary leaned on his staff and raised his brow.
Heinrich stammered, trying to formulate a response. Before he could utter another word, the door at the top of the staircase shot open and crashed against the wall, shaking the entire jailhouse.
Tomas came running down the stairs. “My lord!” he shouted as he bumbled down the stairs. He stopped abruptly when he saw the bishop and vicar. With a bow he said, “Your Graces,” and then turned to Heinrich. “My lord, the Protestants have begun their siege. Their general is Count Adolf, and he’s attacking the eastern walls.”
Bishop Solomon gasped and made the sign of the cross over his heart. “Lord have mercy on us all,” he said, turning to Vicar Balthasar. “I believe that is our cue. Let us fortify ourselves in the church—I have provisions enough for us.”
The vicar tapped his staff on the floor and narrowed his eyes on the old bishop. He cleared his throat and said, “My brother, while you fortify yourself with food and provisions, I will fortify our army’s morale. It is my duty to do as much. You’d be well not to forget the sins of gluttony and sloth.”
The bishop scowled at Balthasar’s condescension, but before he could respond, more footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.
Georg Sieghart walked into the hall, looking dazed. Heinrich looked at him from head to toe. His tunic and beard and chin were all caked in dark brown blood, and his face was splattered with red. His eyes were wild, as though he’d seen a phantom.
The vicar and bishop both gasped at the hunter’s appearance.
“I found him wandering aimlessly around town, my lord,” Tomas told Heinrich.
“Good God,” Heinrich said, “it looks like you were rolling around with a butchered pig. What happened to you?”
Georg said nothing. He stared at the investigator with a blank look.
“Where’s your friend . . . Konrad?” Heinrich said with more than a little spite.
“He’s gone,” Georg said.
Heinrich stared into the man’s crazed eyes, but decided not to push the subject. Just by looking into Georg’s eyes, he could tell that Konrad was likely dead. It was a shame, because Heinrich enjoyed the hunter’s company, but he’d have to do away with him eventually. Georg was a menace to others, and to himself.
But right now there are more pressing matters.
Another long silence plagued the stuffy room, until Vicar Balthasar said, “I’m going to meet with General Ferdinand.” He limped toward the stairs, his staff cracking against the stone floor.
Georg cocked his head toward Balthasar. “With a limp like that? I’ll join you.”
Heinrich waved at the hunter. “No, Georg, I need you for another matter. I’m going to arrest the murderer of Margreth Baumgartner, and I’d like your assistance.”
“What about me, my lord?” Tomas asked.
“You may accompany us, Tomas.”
Bishop Solomon said, “You’ve already found her killer, in a single day? Who is it?”
Heinrich frowned at the bishop. “None of your concern, Your Grace. Lord Werner pressured me to find the killer, and I believe I have. But please, go hole yourself up in your precious church.” His eyes narrowed. “We wouldn’t want anything . . . bad to befall our beloved bishop.”
Bishop Solomon wrinkled his nose and waddled toward the investigator. He jabbed a finger in Heinrich’s chest and said, “So you know . . . for all intents and purposes, Sybil Griswold and Dieter Nicolaus were killed in the initial attack by the Calvinists. Spread that to the public, if you must. Do you understand?”
The investigator stayed quiet, and just stared at the hunched old man.
The bishop snarled and bared his teeth at Heinrich, leaned close, and whispered, “If you wish to say otherwise, I’ll be sure Lord Werner strips you of any title and rank, and you’ll be the one rotting in a jail cell.”
If Heinrich felt threatened, he didn’t show it. He remained stoic, and Solomon scowled and shuffled toward the stairs with Vicar Balthasar behind him.
“Sybil Griswold and Dieter Nicolaus?” Georg said.
Heinrich nodded. “The bishop and vicar arrested them. I didn’t know about it.”
Georg stormed past Heinrich, into the next room, and found Sybil and Dieter huddled together in the back of a cell.
At seeing Georg, Dieter jumped up and charged the bars. He gripped them tight, his knuckles turned white, and he said, “You’re a dishonorable man.”
Georg stared at Dieter with a solemn expression, but said nothing.
“Come on, my good hunter, we have things to do,” Heinrich said from the other room.
The hunter sauntered back into the room and said, “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“What are you talking about? I’ll get lost in the woods without you. We have to arrest Peter Griswold before he has a chance to escape Bedburg.”
Georg shrugged. “He won’t be going anywhere, investigator—not while the Protestants are attacking. You know where to find him.” The hunter pointed his chin toward his left arm. “This arm stopped working, so I can’t even use a bow. I’ve also decided to help the Catholics ward off the Calvinists.”
Heinrich’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gone mad, Georg. You just said you can’t use a bow, so what good would you be in a battle? And why would you fight? What allegiance do you owe these people?”
“I’ve lived without a purpose for too long, Heinrich. It’s time I start helping, rather than hurting. Besides, what allegiance do I owe you?”
“We’re partners! You’d rather help by killing people? What sort of logic is that?”
Georg shook his head. “You said it yourself, investigator. We aren’t partners. I was simply your lee…lee-ay—”
“Liaison.”
Georg sighed. “I’m going to follow General Ferdinand into battle, to protect this city. I won’t feel like a coward any longer. And even with this lousy arm . . . I’d enjoy you trying to stop me.”
Heinrich’s ears went hot, and he could feel the veins in his neck pulsating. Rather than throwing a fit, he simply gestured to the hunter’s blood-soaked clothes. “Whatever this is from . . . it’s surely rattled your small brain.”
“I suppose the savage hasn’t been removed from my heart, investigator.”
Tomas turned toward Heinrich and stiffened his posture. “I would like to accompany him, my lord,” the soldier said, saluting.
Heinrich looked down his nose at the wiry guard. “No, Tomas, I don’t think so.”
“B-but, lord, my duty is to protect the town. I am a soldier of Bedburg.”
“Your duty is to remain by my side, goddammit.” Heinrich felt like shoving the soldier, but instead he just balled his hands into fists. “So you will gather three of your best scouts and meet me at the southern gate. Do you understand?”
Tomas’ shoulders slumped, and he nodded slowly.
The three men walked toward the stairs, to part ways.
Before he reached the stairs, however, Heinrich turned and caught the attention of the quiet torturer, who stood vigilant at the end of the hall. “Ulrich,” he said, “keep an eye on those cells. And make sure you don’t kill them.”
Ulrich grinned cruelly, and the scar on his face twisted as he smiled.
Just before dawn, in the darkest hours of night, the Calvinist Protestants staged their first assault on Bedburg’s eastern walls.
At the same time, Heinrich Franz was crouched behind a wheelbarrow, near the southern gate, staring up at the guards patrolling the ramparts. Tomas was behind him, with three scouts.
At first, Heinrich had tried to simply waltz out of town, but the guards had stopped him. “It’s too dangerous out there, my lord,” one guard had told him. “No one is to leave or enter the city—even you. The Calvinists are in the eastern hills and woods, and it’s only a matter of time before they converge southward.”
Heinrich had cursed at the guard, but relented. He came up with a new plan, and he’d only need a few precious seconds to execute it.
“Scout . . . whatever your name is,” he whispered to one of the soldiers. “You’re going to be our decoy. See that bell?” Heinrich pointed away from the two guards who watched the gate, to a brass bell a few feet away from them. The bell served as the guards’ alarm system.
The scout nodded to Heinrich.
“Throw a rock at it,” the investigator said.
“A rock, my lord?” the scout asked, tilting his head a bit.
“Yes, a rock, an arrow, anything! Just make sure the bell rings out. When the guards go to check on it, we’ll simply walk through the gate.”
“What if the gate’s locked?” Tomas asked.
“I’m sure it is,” Heinrich said. His eyes moved to a small room on the ground level, beneath the ramparts, which led up to the guard-post. “The lever to lift the gate is in that room, which is why scout number two over here is going to lift it as we move. You might be caught, but I’ll see that you aren’t reprimanded.”
The second scout looked skeptical.
Heinrich rolled his eyes. “I’m a lawman, dammit.”
After reassuring their confidence, Heinrich put the plan into action. It was a simple one, even though the guards were on high alert.
The first scout crawled and headed straight toward the foot of the ramparts, while the other scout went left. Heinrich, Tomas, and the third scout rose from their crouched positions and came out from behind the wheelbarrow.
Ting!
The guards on the wall jumped into action as the bell rattled and rang. They left their post, and as they did, the gate started to slowly rise.
Heinrich and his two followers strolled through the gate. The investigator could hear yelling from the ramparts, and yelling from one of his men. Only one of the decoy scouts made it outside, and Heinrich wasn’t sure if it was the one who had rung the bell, or the one who had lifted the gate. It didn’t matter.
The four of them ran through the countryside and headed toward Peter Griswold’s estate.
When they reached the farmhouse, Heinrich noticed it was dark, which he’d expected.
“To the woods,” he said.
They jogged their way toward the woods, with Heinrich trying to retrace his steps. They zigzagged south and then cut east over a crop of fields, up and down rolling hills. All the men had hand cannons brandished the entire time, in case they caught the eye of any Protestant scouting parties.
Heinrich felt alive in the darkness, with the crisp wind biting at his face and blowing in his hair and mustache.
Within half an hour, they’d traveled the two miles to the edge of the woods. Heinrich stopped and tried to calculate where they were, and where they would enter the trees. He needed to be certain, lest he get his envoy lost, which could have dire consequences once dawn broke the horizon and he was sitting near enemy lines.
He eventually shrugged and picked a spot that looked as good as any. The men wrestled with the trees and branches and foliage as they made their way through the woods in a methodical manner. The investigator found traces of footsteps—something he was thankful Georg had taught him to look out for—and he followed the steps until they finally came to the clearing.
Heinrich recognized the clearing, and he let out a sigh of relief. He crouched behind a large tree—the same one that he and Georg had originally hid behind—and squinted to find the cabin in the back of the clearing.
A candle flickered in the house, illuminating the single window.
Heinrich saw a glimpse of shadows in the cabin, and he smiled. “There will likely be at least three people in there—maybe more. Our target is a man who’s missing his left hand. Don’t kill that man. If there’s a woman, don’t kill her, either. I want them subdued, but not dead.”
“What about anyone else inside?” Tomas asked.
Heinrich shrugged. “I don’t care. Do what you will.”
Without wasting any more time, Heinrich silently counted off and prepared to charge. He breathed in deep, clicked back the hammer of his weapon, and whispered, “Let’s go.”
The men split away from the tree and into the clearing.
Halfway through their charge, everything went wrong. The cabin door opened, and four people stepped out. As quiet as Heinrich and his men were, it was impossible to keep the footfall of four men silent in the woods.
All four people in front of the cabin turned in their direction.
Shouting erupted, and the four silhouettes took off running north, into the trees.
Heinrich bit down and ran toward the first, nearest man. Tomas and one of his scouts ran beside him. With their cover blown, everyone broke into full sprint.
Heinrich couldn’t recognize the people he chased after. The four silhouettes split off in four different directions when they reached the trees.
Heinrich knew that time was a pressing issue—he was getting closer and closer to the Protestant encampment the further he went into the woods. He tried to run faster.
A large man jumped out from one of the trees as Heinrich passed, startling the investigator. The man swung a long knife overhead, and Heinrich’s eyes went wide. He managed to lower his head, instinctively, and the knife passed right over him.
Hearing a grunt from behind, he turned his neck. The knife had caught the scout running behind Heinrich, slashing his throat. The scout fell, then Tomas appeared and shot the assailant in the head.
Heinrich pressed on. The trees whizzed by on both sides, eventually thinning out a bit. He heard Tomas running to catch up behind him, while the other scout was lost somewhere in the woods, chasing after one of the silhouettes.
Heinrich squinted and thought he noticed a man through the branches, running for his life, who had a stump where his hand should be.
The investigator jumped over undergrowth and then something caught his foot and he tripped and went sprawling forward. He gasped as he fell toward the ground.
Another man appeared from behind a tree and shot at the investigator. If Heinrich hadn’t been falling, the bullet would have hit him square in the chest, but as it was, the bullet lodged itself in the tree behind him. Embers and bark chips cascaded onto Heinrich’s back.
The investigator rolled to his side, groaning, and brought himself to his knees. He grabbed his firearm, which he’d dropped as he fell.
Heinrich heard a scream and looked up.
Lars was charging at him. The barkeep had thrown away his hand cannon after his shot missed, and now held a dagger high above his head.
The lanky man chopped down and grunted.
Without thinking, Heinrich lifted his pistol.
Clang!—metal on metal rang out.
Lars clenched his jaw, pulled back, and hacked down again.
Heinrich tried to stand, but as he parried with the muzzle of his weapon he was knocked back to the ground onto his back.
Lars looked up—away from Heinrich—with a confused expression on his face.
Heinrich coughed, and a shadow leaped over him. He blinked, and Tomas was standing in front of him with a sword in his hands.
The soldier lunged forward and skewered the barkeep in the chest. The tip of his steel st
uck out of Lars’ back, and Lars coughed blood and crumbled to the ground. Tomas unhinged his sword from the barkeep’s body, whose eyes were still wide with surprise as he died.
Heinrich panted and crawled on his hands and knees until he righted himself. He ran past Lars and Tomas, but could see no sign of Peter or the fourth runaway. His eyes searched around the forest as he tried to conjure any semblance of Georg’s tracking expertise . . .
And he heard a rustling to his right.
The investigator jumped into action, but realized as he ran that he’d dropped his weapon when Lars had tried to kill him. He swiped wood chips from his eyes and felt warm blood running down his cheek.
He came hurtling out of the trees and found himself at the bank of the Peringsmaar Lake. He stared at a face that looked back at him.
It was Peter Griswold, trying to run on the soggy, rocky sand. He was bigger than Heinrich, and slower, so the investigator quickly gained ground on the farmer.
Heinrich clenched his jaw as he drew within five steps of the farmer. He looked down at the man’s boots, then lunged.
He caught Peter by the leg of his pants, pulled down, and went crashing onto the rocks.
Peter’s left boot went flying from his foot, and he too went tumbling to the ground.
The farmer growled at Heinrich and they writhed and struggled against the sharp stones. Pain shot into Heinrich’s back as a rock jutted into him. He howled.
Suddenly Peter’s right hand was around Heinrich’s throat, and he tried to straddle the investigator. He struggled to hold a strong grip with his one good hand, so he brought his left arm down, smashing his stump into Heinrich’s face. Cartilage crunched and Heinrich could feel blood gushing from his nose.
Peter reached back to smash him again.
Heinrich jabbed his knee into Peter’s groin. The big farmer went down in a heap, grabbing his crotch and rolling to his side.
Heinrich scooted away from Peter and went to his knees. He snagged a large rock from the ground and jumped on Peter, rolling him onto his back. Heinrich’s mind flashed with rage and everything got dizzy around him.
He found himself lifting the stone in the air, ready to shatter it on Peter’s face, and all he could see was the farmer’s eyes—shocked and horrified.
