by Cory Barclay
Copyright © 2017 by Cory Barclay
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
www.CoryBarclay.com
First edition: September 2017
Cover art by Vaughan Mir (wyldraven.deviantart.com
Cover design by Mike Montemarano (mikemontemarano.com)
ISBN-13: 978-1975933777
ISBN-10: 197593377X
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CHAPTER FOUR
GUSTAV
Gustav Koehler doubled over in his seat, his head in his hands. He groaned. His insides felt like a snake had coiled around a porcupine and couldn’t untangle.
His carriage bumped along the shoddy dirt road, twisting his intestines even more.
Gustav glanced to his right, at the legs of his scribe, Hedda. He lifted his eyes, taking in the rest of Hedda’s petite body. His pain momentarily subsided. Her face was buried in a book, her large, round spectacles almost reaching the tip of her small nose.
“How you can possibly read during this treacherous carriage ride is beyond me,” he said, wincing at her.
“It was your idea to come here, Gustav,” Hedda replied, her eyes never leaving her book. Her light hair bobbed on her shoulders with every bump of the carriage.
“It was my father’s idea,” Gustav reminded her.
Hedda put her book on her knees and watched his pained face. “You didn’t have to come here. You could have stayed in Germany.”
Gustav snorted. “Not if I’m to show my father I have what it takes to carry this family onward without him.”
“You give him too much credit,” Hedda said. “Do you think he really cares what you can or can’t do?”
Gustav ignored her, instead turning left to watch the rolling green countryside out his window.
Hedda went back to her book.
“How far are we from Norfolk?” Gustav asked.
“I don’t know, Gustav.”
Silence followed.
Gustav took the opportunity to reach into his tunic, very casually so as not to draw attention. He fumbled around until he felt the glass bottle. Then, after glancing to his right to make sure Hedda wasn’t watching, took a quick shot of the laudanum tincture. Quickly, he stowed his secret potion back in his tunic.
Within seconds the warm sensation surrounded his head like a fluffy cloud, separating his mind from the outside world. His intestines smoothed out, the imaginary snake unwinding itself from its prickly prey. Again he groaned, but this time in satisfaction. His muscles relaxed; his mouth fell open. A bit of drool dribbled from his lips, which he wiped with the back of his hand.
Gustav closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “What are you reading?” he asked, eyes still shut.
“Paracelsus,” Hedda said, “what you should be reading, if we have any hope of keeping these plants alive.”
Gustav opened his eyes and followed Hedda’s to the cart behind them. A blanket covered an assortment of plants, flowers, and herbs. He smiled. This menagerie of plants went everywhere with him—even across the seas from the Netherlands to England. His collection of medicinal plants, herbs, and spices was his prized possession. He considered himself somewhat of an amateur botanist and herbalist, and dreamed of one day sprinkling the world with his green gifts.
Gustav glanced over at Hedda’s book cover perched on her lap. The Doctrine of Signatures—a reference book explaining the medicinal uses of some plants and their connection with the Creator.
“I’ve already read that one,” Gustav said, “so you don’t have to.”
Ignoring him, Hedda picked up her book and continued reading.
Gently, Gustav placed his palm on Hedda’s cold knee. He began rubbing the warm flesh behind her kneecap, before moving his thumb up her thigh.
“Come now, put the book down,” he said. “We have time before we reach Norf-f-folk . . . ” His mind was swirling in a euphoric haze from the laudanum, his speech slurred.
Hedda slapped his hand away. Gustav winced. “I don’t like you when you’re like this,” she said.
“Like what?” Gustav asked, kneading his hand and pouting.
“In a fog.”
Hedda studied his glazed, rheumy eyes, then returned to her book. “We’ll be at Norfolk shortly, Gustav. Try to clear your head and get ready for what you have to do.”
A few hours later, they reached the rural community of Norfolk just as the sun was setting. As their carriage rolled by the farms and small houses, Gustav noticed a church on the horizon that wasn’t quite finished. The only hint it was a church was the man standing on its roof erecting a white cross. Compared to the legion of bland houses and farms they passed, the stark-white church stood out like a beacon—the most memorable landmark they’d seen thus far.
The carriage continued on. Gustav directed the driver to the largest house in the vicinity, a two-story structure with a bit more flair than most of the other buildings. Clearly, the residence of someone important.
Gustav’s brain had long since shaken off the effects of the laudanum, the cloudiness now replaced with a dull aching. His insides had begun hurting again, but he hid his discomfort.
Gustav stepped out of the carriage first. He was a tall man and had to duck down so as not to bump his head on the carriage roof. As he stretched his arms over his head, then grunted and yawned, Hedda stepped out. Under her arms, she held a different booklet than the one she’d been reading.
Gustav perused the green scenery. “Dull place,” he said.
Hedda didn’t reply.
A man came out from the large house. He was middle-aged and wore a ridiculous, frilly outfit with a puffy shirt. His face was gaunt yet cheerful, almost like it couldn’t decide whether to be happy or suspicious.
“Hello, good sir,” Gustav said, meeting the man halfway. He stuck out his hand and flashed a charming grin.
Eyeing Hedda, the man cleared his throat and hesitated. Finally, he put out his hand and shook Gustav’s hand. “Can I help you? I was just sitting down for supper.”
“My apologies,” Gustav said, “but are you the proprietor of this land?”
The man slowly nodded. “I am the reeve, yes. Clarence Bailey. And you are . . .”
“Gustav Koehler.” He spoke his name as if expecting recognition. When none came, Gustav cleared his throat as Hedda sauntered up alongside him. Reaching into her booklet, she produced a sealed letter with a red stamp across it and handed it to Reeve Bailey.
“That letter is proof of who I am, Herr Bailey,” Gustav announced. “My father owns these lands. So, in turn, you work for him.”
The reeve looked baffled. Before opening the letter, he asked, “And your father is?”
“Read the letter, good sir,” Gustav said, shivering. “Seems like it’s to be a chilly night.”
With narrowed eyes Clarence Bailey stared at the letter in his hands. A few seconds later he muttered, “Yes, yes, we’d better take this inside. I’ll introduce you to my wife and child, and it so happens I was sitting down with my taxman, too. Tax season is upon us, after all.”
“I am aware,” Gustav said. He and Hedda followed the reeve inside the house.
They wandered through a living room and came to a large table where a young woman and child sat on one side and an overweight man with puffy red cheeks sat at the head. The fat man’s face reminded Gustav of a squirrel with nuts in his cheeks.
Clarence Bailey gestured to the man. “This is Timothy Davis, my tax-collector.”
The plump man finished off the chicken leg he was eating before staggering up from his chair and holding out a greasy hand.
Gustav looked at the hand with disgust, not moving to shake it. “A pleasure,” he said, feeling just the opposite.
/> Timothy Davis rubbed his hands on his trousers, then turned to Clarence. “Friends of yours, sir?”
“Er, no,” Clarence said, clearing his throat. “This man claims to be the son of the owner of these lands.”
“And what is he here for?” Timothy asked, as if Gustav weren’t standing in the room.
“Yes, what are you here for, Herr Koehler?” Clarence echoed.
Gustav inspected the small room, leering at Clarence’s young wife and child. He was somewhat taken aback by the selfish attitude of the reeve—not offering his weary guests any food after their long travel. Both men seemed tense, as if trying to hide something.
“In all honesty,” Gustav began, “I am here to take over the tax routes of your man.”
The reeve glanced at Timothy, whose fat cheeks jiggled about, flabbergasted. “What ever for?” Timothy mumbled with a full mouth. “I’ve never cheated a soul.”
Hedda positioned her spectacles on her nose and thumbed through a page of her book. “Unfortunately, that’s not what these numbers say.”
“Who’s that woman?” Timothy asked.
“My scribe and assistant,” Gustav said, “and you’ll refer to her as Frau Hedda.”
“Just hold on here,” Reeve Bailey said, “I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this amicably. Timothy, take this letter and confirm its legitimacy.”
“But . . . I’m eating, sir,” the taxman complained, blinking sadly at his half-eaten plate.
The reeve simply stared at the round man. Timothy whined, then snatched the letter. “Tomorrow I’m supposed to go on my routes to collect the taxes,” he added.
“Oh?” Gustav said. “Well, since I can guarantee that you will find my letter authentic, I shall be taking over your duties.”
“You can’t simply barge in here and take over my assignment,” Timothy said, his floppy cheeks turning red.
But Gustav was an imposing character, tall and stoic in front of the out-of-shape taxman. “I can, and I have,” he said, “because this land belongs to my father. I am here to make sure everything goes smoothly from here on out. I would like to meet the people of this shire. I will also need a place to store my plants—wherever I’m staying will be fine.”
“Your . . . plants, my lord?” Reeve Bailey asked.
“Yes, Herr Bailey. My plants. If you’ll come outside with me, you’ll see what I mean.”
Gustav and Hedda led the way out, but not before Gustav dipped his eyes to the small woman and child at the table and said, “Excuse me, ladies,” as politely as he could.
Outside, the carriage-driver was feeding the horses. Gustav walked to the back of the wheeled cart. He grabbed the blanket inside and dramatically flipped it off his herbs and spices. “These are my plants. Is there somewhere nearby I can stay, so that I might come here in the morning? I’m an early riser.”
Clarence scratched his sunken cheeks. He motioned toward the flat horizon. “The closest farmstead over there has been vacant for a time. There is a small plot of land where your plants should fit nicely.”
“Yes,” Timothy added. “The couple who lived there weren’t able to pay the proper taxes, so they were ousted.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
“Now, now, Herr Davis, there’s no need for that,” Clarence said, putting a hand on his taxman’s shoulder. “I’m sure Herr Koehler doesn’t plan on staying overly long. Correct, sir?”
“I’ll stay as long as I need to,” Gustav said flatly.
Timothy Davis grunted. He put his hands on his round belly and tucked the letter he held into the band of his trousers. “I’ll see if I can verify the legitimacy of this letter, Clarence.”
And with that, the fat man waddled off.
Once Timothy was gone, Clarence asked, “What is it you think my taxman has done, exactly? I’ve known him for years. He’s as trustworthy as they come.”
Gustav faced his scribe. “I’m here to audit your acreage’s expenses and taxes, Herr Bailey. Believe me, if there’s foul play afoot, Hedda will find it. She’s the brightest auditor I know.”
“And what brings you here, if I may ask?”
“I’m here on my father’s bidding. Yours is not the only land I’ve come to check. So in that, you are right, I won’t be making myself comfortable for too long.”
Gustav could see the relief splayed across the reeve’s face. It told him, once again, that something wasn’t right. Perhaps he’s guilty of something more ominous than simple tax evasion.
Bidding farewell to the reeve, Gustav told him he’d be back in the early morning hours, then climbed into the carriage with Hedda.
As the carriage rolled off toward the vacant plot of land across the way, Gustav took another swill from his bottle of laudanum. He glanced at Hedda, who squinted disapprovingly at him.
“Now I’m your auditor, Gustav?”
Gustav shrugged. “I had to call you something, my dear.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
HUGO
After wiping his grimy eyes, Hugo curled into a fetal position. He tossed and thrashed in his ragged cot, listening to the rain pelt on the tin roof overhead. Silver moonlight streamed into the room through a single window, blanketing the upper half of Hugo’s body in murky light.
The jeweled ring he’d stolen for Ava lay next to his cot, on the ground, along with a few copper and silver pieces, some knickknacks, and a half eaten slice of hard bread. The moonlight lit the emerald ring as if it were on display at a jeweler’s shop. He touched the ring, rolling it across the ground, watching the shadows dance on the dusty floor.
Then he cursed himself.
He’d forgotten to give the ring back to Ava before she was captured.
Images played in his head of Ava crying out for help, from him in particular. What a way to spend her birthday—scared and alone. He knew the feeling well, reflecting on his own time in jail.
A few feet away, his big friend Karstan snored soundly on his own undersized cot, legs spilling over the end of the bed. Severin was asleep as well, near the front door of the small room they called home.
Hugo frowned as he watched Severin sleep. If that weasel had given us a warning, Ava might still be here right now.
He closed his eyes. Red and green colors battled behind his lids. Before long, he drifted off, the image of a terrified Ava his last conscious thought.
He wasn’t sure if it was a dream, but he felt something . . . someone . . . reach for Ava, grabbing her by the arm, then her fingers. The hand pulled her until he could see her no more.
Then in her place, a faint ruffle. Hugo’s eyes shot open. Craning his neck, he saw a blur reaching out of the shadows, into the sliver of moonlight where his coins and ring lay.
A hand. Like a spider, slowly creeping toward its prey.
The hand closed around the ring and descended back into the darkness. Hugo’s eyes widened.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He rolled off his cot and reached out, snatching a wrist and tugging it forward.
Severin’s ugly, hawkish face came into focus, utterly shocked as Hugo cried out and cocked his free hand back.
Severin tried to pull away, but too late.
Hugo’s fist crashed into his face with a thwack and the taller boy reeled back against his cot.
Hugo let go of Severin’s hand and the ring fell to the ground with a ping. As Severin’s hands flew to his bruised face, Hugo leaped on top of him, grabbing around his neck with both hands and growling like a rabid animal. He squeezed Severin’s throat with all his might until the taller boy’s face turned purple.
Severin desperately tried to grab Hugo’s arms, pulling back toward the front door, which swung open.
The two young men spilled onto the muddy alleyway outside, Severin on his back, Hugo still raging on top of him.
Hugo released Severin’s neck, yelling, “You thieving wretch!” as he kicked him in the ribs, again and again, then in the face. Severin wheezed and curled into a ball, defeated and ra
in-drenched to the bone.
Panting and still crazed, Hugo stepped away and closed his eyes tightly. The greens and reds behind his eyelids were no longer fighting. The red had won. He turned back to Severin on the ground and raised his foot, ready to crush down on the boy’s windpipe.
Then a great tendril wrapped around Hugo’s waist like a python, lifting him off the ground.
“Hugo, stop!” Karstan shouted, pulling Hugo away. “You’re going to kill him!”
“Let go of me, you bastard!” Hugo yelled, writhing and flailing his arms and legs. But Karstan held tight, his grip too strong.
The more Hugo struggled, the less he could breathe or move his limbs.
Karstan carried Hugo into the house, then threw him to the ground like a rag doll.
“He tried to steal Ava’s ring while I slept!” Hugo screamed, red rage still in his eyes.
“We’re all thieves here,” Karstan said with a strange calmness. “That’s no reason to kill him, Hue. Are you really that surprised?”
Hugo slowly crawled on hands and knees until he found the ring on the floor. He swept it up and held it with white knuckles.
Meanwhile, Karstan walked back outside to tend to Severin. Hugo gazed out the open front door, eyed Karstan helping a disheveled and bloodied Severin up off the ground, then crawled back to his bed and carefully placed the ring on his own little finger. Then he clenched that hand into a fist, closed his eyes, and imagined Ava’s face smiling at him.
The rain stopped before dawn. As the inhabitants of Bedburg rose, the morning sun peeked through the gray clouds and showered the village with warmth.
By the time Hugo woke, Severin was gone and Karstan was up, humming to himself.
“Where’d he go?” Hugo asked.
“Out,” Karstan said. “He didn’t want to be here when you awoke.”
