Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Dieter breathed heavily. “If we’re dead, our land and our church go back to the landowner—his father. Perhaps he wants the church—I don’t know. But we have to go.”

  “Go where, Dieter? You must calm down.”

  “Away from here! We have to leave Norfolk.”

  Alarmed, Sybil said, “Absolutely not. We have Claire and Leon and the congregation. I’m supposed to help Claire with her baby, and teach those children, and you’re supposed to give Mass. We have obligations here, Dieter.”

  “I’m sorry, my love.”

  The frustration overwhelmed Sybil. “We can’t let this man get the better of us. Not so soon! Why don’t you report him, if what you think is true?”

  “No one would believe us, Beele. He has the law on his side. Didn’t you hear him?”

  They reached their home on the outskirts of the flat farmland. It was eerily quiet as they jumped out of the carriage into the windy night.

  As they entered their home, their worst fears were realized.

  Sybil gasped. Dieter groaned.

  Martin and their son were gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HUGO

  The torturer and his apprentice stood in a jail cell, across from a prisoner who sat upright on a cold chair. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and weary.

  Ulrich pointed at the prisoner. “What is that called, boy?”

  Hugo glanced at the object on the prisoner and gulped.

  A double-sided, metal pronged instrument stretched from the prisoner’s exposed breastbone to his throat. The prong resembled a fork but with sharper points, like a horned devil. It was attached so that every time the man’s head dropped forward from fatigue, the points stabbed into his throat, causing him to jolt awake in pain.

  Simple, yet exquisitely cruel.

  “A Heretic’s fork,” Hugo said.

  “And what does it do?”

  “It forces the man to stay awake.”

  “And why would we force the man to stay awake?”

  Hugo paused for a moment. He tugged at his chin, then faced Ulrich. “So he’ll give a tired confession?”

  Ulrich rocked back on his chair. “Good. Let’s see how it works, shall we? Just listen.” The prisoner moaned and flinched when Ulrich ambled to him. Ulrich patted the man’s head, leaned over him, and undid the straps of the fork, pulling the apparatus away.

  The man gasped.

  Ulrich slapped the man lightly across the face. “Are you with us, Sturl?”

  The two pinpricks on the lower half of Sturl’s neck trickled with blood. Apparently he’d tried to sleep.

  He looked up at Ulrich, his eyes glazed, wild, angry.

  “Where were we?” Ulrich began. Calmly, he sat across from the prisoner, resting one leg over the other. “If you tell me what I want to know, no more fork.”

  “Burn in Hell, punisher,” the man’s voice like sandpaper, his lips cracking as he spoke. Tiny rivulets of blood continued trickling down the man’s chest.

  Ulrich smiled cruelly, the scar on his face moving with his mouth. “I’m sure I will. Now, the archbishop of Trier, what was his name, Sturl?”

  Sturl shrugged. “I don’t know the archbishop of Trier.”

  Trier was one of the seven electorates of the Holy Roman Empire, located south of Cologne.

  “Ah,” Ulrich said, raising his index finger. “Johann von Schönenberg. That was his name. So, Archbishop Schönenberg wants more inquisitors for his witch-hunt.” Ulrich turned to Hugo. “Since Trier is having a bit of a witch problem lately—dozens of people have been killed already, I hear. The place is ripe for the killing. It would be a good place for an executioner, I suspect . . .” he trailed off.

  Sturl coughed and spat a wad of blood and phlegm on the ground near Ulrich’s feet.

  “In fact,” Ulrich continued, “Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier doesn’t have enough inquisitors for all the witches he’s trying to kill. Enter Sturl here”—he waved his hand at the prisoner—“who has come to Bedburg to recruit.”

  Sturl licked his parched lips. “I was sent by Archbishop Ernst of Cologne.”

  Ulrich sighed. “So you’ve been saying. The problem is . . . I don’t believe you. Why would Archbishop Ernst help Archbishop Schönenberg? Why would Cologne come to Trier’s aid?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Sturl growled.

  Ulrich stood and crossed his arms. “This isn’t working.” He turned and left the cell. A moment later he returned with another contraption: two bands of iron, held together by a large screw.

  Ulrich sat, placed the device in front of Sturl, then shoved one of the prisoner’s thumbs between the two bands. Ulrich turned to Hugo. “Do you remember the name of this one?”

  This one was easy. “A thumbscrew,” Hugo answered.

  Sturl groaned.

  Ulrich nodded. He put his hand at the top of the screw and began rotating it, forcing the top band down until it pressed against Sturl’s thumb. “Last chance, Sturl,” Ulrich said.

  The prisoner looked like he was ready to weep. Instead, he steeled himself, gritting his teeth and sucking in his cheeks.

  Ulrich tightened the band one more measure. A loud crack signaled Sturl’s thumb had been crushed. The prisoner wailed in agony.

  Hugo flinched, then recoiled. Blood was seeping through the prisoner’s shattered thumbnail onto the floor.

  Ulrich unfastened the band. Sturl moaned, breathing in short gasps.

  “Shall we try again?” Ulrich calmly asked. “Was it Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier who sent you here?”

  Sturl rapidly shook his head.

  Ulrich removed Sturl’s hand from the device, grabbed his other hand, and jammed his thumb between the iron bands.

  Slick with blood, the screw made a squealing sound as Ulrich turned it. But just before the bands pressed together, the prisoner shouted, “Okay, okay! Please, stop this! No more!”

  Ulrich looked at the man with his browless eyes, trying his best to unnerve the prisoner with his gaze. “Well?”

  “Archbishop Schönenberg sent me from Trier to Cologne. He and Archbishop Ernst are acquaintances, I s-suppose.”

  “So why are you here—in Bedburg—then?” Ulrich asked.

  “Because Schönenberg wants Jesuits, and the bishop of Bedburg is one of the most notorious Jesuits in the land—he’s the man who uncovered the Werewolf of Bedburg, after all.”

  Balthasar Schreib did not uncover the werewolf, Hugo thought. My father was no monster.

  Ulrich gave Sturl another look, as if to say, Continue.

  Sturl did. “Everyone knows Bishop Schreib used to be Archbishop Ernst’s ear, when he was still in Cologne.”

  “You were sent from Trier, to Cologne, to here,” Ulrich said, pointing his finger in the air three times. “But Archbishop Schönenberg of Trier doesn’t want it to look like he’s asking for help. He wants Archbishop Ernst and Cologne to simply offer their aid.”

  Sturl nodded. “Schönenberg is stubborn. He wants to look powerful. I suspect he wants his electorate to be more dominant than the Cologne electorate. He’ll appear weak if he has to ask for help . . .”

  Ulrich smiled and undid the band from Sturl’s thumb. “Well, his secret is out.”

  Sturl’s eyes bulged. “P-please, I told you what you want. Don’t betray my secret. Schönenberg will kill me.”

  Ulrich’s face darkened. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, quickly leading Hugo out of the room by his shoulder.

  “Where are we going?” Hugo asked, trying to keep up with the punisher.

  “To find the new inquisitors Sturl was talking about, and to report to Bishop Schreib.”

  Hugo peeked over his shoulder. “And what will happen to Sturl?”

  Ulrich shrugged. “It’s up to the bishop, but I suppose I’ll have to slit his throat and toss him in the Erft River.”

  Hugo’s mouth fell open. “B-but he told you what you wanted to know!”

  “Yes,” Ulrich said, �
��but didn’t you also hear him complain about his ‘secret’ getting out? Killing him is the only sure way of stopping that.”

  Hugo wanted to say more, but what more could be said? Here I was thinking we were the ones trying to find the murderers,

  Not become them.

  They came to Bedburg’s church. The lush gardens on either side danced in the wind. The stained-glass doors mesmerized Hugo with their reds, greens, and blues.

  Ulrich lightly cuffed Hugo on the side of the head. “Enough staring,” he said, pushing open the doors.

  The nave inside was empty, save for two folks sitting at separate pews, heads bowed, and a homely woman sweeping by the pulpit near a gray statue of Christ.

  Ulrich approached the woman. “Sister Salome,” he said with a curt nod. The woman held a long frown. Hugo soon realized this was her regular expression.

  “Punisher,” she said with slight disgust, standing her broom upright.

  “I must speak with the bishop.”

  “Why don’t you go to the keep?” she said, her tone bitter. “He seems to be there as much as here.”

  Ulrich opened his mouth to say something, then simply shouldered past her instead. “I don’t have time for this. I know Balthasar is here. Mass just let out.”

  Hurrying behind Ulrich like a dog, Hugo could tell the torturer and nun had a history—and not a pleasant one, he guessed.

  Sister Salome shuffled behind Hugo, putting a hand on his arm. “Boy, let the brute speak with the bishop alone. Their discussion is no place for you.”

  Hugo creased his brow, pulling his arm away.

  “The boy comes with me,” Ulrich said over his shoulder.

  “He’s in a meeting,” Salome protested, walking past Ulrich, trying to get to the door at the end of the hallway first.

  “I was hoping so,” Ulrich said, moving the nun aside and knocking hard on the door.

  Hugo heard voices coming from the other side. But none offered Ulrich entry, so the torturer let himself in, pushing hard on the door and shoving his way inside.

  As Hugo followed Ulrich in, he gazed around the large circular chamber. Shimmering rays of light, in all colors of the rainbow, poured through the many stained-glass windows, casting an almost angelic haze across the room. A large oak desk stood at the front. Hugo had never seen a desk that big. And an equally large man, round-faced and jovial, sat behind it.

  In front of the desk, with their backs to Ulrich and Hugo, sat two other men, who both turned quickly at the sound of the door crashing open.

  “E-excuse me, father,” Sister Salome exclaimed, dashing into the room. “He wouldn’t be stopped.”

  “I have good news, bishop.” Ulrich exclaimed, spreading his arms out like some war-ravaged general greeting his loyal soldiers.

  The round man at the desk stumbled to his feet, grabbing his walking-stick leaning nearby. “Excuse me, brothers,” he said to the two men sitting in front of his desk. Taking the hint, the two immediately got up and left the room, not looking at Ulrich or Hugo as they passed.

  Nevertheless, Ulrich gave them his best torturer’s smile.

  When the door closed, Bishop Balthasar Schreib sighed. “What do you have for me, my son? And who is that?” he asked, wrinkling his face at Hugo.

  “Runaway boy I found. Took him in.”

  “What do you plan to do with him? Send him to an orphanage?”

  “Not sure yet. Guess we’ll see how good he learns. I’ve been bored in that stinking jailhouse, so I could use the company.”

  Bishop Schreib chortled. “Are you growing sentimental, my friend? It’s so unlike you.”

  Ulrich drew back like he’d been struck. “The man you had me arrest will be dead by sundown.”

  “That’s better,” Schreib said. “Can we talk in front of this boy? I’d hate for him to end up in the same predicament as your prisoner.”

  “Yes, we can talk in front of him.” He nodded, eyeing the boy. “He’ll be helping me get rid of the body.”

  Hugo’s eyes widened. That was never discussed . . .

  Ulrich moved on, saying, “Sturl was sent by Archbishop Schönenberg, as you suspected, father. It seems a storm of shit is raining down on Trier. People are turning up quite crispy throughout the principality.”

  “Ah,” the bishop said, limping to a table next to his desk and pouring himself a cup of something. “Wine, torturer?”

  Ulrich shook his head. “I don’t drink. You know that. But the boy can.”

  The bishop chuckled, holding out the cup. Hugo trotted over and took it. The wine was warm and bitter, almost making Hugo cough.

  “Does it taste like the blood of Christ, boy?” Ulrich asked.

  The bishop glared at the torturer. “So the man was sent from Trier to Cologne, and from Cologne to here?”

  Ulrich nodded.

  Bishop Schreib poured another cup for himself, then took a sip as he stared out the green-and-red window. “I wonder why Ernst would keep that from me . . . I’m like a brother to him.”

  “Well, he’s giving you work. Maybe he just wants to keep his neck clear of any sharp blades. I doubt he wants a repeat of Bedburg.” Then, thumbing over his shoulder, “And those men?”

  Balthasar tapped his tinny cup. “That was the inquisitor and his assistant. Stalwart members of the Society. They should do nicely in Trier.”

  “Trier’s a long ways from here,” Ulrich said.

  “Not so far, Ulrich. Why? I see that glint in your eye.”

  “I have a proposition for you, father.”

  Balthasar set down his cup. “I’m assuming you won’t leave until you offer your services.”

  Ulrich smiled again, the scar slithering to his chin. “You know me too well, bishop.”

  “Where are we going now?” Hugo asked, dodging and weaving around smelly, drunken men smelling of beer, shit and mud, to keep up with Ulrich’s quick pace.

  They’d left the church and immediately headed toward the southern slums, a place Hugo knew well. As they neared Tanner Row, the smell of beggars and filth was replaced by the stench of rawhide and rotting meat. This was the slum adjacent to Hugo’s old home, one of his favorite haunts for poaching unsuspecting marks.

  “All the drifters and vagrants down here . . . you must feel at home, boy.” Ulrich scowled, pushing his way past two stumbling men. His voice went low. “I know I do . . .”

  They stomped through the mud, passing the taverns, brothels, and tanners, until they made their way to a large, open-spaced district that Hugo had always avoided, mainly because no one worth robbing ever frequented the area.

  A group of men were huddled in a tight circle, shoulder-to-shoulder, jeering and cheering, hands clenched into tight fists, all gawking at the same spectacle.

  Hugo heard repeated rings of steel on steel, singing out like squawking birds.

  Ulrich made his way to the loud circle. Hugo stood behind him, peering around on his tiptoes to see what was happening.

  Two men were at battle. One with a half-helm on his head, tufts of dirty blond hair sticking out from underneath; the other wore a chainshirt, vambraces on his arms, and a wide full-helmet covering his entire face.

  The combatant in the half-helm wore the ragtag leather garb of a mercenary. Hugo could see the man’s jaw locked tight, heavy breathing blowing from underneath the helmet.

  The men circled each other, gauging the other’s footwork. The man with the blond hair and half-helm had open holes in his helmet, allowing his piercing blue eyes an unobstructed view. The man with the full-helm had simple slits in his mask, partly obscuring his view but completely protecting his face.

  Each man held, double-gripped, a crude longsword.

  The blond man, his weapon held high with the blade aimed to the sky, grunted then dashed forward, striking out as quickly as Hugo’s hands moved during a pilfering.

  The full-helm fighter staggered to the left, swinging his blade down on top of the blond man’s blade. He swept his weapon
along the edge of Half-helm’s, trying to take off his opponent’s head.

  Half-helm ducked as the blade swept overhead, nearly connecting with his face.

  The people in the circle gasped. Hugo’s eyes moved from man to man, unable to look away for even an instant for fear of missing the imminent mayhem.

  Half-helm, the quicker of the two, danced back, shuffling his feet and pacing left to right.

  When Full-helm’s head tilted down, to gauge his opponent’s feet, Half-helm struck, lunging and catching Full-helm on the wrist—but only bouncing off the metal vambrace.

  Full-helm grunted, then cocked back and punched out with his gauntlet, striking Half-helm square in the face.

  Half-helm stumbled back, dazed. Full-helm raised his blade high, moved two steps forward and brought his blade down fast and hard for the killing blow.

  The crowd collectively cried out.

  But Half-helm ducked at the last moment, bringing his sword around in a low, one-handed sweep, hitting Full-helm’s protected knees. He jumped back as Full-helm twisted, roared, pivoted. He raised up his weapon. Half-helm brought his down.

  There was a tremendous clang as the blades met.

  Half-helm riposted, digging his back foot into the ground. He leveled his sword then hammered down, Full-helm just barely able to check it with his own blade in time.

  But Half-helm now had the momentum, fluid in motion, dancing to the symphony of crackling steel and sparkling crescendos. He continued his onslaught of offensive slashes, his blade swinging down over and over, Full-helm clearly on the defensive.

  Finally, the pressure was too much. Full-helm buckled, his back leg slipped, he lost footing and went to a knee.

  Half-helm circled the man, still swinging, wild and wolf-like yet precise as a hunting falcon.

  Full-helm was no match. He couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t get his sword to his side quick enough, and Half-helm struck him in the shoulder, drawing blood.

  Full-helm grunted and fell to his side, dropping his weapon and clutching his shoulder. He reached out for the blade but Half-helm, standing over him, stepped on its handle and Full-helm’s hand with it. The crunch of bones was unnerving.