Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Dieter closed his eyes and the voices grew faint. Then he fell back asleep.

  The next morning Karstan was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HUGO

  Hugo Griswold sat in a high-backed chair looking bored, one leg crossed over the other, his head tilted in his palm, as Bishop Balthasar berated him. Seated at the head of the council room, he was surrounded by bearded men twice his age and more, all born into families of high stature.

  Which, to Hugo, explained why everyone seemed so displeased with him: not being born into high stature. That, and perhaps his age. Few sixteen-year-olds wielded the power he’d been given.

  “What could Lord Franz possibly see in this boy,” one of the councilmen cried, a white-bearded gentleman wearing an embroidered tunic over his fat body. Though directing his ire at Hugo, he spoke to the other noblemen in the room as if Hugo weren’t there.

  But Hugo didn’t mind. In fact, he gave his attacker a smug smile, knowing the man couldn’t do anything about it. The truth was, while Hugo wasn’t sure exactly what Lord Heinrich Franz saw in him, he certainly didn’t dwell on it, gladly accepting the rewards that came with such “royal” support.

  Hugo waved the letter in his hand—the one with the red-waxed stamp of approval from Heinrich’s own pen. That was all Hugo needed to justify his current position of power at Castle Bedburg.

  Heinrich had placed Hugo in charge while away on “urgent business” in Cologne. And as surprising as that might have been to Hugo, it utterly boggled the minds of these nobles and parliamentarians, who couldn’t stop yelling and whining and getting red in the face.

  Perhaps it’s because I’m so far removed from the goings-on at Bedburg that Heinrich gave me this authority, Hugo pondered, staring at the indignant face of Bishop Balthasar.

  “I’m going to have a talk with Lord Heinrich about this madness, young man,” Balthasar said, shaking his head, his multiple chins wobbling. “You can be sure of that.”

  “Of course you will, Father,” Hugo muttered. “That’s your prerogative.”

  Several noblemen groaned.

  “Prerogative!” the white-bearded man shouted. “He thinks because he uses big words, that gives him power over us!”

  Hugo shook his head. “No,” he said, again waving the stamped letter. “This gives me the power, Lord . . .” he paused, stroking his chin as if trying to recall the man’s name. “What was it again?”

  Of course he knew he was Lord Alvin, a man with many acres of land and two grain mills along the Erft River. But this was just too much fun. As Alvin’s cheeks puffed and his nostrils flared, Hugo worried the old man might drop dead on the spot.

  “I’m Lord—”

  “. . . Alvin,” Hugo finished, lifting his head and snapping his fingers. “Right. Now I recall. Well, Herr Alvin, when Lord Heinrich returns you can go to House Charmagne and plead your case.”

  Which instantly stopped Lord Alvin’s yammering. Hugo knew none of them would ever go to Charmagne voluntarily. The place was dark, foreboding, and intimidating. No, these men just liked complaining and Hugo was an easy target.

  Besides, Hugo hadn’t really done anything to complain about since Heinrich’s departure. Heinrich’s instructions had been clear: “Make sure the town doesn’t implode while I’m gone.” So Hugo had done precisely as instructed: exactly nothing. Bedburg was doing just fine, so there was virtually nothing to do. It was the nobles who were in jeopardy of imploding.

  In fact, Hugo’s only real project was to oversee the Town Fair scheduled for the following day.

  The large door at the end of the hall swung open. Two guards stepped in momentarily to allow the newest visitor’s entry. In the hallway, boots echoed as a scar-faced, giant of a man confidently stomped down the red carpet and into the council room.

  An eerie stillness enveloped the room as Ulrich—Bedburg’s torturer and executioner—leered at the gathering.

  Smiling back, Hugo rose from his chair. “Ulrich! A pleasant surprise,” he lied.

  It was never pleasant to be in the company of Ulrich. He was gruff, sadistic, and downright evil. Three months earlier, he’d tricked Hugo into joining a group of traveling inquisitors to the city of Trier, in the guise of an escort, only to end up slaughtering the group and stealing their identities so that Heinrich—under an alias—could force guilty verdicts on hapless souls.

  It had been a diabolical plot, orchestrated entirely by Ulrich, though probably at the behest of Heinrich. And not only had it reaffirmed Ulrich’s immense depravity, it had also convinced Hugo that the man could never be trusted.

  Still, at the moment he’d rather look at the torturer’s ugly, pock-marked face than spend one more minute with these relentless, noble windbags.

  “What are you doing here, boy?” Ulrich asked, his eyebrow raised.

  Hugo smiled. “Heinrich’s put me in charge while away on business.”

  “You?” Ulrich scoffed. Surveying the gaggle of frightened noblemen, he then shrugged, choosing not to press the issue. “Interesting,” was all he said.

  “I thought the same,” Hugo replied. Pointing to a paper in Ulrich’s hand, he asked, “What’s that you have there?”

  “Something I’ve been working on . . .” Ulrich held up a note.

  “Sounds devious,” Hugo said with a smirk. He took it from Ulrich and read it aloud. “Adam and Martha Jacobo. Signed, Mord.”

  He glanced up at Ulrich. “What does it mean? Who are these people?”

  “Protestants.”

  Hugo’s brow jumped. “You’re sure?”

  Ulrich nodded. “Secret ones. I’ve been keeping a ledger, listing possible Lutherans and Calvinists in Bedburg, in case Heinrich wants to take action against them.”

  “Do you have proof that they’re conspiring against the Catholics? Or even that they’re really Protestants?”

  Ulrich scratched the scar on his cheek. “Well, no . . . that’s why my ledger isn’t official.”

  “And what’s the significance of these two names? Who was this note intended for?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m guessing they were somehow taken from my ledger and someone’s trying to save them.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Or at least warn them. But I have no idea who wrote it . . .”

  “And how did you come by this note?”

  Ulrich stifled a laugh. “You’re sounding more and more like Heinrich everyday, boy—”

  “Don’t call me boy. I’m not your boy. Just answer the question.”

  Ulrich’s smile disappeared. “I have an operative—”

  “Who?”

  “That’s none of your concern, my lord,” Ulrich spat. “That’s between me and Heinrich.”

  Looking into Ulrich’s face, Hugo suddenly realized that, in his eagerness to appear in charge, he may have overplayed his hand and angered the executioner—the last thing anyone wanted to do. Ulrich was not one to provoke. Phrasing his tone more respectfully, Hugo asked, “And what will you do about these two?”

  “Also none of your concern.”

  Hugo pursed his lips. They were at a standstill. Despite technically being in charge, dealing with Ulrich was always touchy. Hugo had once served as the man’s apprentice, so trying to now act superior—to a psychopath nearly twice his size—didn’t really work.

  “Then why are you showing me this?” Hugo asked.

  Ulrich snatched the note back from Hugo. “To be honest, I had no idea you’d be here. I expected to see Heinrich.”

  Hugo crossed his arms. “Then is that all?”

  Fascinated by the ongoing power struggle playing out, the noblemen listened in rapt silence. For a long moment the two men stared each other down, until Ulrich finally seemed to relent.

  “I suppose so,” he replied.

  Hugo gave a curt nod and Ulrich did the same. Clearly, there would be no bowing. Then Ulrich turned and left.

  As Hugo faced the noblemen again, Ulrich paused at the door.

  “
Hugo?” he called out.

  Hugo turned. Ulrich was smiling, the scar on his cheek nearly piercing his upper lip.

  “Yes?” Hugo replied.

  “I’m glad to see you landed on your feet.”

  The next morning—the day of Bedburg’s Town Fair—was breezy and sunny, a perfect autumn day. This would be the last market before the town’s brutal winter set in, when Bedburg’s inhabitants would brave their months-long, self-imposed hibernation.

  Traders, merchants, farmers, and vintners came from all over to take part in the fair. Whether buyer or seller, it was a day to prepare for the long, bitter winter, drawing people from well beyond the city—Jülich, Elsdorf, Bergheim, Erftstadt, and further south.

  Even before dawn broke, Bedburg was bustling as merchants set up stands and tents, loading crates of apples and onions, cartloads of wool and linens, wine from various vineyards, mead and ale from the breweries, freshly baked and ornamented breads, confections, cakes and pies, roasted pigs, chickens, ducks and cattle.

  Hugo watched from the steps of Castle Bedburg as Tanner Row was transformed into a vibrant marketplace. Even the stink of the hides and animal flesh had been washed away, giving the area a pristine appearance. It looked nothing like it used to, when Hugo and his gang were begging and running schemes on unsuspecting victims. The entire region—not just Tanner Row but other typically seedy areas such as Priest’s Circle—had been cleared of the beggars and miscreants one usually found roaming around.

  The epicenter of the fair was the town square. From there, the activity cascaded outward—all the way to the taverns and inns and residential districts bordering the eastern end of town.

  Hugo watched from Castle Bedburg as the eastern and southern gates were opened. Because of the festivities, they’d remain unguarded for the rest of the day. As the early morning sun warmed the streets, travelers began trickling in from all around. With no specific duties to attend to, Hugo decided to wander around for a while like just any other fair-goer. Heinrich wasn’t scheduled to return until later in the day and, even then, was unlikely to come into town. So Hugo could while away his time as he pleased.

  The first thing he noticed were the town guards vigilantly patrolling every block, ready to quash the occasional quarrel or disturbance. Hugo knew that as the day progressed, the number of guards would increase, likely double, as the crowds got drunker and wilder.

  He walked past a row of stands bearing different varieties of fruit, marveling at the level of salesmanship the vendors exhibited. Vying for the wandering eyes of passersby, they’d offer free samples, then hawk their wares as potential customers savored their free treats. As he passed a peach vendor, he plucked a small morsel and plopped it into his mouth, drawing the silent ire of the merchant who instantly recognized that he wasn’t there to buy anything. Unfazed, Hugo just smiled and walked on.

  He probably thinks I’m here for the free food, waiting for nightfall to rob drunk fair-goers, Hugo thought. Once upon a time, that is exactly what he’d be doing. Such festive occasions presented the perfect opportunity for the town’s petty criminals. Something he’d learned first-hand.

  But those days were over.

  Proceeding further down the street, Hugo ducked into an alley, re-emerging on the west side of the town square. This was the city’s busiest section, with hundreds of vendors crammed row after row, in their individual stalls. While Hugo pondered which direction to go from there, a commotion on the far side of the square caught his eye.

  Pushing through the crowd, wondering why the guards hadn’t stopped the disturbance, he realized it was the guards causing the ruckus. Five of them, led by one who towered over everyone else, were harassing two frightened peasants. When he got closer, he realized the lead guard was Ulrich.

  Hugo stayed back in the crowd to watch, his curiosity piqued. By now a large gathering had formed, all eyes intently focused on the spectacle.

  “Adam and Martha Jacobo,” Ulrich yelled to the couple, “I place you under arrest for conspiring against the lordship of Bedburg.”

  So these are the two from Ulrich’s little note, Hugo thought. What fools to come here in broad daylight . . . But how did Ulrich find them so quickly in this massive crowd?

  The man under arrest was middle-aged, thin and bony, a cap gripped in his hands. He looked absolutely terrified. Even from a distance Hugo could see his whole body trembling. His wife, a bit wider and also middle-aged, was pulling on her husband’s arm, trying to yank him away as if they could escape into the crowd.

  But there was nowhere to run. Guards and spectators surrounded them.

  “W-what have we done?” the woman cried out, finally stepping forward to speak for her frightened husband. “We’ve conspired with no one! We’re innocent.”

  Ulrich snapped his fingers, then pointed at the two. Instantly, the guards descended on them. The husband, resigned to his fate, slumped his head. But his wife continued to struggle. “We’ve done nothing wrong, you animals!” she screeched. “Unhand me!”

  Calmly, Ulrich walked off, pushing through the crowd which seemed to melt away as he passed. Twenty paces away, he stepped onto a raised scaffold that the city’s carpenters had erected for the big auction scheduled for later in the day. His guards followed, dragging the two peasants along. Ulrich stood at the auctioneer’s podium and looked out at the sea of faces. On both sides of the podium two vertical poles stood—wooden stakes pounded into the ground to serve as columns for the scaffolding.

  Ulrich again snapped his fingers and a guard handed him two lengths of rope. The torturer’s fingers moved swiftly and expertly as he formed a familiar loop with one of the ropes, then tied its end to the top of the pole on his left. He then repeated the process with the second rope, attaching it to the pole on his right.

  Gasps could be heard from the crowd.

  Without preamble, Ulrich took the husband, tied his hands behind his back with a bit of torn cloth, then looped one of the nooses around his neck as the the man wailed in agony. He then did the same to the wife, who stood stone-faced and petulant.

  Hugo’s first thought was that this was all for showa sadistic, yet effective, way to terrify the populace. Surely he can’t do something so rash without even the semblance of a trial? What would Heinrich say if he knew of this?

  The murmuring crowd quieted as Ulrich stepped back to the podium.

  “In the name of Lord Heinrich Franz of Bedburg . . .” he began, which told Hugo that Heinrich had to know this was happening, “. . . Adam and Martha Jacobo are hereby sentenced to death for their habitual abetting of the Protestant cause.”

  “Where’s the proof!” a brave soul yelled out from the crowd.

  “Seize him,” Ulrich ordered nonchalantly, pointing to the man who had spoken. Two guards bounded down the stairs, as the man turned and fled through the crowd. When the guards looked back at Ulrich for instructions, he shook his head slightly. There was no sense diverting attention from the matter at hand. Then Ulrich turned to his victims, scanning back and forth from husband to wife. “You know what you’ve done,” he announced. “Do you have anything to say?”

  The man shook his head. “There is nothing to be said. We are innocent,” he mumbled.

  The woman shrieked and sputtered. “I curse you all! God will strike you down with furious vengeance for the wrongs you have committed under the guise of His grace! You will all perish for—”

  But she never finished. Ulrich shoved both husband and wife off the scaffolding at the same time, their bodies dropping five feet, an audible snap from the man’s neck drifting over the crowd like a dried chicken bone splitting apart. His body swayed gently, his feet dangling an arm’s-length from the ground, his pants darkened and soiled. But the woman continued to writhe, froth gurgling from the side of her mouth, forming two gooey strings of yellow bile that eventually dripped to the ground. Then, with one final spasmodic jerk, she also went still—eyes popped wide open, face frozen in a silent scream, her body slowly s
waying almost in unison with her dead husband’s.

  After several more seconds of shocked silence, the angry jeers began. The onlookers were appalled—horrified—not only for what had just happened, but for how quickly it had transpired. Without warning, without process, without fairness or mercy or the slightest hint of humanity.

  Hugo peered over the sea of angry, stunned faces, his own eyes equally wide and shocked. As he perused the grim scene, a face in the crowd caught his attention. Though he wore his brown hair long and beard thick, the man’s stance and gestures were unmistakable.

  Dieter Nicolaus.

  His sister’s husband.

  He wore what looked to be a monk’s habit, with his arms tucked into his tunic and his head covered by a brown hood.

  The former priest hadn’t yet noticed Hugo, his attention fixed in horror at the sight of the hanging peasants.

  Meanwhile, Ulrich gazed out defiantly at the sea of angry spectators. Then he casually walked down the stairs of the scaffolding and out through the crowd, his guards close behind, leaving both bodies dangling in the wind.

  With the immediate threat gone, the townsfolk’s disgust quickly turned to rage.

  “This treachery can’t stand!” a man shouted.

  “What gives Lord Heinrich the right?” another called out. “He isn’t even present!”

  “Those two deserve justice!”

  “They deserved a trial, you fool!”

  When Hugo turned his attention back to Dieter, he was gone. Off in the distance he could see the back of the brown hood, growing smaller as the man disappeared among the fair-goers.

  “Help take them down!” a man yelled, but Hugo was on the move, pushing his way through the crowd, trying to follow the fading image of Dieter. As he struggled through the horde, he thought, I should have been consulted about this. These people will rebel over something like this . . . that damned foolish torturer!

  He could already sense a change in the fair’s atmosphere as word quickly spread about what had just happened in the town square. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Now it was quickly, foolishly, turning riotous.