by Cory Barclay
“You aren’t invited, either,” Heinrich whispered to him before pulling the trigger. The point-blank shot made a small, clean hole directly through Baron Josef’s left eye, but the exit wound was neither small nor clean, exploding away most of the rear half of his head and showering Lady Lucille with bits of her father’s skull and gray matter.
As Josef’s body collapsed to the table—scattering dishes, food, and drinks, Heinrich reached down and took the dagger from the man’s lifeless hand.
At which point Lucille fainted, sliding off her chair and onto the floor.
Tomas was the closest to Heinrich, but with no weapon seemed as surprised at the turn of events as were the two dead men on the table. Heinrich swung around to face him, gun in one hand, knife in the other. Stepping back, he gave Tomas no choice. “Don’t even think about it, Tomas!” he ordered, as Tomas wisely raised his hands to the sky.
Heinrich then looked down the table to Ulrich, yelling, “Now, Ulrich!” The jailer, also wild-eyed over what was happening, hesitated for an instant before obeying his lord by emitting an ear-splitting whistle. The dining room doors burst open and Ulrich’s five guards rushed in with weapons drawn. But even Ulrich’s professional soldiers were taken aback by the scene before them. One of them, upon seeing the nearly-severed head of Baron Ludwig resting across from the half-missing skull of Baron Josef, turned and vomited on the floor.
Focusing back on Tomas, Heinrich said, “Step back, Tomas!” Tomas, seeing the rage and bloodlust in Heinrich’s eyes, did as he was told, giving Heinrich time to turn his attention, and pistol, to Bishop Balthasar.
The bishop was standing, still frozen in shock, the large dark stain around his crotch bearing witness to the fact that he’d very recently pissed himself. With hands trembling, he feebly tried to raise them, saying, “God will damn you for this, you devil!”
“God has damned me my entire life, bishop,” Heinrich retorted. “Was it you?”
“Was . . . what me? You’re making no sense! Stop this madness!”
“Did you conspire with these noble bastards?”
All Bishop Balthasar could do was shake his head, his chins jiggling.
Heinrich then aimed his gun at his old friend and mentor, Rolf Anders, who, even staring death in the face, seemed the calmest of the bunch.
“You must think this through, Heinrich. I am on your side,” he said in a low tone.
“Shut your mouth, traitor!” Heinrich screamed. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy, you old toad!”
“Conspiracy of what?” Rolf asked. “I have done nothing wrong.”
Heinrich waved his gun to one of Ulrich’s guards, motioning for him to take Rolf away. The guard grabbed Rolf by the arms.
“For conspiracy to commit treason,” Heinrich told him. “For colluding with Baron Ludwig to overthrow me!”
Struggling with the guard, Rolf was too old to offer much resistance, though he kept trying anyway. “I did no such thing!” he yelled to Heinrich. “I’ve been your mentor—no, your friend—since you were a boy, Heinrich. Think this through!”
Then Hugo spoke, for the first time since the bloodbath began, tears streaming down his face. “Heinrich, my lord, please! Rolf is innocent!”
“Shut your mouth, Hugo! No one is innocent!”
Heinrich turned his dagger and pistol back to Tomas. Thumbing back the gun’s matchlock, he said, “I know you’ve been conspiring with Balthasar, Tomas. I trusted you, but now you want me dead. All I ask is why?”
Tomas’s reply was dry, though defeated. “I’ve never conspired against you, Heinrich.”
Heinrich shook his head. “I’ve spied you speaking with Balthasar on multiple occasions. Don’t lie to me!”
“The only thing I’ve ever spoken with Bishop Balthasar about was God, my lord. I swear.”
Heinrich scoffed. “That’s not good enough,” he said, moving the barrel of his gun within inches of Tomas’ face. Tomas closed his eyes.
“Wait, wait!” shouted Hugo. “Don’t kill him, Heinrich, please!”
“Why in God’s name shouldn’t I?”
“Because you need him! After all this, you’ll need a garrison commander who the people trust. Tomas is loved by the people. You’ll need someone to protect you!”
“You think I can ever trust this man again? If so, you’re more naïve than I thought, boy.”
Hugo continued trying to reason with the man. “If your plan is to take Bergheim and Erftstadt . . . then you’ll need an army—and a man to lead it, a man the people trust to lead them. Tomas is that man!”
Heinrich thought for a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he growled and slowly lowered his pistol. Which seemed to slightly ease the tension in the room.
“There is no try, Hugo,” Heinrich told the boy. “Bergheim and Erftstadt are mine. The agreements were signed. There were no names mentioned in the agreements! I made certain of that. Just ‘baronies’ and ‘territories.’ I now own the parliament seat and the three villages. And the woman.”
As Rolf was being led away by the guard, he turned back to Heinrich. “If you think it’ll be that easy to take those cities, you are foolish,” he said. The guard stopped in the doorway as Rolf continued. “After massacring the barons, you think the townsfolk will just let you come in and take their lordships?”
Heinrich eyed the old man with disgust. Waving his gun, he said, “Ulrich, take this old fool to the jailhouse and lock him away. Take the girl, Hedda, too, but leave her ledger. I’d like to see what the bitch was writing.” Motioning to Tomas, he told Ulrich, “And bring this bastard with you, too. If I have to look at that blond, handsome face for a minute longer, I’ll detach it from its neck.”
Ulrich nodded vigorously. Apparently even the hardened torturer wasn’t about to cross a man crazed enough to commit such carnage without warning. He accompanied his guards out with their prisoners: Hedda, Rolf, and Tomas.
Besides Heinrich, Bishop Balthasar and Hugo were the only two still standing. A moan sounded from the other side of the table as Lady Lucille began awakening from her faint. Ironically—given the purpose of the evening—Heinrich had completely forgotten about her.
“Beauregard!” Heinrich called out, as the butler dashed in from the doorway. He peered around the room, taking in the mayhem, though he didn’t seem nearly as shocked as he should.
Turning to Beauregard, Heinrich said, “Take that hag and lock her in the cellar with the wolves.”
“With the wolves, my lord?” the butler asked, arching an eyebrow.
Heinrich sighed. “Not with the wolves, dammit. Next to them.” Then a cruel grin formed on his face as an idea came to him. “And when you’re done with that, take her father’s body and feed it to the hounds. That should cap off her night, eh?”
Beauregard’s eyes glanced over the table again, at the two men slumped across from each other. “Which one’s the father?” he asked.
“The fat one, without the head,” Heinrich said.
“You’ll excuse me, sir, but they’re both nearly missing their heads . . .”
Impatiently, Heinrich pointed to what was left of Baron Josef.
“Right away, my lord,” Beauregard said. He grabbed Lady Lucille by the hair and started dragging her out of the room, waking her further from her daze, her wails echoing down the hall.
“Balthasar,” Heinrich said, his eyes landing on the shivering, piss-stained bishop. “Scurry out of my house before I kill you. Walk back to Bedburg and think about your future—our future.”
“Walk, my lord? But look”—he pointed at the window, now foggy with small droplets running down it—“it’s started to rain.”
Heinrich arched his eyebrows. “Would you rather die?” he asked flatly. His adrenaline and rage were gone. Suddenly, he was exhausted, full, and drunk.
Balthasar didn’t wait for more conversation. He fled the house as fast as his boots would take him, leaving wet boot tracks of urine behind.
Heinrich’s gaze fi
nally landed on Hugo. The boy was pale, wide-eyed, and trembling. “Hugo, my boy,” Heinrich said, his voice now back to its fatherly, stern tone, “you’d better be right about Tomas. But for now, I won’t ask you twice. Get out of my sight. I need to think.”
Hugo wanted to say something. Dried tears streaked his face. But seeing Heinrich’s face slowly turn from fatherly to furious, he thought better of it and bolted from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DIETER
Dark thoughts plagued Dieter as he watched the eastern ramparts of Bedburg’s city wall. He was hidden in the woods, where he’d been all night. After seeing off Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore, he’d stayed at the riverside to ponder his future. He knew the city would be far too chaotic for him to return any time soon.
But eventually he would have to go back, to meet up with William, Jerome, Martin, and Ava at the stonemason’s old home. He’d agreed to meet them there, at the very least to let William Edmond know where his family was.
Dieter sat on an overturned tree trunk, bouncing Peter on his knee. The toddler gave him a strange look, as if to say, I’m not a one-year-old anymore, father—you don’t have to smother me like this. But Dieter wasn’t ready to let go of his son yet. He feared that if he did, even for an instant, the boy would evaporate into thin air and he’d never see him again. It was what seemed to happen to everyone close to him. So why should it be any different with his son?
As the first glimmer of sunlight peeked up from the horizon, he knew it was time to act, but he couldn’t seem to get moving. Glancing back at the river, he was tempted to just float down its smooth, rippling surface and be rid of Bedburg forever.
The only thing in the world still important to him was right here with him.
So why go back?
His jaw tensed as he shook the thought from his head.
Because I can’t be a coward. I’ve made promises. People are depending on me.
He thought back to the sermons he used to give at Bedburg’s church. Even then, he’d never had the kind of responsibilities facing him now. It was almost too much to bear.
He stared down at the top of Peter’s head.
He doesn’t deserve this . . .
Then, cradling his son in the crook of his arm, he stood. The air was already thick and hot on his forehead. It seemed to take every ounce of effort to move forward, but somehow he did. At the edge of the woods, he gazed off at the city of Bedburg as if seeing it for the first time. He squinted. The eastern tower looked strangely calm. No one was entering or exiting, which was either a blessing or a terrible omen.
But either way, it wasn’t normal.
Maybe today was some holiday he’d forgotten about. At this hour of the morning, laborers and farmhands should have been crossing that gate in droves.
Where is everyone?
Then he noticed something even stranger: no guards in the tower.
But though troubling, it was also fortuitous. The perfect opportunity for him to re-enter the city unnoticed. Unfortunately, he also thought of what else entering could mean: that once in, he might never get out again.
He took a deep breath and willed his legs to move. They heeded his call, so he pulled up his hood and exited the woods, quickly heading straight for the gate two hundred yards ahead. Halfway there, he stopped. Second thoughts began clouding his decision. Glancing back to the woods, he wondered if this was the right thing to do.
Then he looked down into his son’s eyes and saw his answer.
He proceeded on to the gate.
As he approached it, he realized his earlier observation had been correct. There was no sign of any guards. The city was completely undefended, at least from this entry point.
The thought angered him. Why wasn’t Bedburg defending itself? If he’d had an army with him, he could have taken the entire city right then and there.
Stepping through the entryway arches into Bedburg proper, he found the streets deserted. He walked down the main thoroughfare, his head swiveling from side to side. Suddenly the fear he’d stifled bubbled to the surface. He felt sweaty, almost dizzy. He wasn’t sure which was worse: expecting guards to pop out any moment to arrest him, or walking down empty streets that shouldn’t be empty.
Not far from the stonemason’s house he finally saw the first signs of activity. Two men burst out the doors of Cristoff’s tavern and began stumbling down the street, clearly drunk, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.
Tucking Peter in close, he jogged to catch up with them.
“Excuse me! Gentlemen!” he called out.
One of them swung around with his fists up. When he saw Dieter standing there, one arm missing, the other holding a child, the man blinked through glazed eyes several times, then lowered his fists. “W-what’s it you want, man?” he stuttered, trying hard to focus on Dieter. “You’re gon’ make us late!”
Dieter cocked his head to the side. “Late, my friend? For what?”
The man smiled a toothy grin at his friend. “Looks like we got another one been livin’ under a tree here,” he said, taking a step back and stumbling over himself, almost falling. “Can ‘ye believe it, Marcus? I say, this is why this place’s gon’ to shit, it is.” He thrust a wobbly finger in Dieter’s direction. “All these un-uniformed . . . uninformed knaves!”
Dieter sighed. He allowed the drunk to berate him for a moment longer before finally saying, “If you’ll just tell me what’s going on . . .”
“You haven’t heard?” the man spat to the side, barely missing his friend’s shoe. “There’s gon’ be an execution!”
Dieter’s heart dropped. He stepped away from the two drunks. The man who’d spoken to him slapped his friend on the back, then began pulling him along as the two stumbled away. Dieter turned, walking fast toward the stonemason’s house, his heart pounding, his throat feeling like sandpaper.
As he approached the house, it too looked unusually quiet. When he reached the front door, he gently pushed and it creaked open.
Immediately, he could tell the place was empty.
Horrible thoughts flooded his mind.
Where’s Martin and Ava? And William and Jerome? They should all be here by now!
Then, like a lightening bolt, the connection hit him: the empty house with what the drunk had just told him.
“There’s gon’ be an execution!”
Holding Peter tightly, he shot out of the house and took off running. Through alleys, down small streets, around curves, using every short cut he knew, to the town square.
The closer he got, the more people there were. And all heading in the same direction. Everyone knew. The news had been spread.
Which could mean only one thing: someone was sending a message to the city.
Watch these people die. Know that the next could be you. Or your family. Or any rebellious protestor or follower.
And that kind of message could come from just one person: Heinrich Franz, the only one with both the motive and power—the motive to send such a message and the power to bring everyone together like this on such short notice.
As he passed groups of people, he began hearing the murmurs and whispers.
“I hear he massacred them all,” said someone. But when Dieter spun around to inquire, whoever said it was gone. He caught more bits of conversation.
“Murdered them in their sleep, is what I’ve been told.”
“That Heinrich Franz is one cold bastard.”
Frustrated, he touched a woman’s shoulder with his stump. “Excuse me, Frau . . .”
The woman turned. It was Aellin from the tavern. Her black hair was damp with sweat, the curls plastered to her shoulders, like she’d run all the way from the tavern. Dieter smiled at the familiar face.
“Ah, Aellin! Nice to see you.”
But for once, she didn’t smile back. “Under the circumstances, priest, I think not.”
“What’s going on?”
“So . . . so much, it seems. You haven�
��t heard? Where’ve you been?”
Dieter frowned. “Please, just . . .” he started.
“There’s an execution underway—”
“So I’ve heard,” he said. “But what’s happened? I hear just bits and pieces, of deaths and massacres . . .”
“Heinrich Franz killed his rivals last night, at House Charmagne. The word is he invited them over for a feast and slaughtered them.”
“Who? What rivals?” Dieter asked.
Aellin shrugged. “No one knows.”
“Then how can you know it’s true?”
Aellin stared at him as if he were a simpleton. “Because it’s Heinrich Franz, Dieter.”
Dieter paused, then nodded. “True enough.”
Aellin began to walk away, but Dieter kept by her side as they both walked toward the square.
“This isn’t anything the young pup should see, you know,” Aellin said, nudging her chin toward Peter.
“I have nowhere to leave him—nowhere safe.”
Aellin shrugged and turned away. She was done talking. Near the square the crowds grew denser and Dieter, looking to his side, realized he’d been separated from Aellin. As he made his way through throngs of people, a million thoughts raced through his mind. Nothing Heinrich might do, or had done, would shock him. After the man’s earlier actions in Bedburg, while he was chief investigator, and then again during his triumphant witch-hunt in Trier, no level of violence or viciousness from the man would surprise him. In fact, in its diabolical way, everything Heinrich had done, and was doing, made complete sense.
He aches for power. But as a recluse he wants to rule from afar, behind closed doors, free from retaliation—from that dark, Gothic castle he calls home.
But what is his true goal? Power for power’s sake? Or something more? Is there a master plan beyond just power and mayhem?
Dieter stood on his tiptoes to peer over the crowd. There, in the center of the square, he saw the familiar, ominous scaffold. On it, two nooses hung from two poles and two people were positioned behind each, their hands tied behind their backs, their faces hooded.
