by Cory Barclay
“I don’t need your admiration, torturer.”
From behind Ulrich, Aellin shouted out. “Don’t do this, Dieter!”
Ulrich spun around, ready to backhand the woman, but Ava stepped in between and Ulrich backed off. From that angle Hugo caught a glimpse of Ava’s face, still caked in blotches of dried blood, a large bump below her left eye and a broad bruise covering her entire nose. Hugo felt sick to his stomach knowing those injuries had been at his impulsive hand.
“It’s too late, my dear,” Dieter called back to Aellin with a wistful smile. Spreading his arms wide, he yelled, “So, Ulrich, will you be good to your word, in front of all these people? You remember our deal, yes?”
Hugo couldn’t imagine what kind of deal this could be. But whatever it was, Dieter was being smart. Making Ulrich announce the terms to everyone around. Clearly this was a deal Dieter wanted. Hugo could only assume it had to be something that, in the coming days, would be spread to every ear in the city.
“Yourself for Ava Hahn and Aellin Brandt,” Ulrich recited, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder at the women. “In exchange for you, I send these bitches home.”
Hugo was shocked. Why would Dieter be doing this? What was happening?
Dieter nodded approval to Ulrich.
“I am a man of my word,” Ulrich announced.
“You may not be good, Ulrich,” Dieter said, “but I believe you speak the truth when you say it.”
From somewhere behind the large crowd of citizens, a voice yelled out, “Unfortunately, it’s not up to him.”
All eyes turned to see who had spoken. Then the crowd began to part, making room for the speaker to walk through.
Hugo gasped, as did the crowd, as Lord Heinrich Franz stepped forward, his hands on his hips, smiling broadly.
“Lord Heinrich,” Ulrich muttered from across the street, clearly surprised at his lord’s grand entrance.
“Actually,” Heinrich beamed, “it’s Count Heinrich, my dear punisher.”
Ulrich scratched the scar on his face, then motioned toward Dieter. “I’ve promised them a trade, Your Grace. A very favorable exchange. If you’ll just come speak with me in private for a moment . . .”
Heinrich held up a gloved hand to silence Ulrich, then shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, Ulrich.” He clapped his hands together, once. Instantly, a flurry of action disrupted the street as guards poured in from all directions. Within seconds Dieter and the citizens were surrounded, while across the street more guards circled Ulrich and the two women.
Heinrich smiled menacingly at the jailer. “You were never given the authority to set any of these prisoners free, Ulrich.” Addressing his guards, he ordered, “Arrest the treasonous priest here and throw those two whores back in their cells.”
An outcry rose from the peasants, but there were too many guards, so everyone heeded Heinrich’s orders. The guards grabbed Ava and Aellin by the arms. Writhing against her captors, Ava shouted to Ulrich, “You promised, you bastard!”
At the same time, guards took hold of Dieter, who offered no resistance, his shoulders sinking in defeat. As he was led across the street, his eyes found Hugo in the shadows and locked onto him for a moment before he was pushed forward toward the gate, disappearing into the dark recesses of the jailhouse.
Heinrich then turned and walked back the way he’d come, never noticing Hugo from a distance. The crowd dispersed, mumbling bits of displeasure but nothing more. Within minutes, only Ulrich was left alone in the street, shaking his head, while Hugo remained out of view along the side of the jailhouse.
Witnessing what he’d just seen had erased all of Hugo’s earlier thoughts—his wondrous first sexual experience, his anger and humiliation over Lucille, what he’d planned to tell Ava. For an instant he considered just fetching Felix and the carriage and retreating to House Charmagne. But he knew Heinrich would return there as well. And the last thing he wanted right then was to face the man.
And then a strange thing occurred. Hugo was suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. Not for himself, but for those he’d just seen—for the two women unceremoniously dragged away; for Dieter who’d just tried to do the honorable thing by exchanging himself for the women; and for Ava, or rather his shame over his selfish plan to torment her over a sexual conquest that was really nothing more than a determined woman’s justifiable manipulation of a weak, inexperienced idiot.
And he knew he had to apologize to Ava—for everything he’d done to her, for treating her so savagely after all she’d been through. So with both reluctance and resolve, he walked from the shadows toward the cold jailhouse.
He was halfway down the second hallway when he heard their conversation. Apparently the prisoners had been jailed in adjoining cells, or at least Ava and Dieter, because he immediately recognized their voices. He stepped quietly past a room with its door cracked open just an inch or so, then stopped when—far enough back so the prisoners couldn’t see him—he could hear their voices more clearly.
“Please, Dieter,” he heard Ava say. “I beg of you . . . don’t be angry with him.”
Dieter sighed. “I’m disappointed, Ava, but I’ve already forgiven him.”
“You have?”
“Yes. If I’m being honest, in my heart . . . I already knew.”
“He did it for me,” Ava said desperately, her voice choking with tears. “He’s a good man, Dieter. You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Dieter replied, his own voice thick with sadness.
“It was never his intent to betray you.”
“I know, Ava.”
Hugo wasn’t sure what they were talking about.
There was a moment of quiet, where the only sound was Ava’s gentle sobs. Then Dieter said, “Tell me how it happened.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. I’d like to know.”
Ava sniffled, then began. “When Martin and I were captured at the western entrance, he was given an ultimatum for my release. Oh, Dieter, but I do think he loves me.”
“And you?”
“I do. I just wish I could tell him . . .”
Dieter cleared his throat. “Please continue.”
“Somehow the punisher knew that Martin was working with you. He showed me the notes—now that I think on it, it must have been Karstan that stole that first note, the one with the Jacobos mentioned. Remember when he came seeking shelter in our home?”
“I already put that together, my dear,” Dieter said. “That Karstan deceived us.”
“Yes, well, that bastard gave the note to Ulrich. Who showed it to Martin, telling him that if he ever wanted to see me again alive, Martin had to forge new letters. His goal apparently was to send us on a fruitless hunt—”
“Which worked quite handily, fool that I am,” Dieter muttered.
Ava coughed. “By giving the wrong name on the note, Ulrich hoped to drive you out of hiding and capture you in broad daylight. He knew your honor and dignity wouldn’t allow you to let someone suffer a burning if you could possibly save him or her . . .”
“And I fell right into his trap . . .”
Ava sounded confused. “B-but, you weren’t captured. What do you mean?”
“Martin and I were at the tavern when Aellin was captured. Ulrich never saw us.”
“Oh, dear . . .” Ava said, trailing off. “S-so, you see, Martin was told that if he didn’t aid Ulrich in capturing you, I would be tortured and killed. He had no choice, you see?”
“Yes, Ava, I understand now.”
Then they were silent.
Hugo waited for more but nothing came. Just as he was about to step forward and announce himself, he heard another voice from the room he’d just passed, through the partially open door.
“We told you not to show your face in Bedburg again if you wanted to live, you stupid whore!” a gruff voice scolded.
Hugo recognized it. Karstan.
He inched closer to hear better.
“But instead
of leaving town like a good girl,” Karstan chided, “I find you wandering the streets by old man Claus’ inn! I think it’s time for a little lesson, woman.”
Hugo winced at the sound of a loud slap, then a muffled cry, then garbled words and more whimpering.
“Hugo?”
He spun around. Peering through her bars down the hall, Ava was staring directly at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Locking eyes with her for a moment, wishing he could speak but unable to, he turned and hurried off. As he walked past the door where he’d heard Karstan and the woman, louder and more frantic scuffling and shrieks made him stop. He stepped back and inched open the door.
Then froze in shock.
Karstan was on top of a woman, a small figure, her feet kicking wildly, her arms and body writhing, crying out under Karstan’s considerable weight. The big man was holding down the woman’s wrists with one hand, while fumbling with his pants with the other.
The girl cried out, “Stop it! Get away from m—” as the hand Karstan was using to pull down his pants suddenly slammed across the woman’s face.
Then everything went blank and Hugo saw red. Clenching his teeth so hard he felt they would crack, he instinctively reached around his waist to discover he had no weapon. Glancing back into the hallway, he rushed for the torch hanging from the wall, grabbed it, then raced into the room, kicking the door back with such force the knob embedded itself in the wall. As Karstan looked up and over his shoulder to see what was happening, he had a split-second to make eye contact with Hugo before Hugo shoved the torch, flame-first, into his face.
The big man shrieked in agony as the fire sizzled into a bright orange cloud across the entire front half of Karstan’s head. The man’s hands instinctively shot up to his face as his body jerked involuntarily in hopeless defense.
When Hugo pulled the torch away, Karstan’s face was unrecognizable. His screams quickly faded as his mouth disappeared into a scorching mound of blackened ooze. Ulrich rushed in just in time to see Hugo plunge the blazing torch back into the melted mass that was once Karstan’s face again and again, until there was nothing left but a dripping blob of twisted, hissing black and pink flesh. Karstan’s body sank to the floor, twitching in its last death throes.
Hugo, still holding the lit torch in front of him, spun around to Ulrich, who was frozen in place. Pieces of burnt skin smoldered in the flaming bristles of the torch, the stench of cooked fat and hair and flesh overpowering.
“I’m taking whoever this poor woman is and we’re both leaving here, Ulrich,” Hugo said.
Ulrich just glared at him, not moving.
“If you’ve ever cared a stitch about me, Ulrich, you’ll let us pass.”
Ulrich’s hand was at the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed, his facial scar pulsing. He locked eyes with Hugo for what seemed like forever. Then, abruptly, the tension lifted as Ulrich spread his arms wide, giving Hugo a bemused look before stepping back.
Hugo took the woman by the hand. Her spectacles were bent across her face. She smoothed her dress back down over the lower half of her body, then stood up.
Turning toward her, Hugo said slowly, “I recognize you . . . you’re . . .”
“Hedda,” the girl said uneasily. She tried to straighten her glasses, then quietly said, “Thank you for rescuing me,” and walked out with Hugo hand-in-hand.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered, passing by Ulrich, who gave the boy a wry smirk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SYBIL
With help from Georg’s new connections, Daxton managed to maneuver the Lion’s Pride past the heavily guarded waters of Amsterdam’s harbor, keeping to the southern coast beyond The Hague, then around the Hook of Holland. From there, they traveled deep into the European mainland, through the northern channel of the Waal River, and south down the Rhine.
After nearly two weeks of negotiating dangerous waters and paying off shifty-eyed patrolmen and bridge-watchers, the Pride had gone as far as it could, docking in Düsseldorf, the capital of North Rhine-Westphalia, just thirty miles north of Cologne.
Georg paid a handsome fee to hide the Pride among the less-desirable ships in the harbor, so that it wouldn’t be recognized or vandalized. Without its notorious red lion flag flying, it was just another anonymous ship in a harbor of hundreds.
Once docked, Daxton rented a horse then headed back west toward the Netherlands to find his family. He gave the women of the group hugs, firm handshakes for the men, and set off into the sunset on a Thursday. The plan was for Sybil and her companions to travel on to Bedburg, rescue Dieter, then escape the city. They’d all rendezvous back in Düsseldorf within the week, board the Lion’s Pride, and sail back the way they’d come, to freedom and Norfolk and the peace and quiet of Strangers Shire.
By Saturday evening, Sybil and the rest of her company were closing in on Bedburg. They’d hiked south along the Rhine, staying parallel with the river as it twisted down the countryside, then cut west several miles before Cologne.
As they traveled through the night, feet aching and minds foggy, Sybil began noticing a brown cloud in the distance, growing larger, with hundreds of orange and yellow dots twinkling within it, like stars in the sky. Squinting into the darkness southeast of their position, she realized the dots were moving in a westerly direction from Cologne.
“Looks like an army,” Georg said, coming up beside her, pointing. “That haziness and spots of light are the dirt of disciplined marchers carrying torches.”
Rowaine came up beside them and nodded, then bent forward, resting her hands on her knees. Though she’d had time in Norfolk to strengthen her legs, she still wasn’t prepared for such a harrowing trek through the German countryside. But her stubbornness had kept her from complaining despite being the one most in need of rest along the way.
Lifting her head, she said, “They’re headed west, toward Bedburg.”
“Same direction we’re headed, my friends,” Corvin said, bringing up the rear of the group, along with Wilhelm, Mary, and Salvatore.
“If we could sneak into the astral plane,” Salvatore muttered, nodding to himself, “we could surely outrun them.”
Georg looked out, shielding a hand over one eye and swiveling his head from the nearby hill back toward Bedburg on the horizon, mentally calculating the distance. “No need for your mythical nonsense, warlock. We’ll get there before they do. But we should make haste.”
Salvatore snorted. “I’ll still travel to the army in my dreams when we rest tonight. Perhaps I can slow them down.”
Rowaine glanced out of the corner of her eye at the strange man with the blue tattoos. “Magic or not,” she said, “they’ll be at Bedburg’s doorstep by mid-afternoon tomorrow.”
“Or sooner,” Georg added.
“Then let’s not tarry,” Sybil said, heading down the hill.
Everyone followed.
They walked in silence for hours, up and down hills and around overgrown bends in the road. Eventually, Sybil could smell birch trees and the familiar stench of tanning leather in the air.
“We’re getting close,” she told her entourage.
“What do you suppose they’re doing, Beele?” Wilhelm asked, referring to the army moving westward, a question clearly on everyone’s mind. Because three of their group—Wilhelm, his mother, and Sybil—had once called Bedburg home, seeing an army moving in that direction carried special significance to them.
“God only knows,” Sybil said, shaking her head. “I’ve been gone from Bedburg for too long—I can’t even imagine the tribulations the city has gone through since my escape from there.”
“With Heinrich Franz as lord,” said Mary, “anything’s possible.”
Several in the group grumbled in agreement.
“If the army is coming from Cologne,” Georg noted, “there are only two possibilities. Either Archbishop Ernst is attacking Bedburg, or defending it.”
“Or,” Rowaine offered, “the army could just
be passing by Bedburg, not heading there at all.”
Sybil snickered. “You don’t know Heinrich Franz as I do, Row.” She shook her head. “No . . . that army is clearly bound for Bedburg.”
Sybil’s gloomy prediction quieted the group for a while.
When they finally reached the far outskirts of Bedburg proper, they passed the northern tip of Peringsmaar Lake, just east of the city, before the farmlands finally gave way to forest. Walking along the edge of the woods, they kept inside the treeline to avoid detection by any scouting parties.
Passing a short length of river, Wilhelm said, “This is where Dieter sent me and mother off,” pointing down the waterway.
Sybil perked up, interested in any detail about her husband.
Mary nodded. “He’d somehow gotten a boat, hidden under some canopies. Almost like he’d prophesied our arrival and escape . . .”
“I have no doubt he did,” Salvatore said confidently. “That man had a bright, dazzling aura about him. Much untapped energies in the spiritual arts—even if he doesn’t realize it.”
Sybil was about to retort but felt Rowaine’s hand on her shoulder. Rowaine gently shook her head and Sybil sighed. Let the druid live his dreams. Arguing with insanity was itself insane.
It was deep into the night when they reached the end of the woods. Through a circle of gnarled tree branches, the party surveyed the city wall beyond, watching for movement.
“It looks inviting,” Georg commented. “Strangely calm. . .”
“Though I doubt it will stay that way once word comes of the approaching army,” Sybil whispered.
Corvin smirked. “Shall we warn them?”
After some nervous chuckles, they pushed out into the open countryside toward Bedburg. As they approached, the city walls loomed higher and higher. The iron gate was open, two guards manning the archway, spears ready, checking entering and exiting merchants and farmers as they passed through. Sybil hoped and prayed that their group, dirty and tattered from their long trek, looked like any other group of fieldworkers coming in for the night.
