by Cory Barclay
And sure enough, the guards barely took notice before allowing them through without incident. Considering all but Corvin were known fugitives, Sybil was slightly shocked, but pleasantly surprised, at how easy it was to enter. But to the lazy, overworked guards, they were just another set of everyday commoners. Little did they know, Sybil mused to herself, that the seven of them were exactly who the guards were supposed to be guarding against—Protestant sympathizers, Heinrich’s former companions-turned-enemies, the former captain of the Lion’s Pride, and the “Daughter of the Beast.”
The group walked down the street together as a unit—their faces masked in grim determination, their nervousness gone. During their entire two-week journey, they’d carefully planned this arrival, everyone well aware of his or her part in their upcoming play.
As they proceeded down the road, taking up the whole width of the street, peasants parted to give them room to pass, while town guards gave them no more than scant glances. A few whispers could be heard as passing citizens talked in hushed tones, possibly recognizing one or more of them, especially the three former local residents.
But no one blocked their passage.
When they arrived at the tavern, they stopped. The familiar raucous sounds of drunken behavior filtered out the pub windows and could be heard long before they got there.
Georg produced a long dagger from his waistband. Rowaine clicked back the hammers of her hidden pistols. Wilhelm took off his backpack and, kneeling near the tavern door, began rummaging for his equipment, Mary beside him. Salvatore’s yellow eyes opened wide as he clenched his fists and took on the look of a blue-tattooed, rabid animal. Corvin stood inches away, cracking his knuckles then shaking them at his sides. Sybil took a position near the back, waiting.
They all looked to Sybil for their signal.
She nodded once.
Georg shoved the door open and was the first to enter, followed by Rowaine. Not a single eye from the drunken patrons moved to the door. Then Salvatore walked in and his strange appearance did garner a few peeks. But it wasn’t until Corvin stormed in, jumped onto the closest tabletop, and kicked over a mug of ale, that the group got the packed crowd’s immediate attention.
Cristoff, tending bar, cut off his conversation. “Hey!” he shouted, “you’re going to pay for that!” pointing to the shards of mug scattered about. “And get off the table, man! Have you no manners?”
The invading group ignored him.
Georg and Rowaine surrounded the table Corvin stood on, dagger and pistols in hand, though not yet pointed at anyone.
“Citizens of Bedburg!” Corvin bellowed, throwing his arms up in triumph. “I come to you as a citizen of the world! A nomadic traveler from many miles away. I come to you as a man, much as yourselves”—his hands sweeping across the room—“as a man . . . who has been wronged.”
A few heads tilted. Everyone, despite their inebriation, was listening.
Who was this man? How had he been wronged? Why was he standing on the table?
After a momentary pause, Corvin continued.
“Whether you know it or not, each and every one of you in this room has been wronged. Damaged. Beaten. And only one person is responsible for causing so much grief, a single entity who has harmed all of Bedburg so dastardly.”
Several patrons began losing interest, grumbling and shooing away the blowhard. Unfazed, Corvin got to his moment of truth.
“I speak, of course, of the evil, cruel, bastard . . . Heinrich Franz.”
That stopped everyone, the actual mention of the man’s name. Some literally sucked in their breath. Probably not in years had anyone had the nerve, the courage, the foolhardiness, to publicly denounce the former chief investigator of Bedburg who was now lord and count of the entire region.
Either this man was very reckless, very heroic, or had a death-wish. But either way, Corvin had everyone’s undivided attention.
“There isn’t a single one of us who has not been affected by Heinrich Franz’s carnage. As chief investigator of the city, he rounded up countless innocents and burned them at the stake. There was nothing we could do then. And was he punished?”
“No . . .” someone muttered.
“No!” Corvin emphasized. “He was rewarded!” He threw up his hands, his brows forming a straight, angry line. “And as lord of the city, his crimes have only multiplied. Yet he works under the guise of absolute authority. Any person he sees as a threat to that power, he kills”—running his finger across his throat—“not because he has any God-given authority, but because he is… fearful!”
He waited before speaking his next line, eyeing as many in the crowd individually as he could. Then he spoke it loudly and clearly.
“I stand before you today to tell you that Heinrich Franz is a coward!”
“Yes!” a man dared to yell. A few others nodded with him.
“He has killed our friends; he has chased our brothers out of the city; he has raped our sisters. He believes he controls Bedburg. But . . . could Bedburg run without us?”
Now the crowd was engaged, heads shaking, grumbles growing louder. Corvin bent his knees slightly, taking on a battle-ready pose.
“Even now, he has an army of reprobates descending upon us, upon this city!”
Corvin didn’t know if that was true but it was good theatrics. Several in the crowd gasped at the news of the supposed incoming invasion.
“You see, my friends, Heinrich Franz believes we will bend to his will . . . he believes his power is absolute and infallible. He thinks he is untouchable. He did so when he butchered Peter Stubbe—do you remember him?”
A few nodded slowly, unsure where the speech was going. One man got up to leave, apparently bored, but was quickly seated by Rowaine’s pistol.
“Yes, Peter Stubbe. An innocent farmer and stalwart citizen of Bedburg—murdered for his beliefs. Wrongly labeled the Werewolf of Bedburg, it was proved that Heinrich conspired with the bishop and that Peter Stubbe was in fact innocent. But did the murders stop?”
“No!” a man yelled, shaking his fist. “They got worse!”
Others joined in, nodding and growling.
“Indeed, my friend! It. Got. Worse! And that is because Heinrich Franz is a tyrant, a despot hellbent on the destruction of morality and honor. He kills because he fears what people will do to him, what people think of him! And the killings go on, the days get worse, and Bedburg sinks into Hell.”
“But he’s our lord!” a man cried out. “What could we possibly do? You just said it. He has the army!”
Corvin offered a thin smile. “I’m glad you asked, my friend. Because that is the true reason I have come here today.”
“Who are you?” someone asked. “I’ve never seen you in my life.”
Corvin tightened his hands into fists. “I am just a man who has been pushed to the brink of my conscience. I am a man who is tired of Heinrich Franz’s deplorable deeds. I am just like every one of you.” He pointed to a few faces. “And I’m here with friends—people you may recognize, who have been persecuted without mercy by that devil.”
Standing back to his full height, Corvin punched a fist into his open palm. “You see, my friends, Heinrich Franz believes he is above the Almighty. He thinks he can do any evil he wishes. But Heinrich Franz is not above the laws of God!”
Behind the bar, Cristoff crossed himself. “Amen,” he said in a low voice.
“And I have come with someone to rally us to God’s cause. Imagine, if you will, a Bedburg that does not answer to a tyrant. Imagine an army that arrives here and finds it has no lord to serve. What would happen? I’ll tell you. That army will crumble. For even if Heinrich has many men at his disposal to carry out his foul deeds, the citizens of Bedburg are legion! We hold the ultimate authority—God’s authority—because the city cannot exist without us.” He looked from face to face. “But it can and must exist without Heinrich Franz.”
People were excited now, leaning forward in their seats, standing, t
alking to one another with an energy absent just minutes before.
As if an afterthought, Corvin added: “And we will exist without Heinrich Franz. I promise you that.”
One man pounded his fist on the table and snarled. Another punched his mug of ale into the air, yelling obscenities. The mob was loud and angry. But Corvin wasn’t nearly finished.
Raising his hands in the air, he said, “The alleged Werewolf of Bedburg—an innocent man named Peter Stubbe—his soul lives on through his offspring. And I don’t mean his son, who you all know as Hugo Griswold . . . I mean through his daughter.”
A collective gasp could be heard as hands covered mouths.
“Yes, the Daughter of the Beast has returned to Bedburg!” Corvin screamed. “To seek vengeance for her father’s wrongful death! She has returned to serve as the spirit for your loved ones, for the sons you have lost to Heinrich’s battles, for the daughters you have lost at the stakes! Heinrich Franz believes he is above God, but we the citizens will show him otherwise!”
The tavern door shot open. Two guards ran in, spears at the ready. One shouted, “What the devil is going on here?” as Rowaine stepped forward with two pistols aimed at both guards. Georg moved next to her, his dagger out and ready. The crowd collectively held its breath while the four faced off, ready to attack each other.
But Corvin would not be silenced. Reaching a crescendo, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Citizens of Bedburg, I give you the Daughter of the Beast!”
He spun around and threw his hands out toward the door, adding, “She has returned to us as the Pale Diviner—God’s holy crusader against tyranny. Our Angel of Resistance!”
A figure stepped through the doorway.
The crowd stared in stunned silence, stopped cold by the sight.
Before them stood a divine creature clearly from another world. A woman in a sleeveless garment, her arms outstretched and ablaze in brilliant orange flames.
A Norse Goddess from a mythological kingdom.
Without a word, people cleared the way as she slowly raised both flaming arms above her.
“God have mercy!” a man cried, crossing himself.
“Preserve us, oh Lord!” said another, joining his hands together in prayer.
“She’s aflame in the Holy Fire!” someone screamed.
Both guards dropped their spears and dashed out of the tavern.
Showing no pain or expression, Sybil gazed around the room, her pale eyes and intense frown captivating the spectators.
Her appearance having had its intended affect, with a fluid, well-rehearsed flick of both wrists, the flames were instantly extinguished. Another collective gasp spread through the crowd as she slowly lowered her arms to her sides.
Her skin appeared unscathed, the only remnant of the spectacle were a few lingering puffs of smoke floating near the ceiling.
After several long moments of shocked silence, almost as if the crowd was catching its breath, the entire tavern spontaneously burst into cheers. One man fainted. Several others knelt before her like a heavenly deity.
“We will march on Castle Bedburg,” Sybil proclaimed solemnly. “We will find Heinrich Franz, and we will put him through the same gauntlet he has put so many of us through. And you will all join me!”
Once another round of cheers ended, a man said, “B-but, my holy lady, Lord Franz doesn’t stay at Castle Bedburg. He stays at his estate in the countryside.”
Sybil tried not to act surprised, though she was. With her best mask of spiritual fury firmly etched on her face, she started to respond but before she could, Cristoff shouted from behind the bar: “And what about your husband, my lady? He has been a savior to so many of us.”
The comment broke through Sybil’s mask. Confused, she questioned, “My husband? But . . . he’s alive?”
“Yes, my lady, he’s alive! Thrown in jail just this afternoon. By Heinrich!”
“With Aellin!” added another. “Poor Aellin!”
Suddenly Mary, who’d been standing outside, popped into the room. “What about my husband? Master stonemason William?” she asked hopefully.
Cristoff frowned. “Dead, I’m afraid, Frau Edmond. Another atrocity of our lord. Hanged two weeks ago.”
Unable to control her anger, Sybil snarled to the crowd. “Gather your comrades, my friends. Tonight we free those who have been lost to us, their bodies and their souls. And we march upon Heinrich’s country estate to demand justice for all his evil!”
With that, she turned and stormed out of the tavern, the entire crowd following in her wake. As she exited, she glanced to her side. Wilhelm was kneeling quietly by his backpack, repacking his alcohol mixture, his face streaked with tears at the news he’d just heard through the tavern door. A bittersweet moment for the young man—thrilled knowing his “magical” fire potion had successfully motivated the crowd, yet devastated to learn of his father’s execution.
The mob, more than thirty of them, marched down the dark city streets behind Sybil and her group, gathering more followers as they moved on. By the time they reached the jailhouse they were at least a hundred strong, angry and determined.
Near the jailhouse gate a man was leaning against the side of a carriage.
Ulrich.
At the sight of the approaching mob, he backed away and slapped the side of the coach to send it off. As he turned toward the crowd, two guards rushed to his side. Then, as the crowd grew, the guards saw the Pale Diviner leading the way. By now, everyone had heard of Sybil’s awesome powers and no man was worth facing God’s wrath over—not Ulrich, not even Heinrich Franz. Quickly, the guards scattered, leaving Ulrich by himself.
But Ulrich feared no one, not even God. Especially not a foolish girl with nothing more than simple parlor tricks at her disposal.
The torturer stood stoically in front of the gate, barring entrance. Unsheathing his heavy sword, he stared menacingly at Sybil, who returned the look.
The crowd quieted.
Georg Sieghart came forward and raised his hand to stop the crowd from further action. He had no desire for a bloodbath.
Georg looked at Ulrich. “Remember me?”
Nodding, the jailer’s devilish grin grew wider. “The same man who freed this witch and her husband the first time. I’ll never forget the bruise you gave me. Nor the lashing for allowing those two to escape.”
Georg pulled his long dagger from his belt. It was about half the length of Ulrich’s sword. He spread his arms wide, shifted into an attack position, then took another step forward.
Ulrich snarled and Georg charged.
The horrific clashing of steel echoed as their weapons met—Ulrich slashing down, Georg bringing his weapon up to block it.
As their battle got underway, Ulrich’s strength pushed Georg back with each blow of his sword. But Georg was faster—surprisingly swift for a man his size. Deftly, he weaved his long dagger in and out of Ulrich’s defenses in quick succession, nearly catching the torturer off-guard several times. Finally, Ulrich recoiled and swung his blade horizontally, trying to take off Georg’s head. Georg ducked low and stabbed Ulrich in the leg, a shallow thrust that barely drew blood.
Ulrich growled loudly and shot out his bare fist, catching Georg under the chin, snapping his neck back and sending him reeling backward.
“Father!” Rowaine cried, stepping forward and unholstering her guns. But the two combatants were moving too fast. A shot at Ulrich could easily kill Georg instead.
Ulrich clutched the hilt of his blade with both hands and lunged forward, thrusting the steel toward Georg’s heart. Still stunned from the blow to his chin, Georg managed to focus just in time to bob away from Ulrich’s thrust, then Ulrich tried to backhand him with the sword, but again missed.
As both men regained their balance, Georg flanked the torturer and stabbed quickly, the tip of his dagger nicking Ulrich’s hip bone, painful but not debilitating. Ulrich cried out, then, teeth clenched, stepped forward into Georg’s guard, grabbing the back
of the man’s neck and bringing his sword up, underhanded, for a gut kill.
But Georg was quicker. He jabbed his dagger down, its point cleanly piercing through Ulrich’s wrist and coming out the other side. As the dagger blade remained firmly embedded in Ulrich’s wrist, the jailer’s grip weakened around his sword, causing it to barely puncture Georg’s belly.
Ulrich tried vainly to force the sword deeper into Georg’s stomach but Georg just grimaced and wrestled it away, stepping back with Ulrich’s blade. Ulrich, now weaponless, lurched his body forward, trying to catch Georg off balance but Georg, blood seeping from his stomach, swept Ulrich’s sword in a quick overhand motion, the tip tearing across Ulrich’s throat as the torturer stepped forward, his momentum adding to the strike.
Blood and cartilage poured out of Ulrich’s neck as his eyes bulged and his color faded. He fell forward with a heavy thud, Georg’s dagger still protruding from his wrist, and didn’t move.
Georg grunted, then dropped the sword and clutched at his bleeding stomach, going down on one knee as Rowaine rushed to his side. No one came to Ulrich’s aid.
Sybil ran for the gate. Pushing open the jailhouse door, she sped down the stairs, calling out for her husband, “Dieter? Dieter!”
No one responded.
She dashed through the first hall, then barreled down the second. As she passed different jail cells along the way, a small form came forward, clutching the bars of one of the end cells.
“Is that . . . Sybil Griswold?” the shadow asked.
Sybil jumped back in alarm. “Who’s there?”
A small white smile gleamed through the shadows. Though the man looked half dead, Sybil recognized his bearded face.
“Rolf Anders,” the man began to explain, then with a wistful grin, added, “Former regent of Heinrich’s countryside estate.” Seeing Sybil’s serious expression, he stopped his introduction.
“Where’s my husband?” Sybil asked, skipping pleasantries.
“Sybil?” another voice called from the next cell. Sybil stepped back to see Ava Hahn standing by her bars.
“Oh my,” yet another woman yelled. “I hope you brought that damn fiery mermaid with you!” Sybil recognized the voice as Aellin’s, the wench from the tavern who had helped her find Odela many months earlier.
