by Cory Barclay
“I rather think they’re here for your sake, Dieter,” Hugo said.
Dieter looked down and smiled. “My time is done with these people, Hugo. I’ve led them as far as I could—beyond the gates of Hell itself. But only you can bring them out, back to the land of the living.”
“Why are you saying such things, Dieter? You’re scaring me.”
He was saying those things because of what he saw. Down in the courtyard.
Her. He was sure it was.
Sybil.
Standing near the front of the crowd, managing the anger and emotions of the mob with a masterful display. Then he saw others he recognized.
Georg Sieghart and Martin Achterberg and Ava holding Peter!
Praise the Lord! Peter is safe.
“It’s okay to be frightened, Hugo,” Dieter said quietly. Then he pointed. “Don’t you see her? Down there, your sister?”
After a moment, Hugo’s face lit up. “By God, there she is!”
“Do you see how she is the only quiet one? Gauging the reactions, deciding her next move? That is because she is like you, Hugo. You come from the same stock.”
Hugo didn’t respond. He just kept watching the scene below.
“You do!” Dieter continued. “You were raised together, in the same household, by the same father. Do you see the fear in her eyes? In her posture? But she refuses to back down despite that fear. Only a foolish person is not frightened in the face of adversity, Hugo. Your sister is no fool! It’s better to be courageous and scared than arrogant and cocksure. Your sister understands that, clear as day.”
He paused and turned Hugo around by his shoulder to face him. “Do you understand?”
Hugo narrowed his eyes, then nodded once, firmly. Locking eyes with Dieter, he asked, “If you’ve led your flock as far as you can take them . . . what will you do now, Dieter?”
“He’ll come with me. That’s what he’ll do.”
The voice pierced the room, harsh and abrupt.
Heinrich Franz stood in the doorway, frowning at his three prisoners.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
In the chilly night air, Sybil stood in the courtyard of House Charmagne, surrounded by her friends and allies. The large enclosure was bordered by the unmanned gatehouse they’d just passed through, dark rows of trees on both sides, and the mansion and its entry doors directly in front of them.
Sybil had managed to get her ragtag mob this far thanks to the help of her friends and a few pyrotechnic tricks. The crowd believed her to be something she was not. Yes, she’d put on a farce. But it was a necessary means to a righteous end.
At Sybil’s sign, the group of about thirty-odd peasants and farmers headed forward. Georg, clutching his bandaged stomach, limped beside Wilhelm, his arm slung over the young man’s shoulder for support. Mary, Martin, and Ava followed behind them, Ava holding a scared Peter Sieghart close to her chest, trying to hide his small head from all the activity around them. Corvin walked on one side of Sybil, Rowaine on the other—Rowaine’s eyes continually roving between the house, the crowd, and their surroundings, looking for signs of danger. Salvatore was off somewhere by the trees, inspecting one of them for something.
The peasants approached the mansion’s large oak doors, adorned with snarling wolf handles, and began banging with whatever they had: fists, feet, hammers, hoes, swords, axes. The doors were strong and high, but not reinforced for prolonged battery. They would fall. It was just a matter of time.
As the peasants’ shouting and cursing grew louder, Sybil looked around. Far in the distance, off by the horizon, she could see the first signs of smoke and orange flames rising from the walls of Bedburg. The battle for the city had begun—Bishop Gebhard’s company pitted against Tomas Reiner’s garrison.
Sybil knew that the group’s energy and enthusiasm wouldn’t last. As the obstacles before them mounted, they’d begin to waver, their passion wane. Soon they’d grow tired of beating on these thick wooden doors. They’d been awed by Corvin’s masterful oratory and Sybil’s intense, blazing display. They’d been angered by years of abuse from their lords, especially the resident of this manor, Heinrich Franz. And they’d been incensed at the news that their savior, Dieter Nicolaus, had been captured.
But these were not trained, disciplined military men. They were farmhands and landowners and merchants. Once they took stock of their position this far from home, in the midst of strangers, with their lives at stake, their support would quickly ebb. Sybil knew that, and so did her collaborators. A few of the peasants had already begun grumbling in hushed tones, glancing over their shoulders at Sybil and her company.
Leaning close to Rowaine, Sybil asked, “Do you believe there’s a way to hurry this up? That door must fall, soon!”
“We don’t have the tools for a proper siege, Beele,” Georg said, grimacing while keeping the pressure on his bandage. “We must work with what we have.”
“The doors will fall, Beele,” Rowaine said reassuringly. “I promise.”
Sybil studied the progress the peasants had made. Parts of the surface were beginning to splinter, albeit barely. Wilhelm gently took Georg’s arm off his shoulder and walked up to the front. Addressing the men beating on the doors, he shouted, “Attack the sides! Near the hinges!” Turning back to his comrades, he shrugged with a weak smile. “My father worked on such structures all his life. The doors may not be stone, but the concept’s the same: the center is reinforced, but the surrounding foundation is not. If we can damage the doorframe, it should fall faster.”
With some additional instruction from Georg and Wilhelm, the mob began aiming their strikes along the doors’ edges, especially the corners where the right angles met. The change in focus had an immediate impact.
Within minutes, the doorframes began crumbling against the weight of the attackers. They struck high and low, thumping and smashing with their crude tools.
Salvatore turned from the tree he was inspecting and yelled, “We could craft a battering ram from one of these tree trunks.”
But Wilhelm shook his head. “It would take too long to fashion a ram, Herr Salvatore. And it won’t be necessary,” he said, “look!”
The first hole was now visible in the upper corner of the right door. The attackers focused on that area, people falling over each other as they pulled and banged away. A few yelled deep-bellied hoorahs as they worked to fell the rest of the door.
Sybil joined her hands in a prayer-like gesture. “It’s going to work,” she said softly.
Two minutes later, the hole had widened. A low orange glow seeped through, bathing the peasants in warm light. They kicked and prodded and pulled on the fractured structure, until the hole was finally big enough for a few arms to stick through. Georg ran up, pushing some of the others aside, grunting when his wounded belly bumped up against them. With his jaw clenched and the veins on his neck pulsing, he reached inside the door and lifted something heavy away from the back of it. When it dropped to the ground with a loud thump, he and the crowd roared. It was the heavy beam crossing the doorway to block entry. With it gone, a hard shove pushed the damaged portal wide open as everyone stepped back, suddenly falling quiet at what they saw waiting for them inside.
At the far end of the long, red-carpeted hallway, halfway up a massive staircase, Heinrich Franz faced them. Standing beside him was Dieter, grimacing, his hands apparently tied behind his back, Heinrich’s arm wrapped tightly around his neck. In Heinrich’s other hand was a dagger, pressed firmly against Dieter’s throat. A few steps below them, Beauregard, the butler, stood in his pristine suit, his stiff-backed posture perfect. Cradled against his shoulder was a large arquebus pointed directly at the front doors. One step up from the butler, in arm’s reach, an iron weapons stand was filled with several more rifles at the ready.
Sybil stepped through the broken door, followed by Georg and Wilhelm and the rest of her friends. Fearlessly, she stared straight ahead at the men and their weapons on the stairs, while the rest o
f her mob clamored through the splintered doorway, filling up all available space in the large entryway. Once everyone was inside, she began walking toward the staircase. Georg, Rowaine, and Wilhelm took up positions alongside her, while the rest of her group—Aellin, Ava with Peter, Martin, and Wilhelm’s mother Mary—formed a second row immediately behind them.
As they proceeded forward, the crowd followed.
“Halt, fiends!” Beauregard barked as the crowd ignored his words and continued moving forward behind Sybil. The butler fired his weapon, aiming past the leaders, and a man in the crowd dropped, clutching his chest.
“Anthony!” another peasant shouted, rushing to his fallen friend. Kneeling beside him, the friend touched the dead man’s chest, his fingers coming away with slick blood from the man’s fatal wound. Looking up, the man seethed. “You killed Bedburg’s best blacksmith!” he shouted.
Beauregard had already discarded his arquebus and was reaching for another.
“And he won’t be the only one to meet a grisly end if you don’t cease your advance at once,” Heinrich growled.
The fatal gunshot had stopped the mob. Sybil’s heart sank as she surveyed the bleak situation, swiveling from her terrified husband up on the stairs to the nervous peasants around her. She knew she was quickly losing the crowd’s momentum. Seeing one of their own die, they had no real, personal vendetta against the count, other than a common dislike for the man.
So while the main crowd stayed in place, grumbling, Sybil took two more steps forward, her body reacting before her brain could. Her friends moved forward with her, bravely facing their enemy together.
At the sight of the seven adults standing before him, banded together in two tight rows, something in Heinrich’s manner changed. The faces he saw had all been his victims—actual recipients, directly or indirectly, of his cruel reign of terror. And their steadfast look of determination shifted his own expression from one of smug assurance to anxious uncertainty.
Noting the subtle shift of confidence in the man’s face, Sybil shouted, “Hand over my husband, you monster!” which quieted the jittery crowd behind her. Yet again she began to walk forward. She was now less than twenty paces from the foot of the stairs, stopping only at the click of Beauregard’s weapon being cocked.
“Beele, don’t!” Dieter shouted, sweat pouring down his face.
She froze and held her hands out to stop her group from continuing. Gazing into her husbands terrified eyes, she saw him look from person to person around her. And she understood his fear. It wasn’t for his own safety, but rather for the lives of his loved ones.
For his wife.
His son.
And Georg—the man who had rescued him so many times.
And Rowaine—the captain who’d ferried him and Sybil from Gustav’s grasp.
And Mary and Wilhelm—the family he’d helped escape, having failed to rescue their husband.
And Martin and Ava—his closest friends and accomplices during all these months of helping the Protestants.
So for Dieter’s sake—for his peace of mind that his loved ones would not die in front of him—Sybil remained where she was, though it took every ounce of strength to do so.
“What is it you want, Heinrich?” she called out.
The count of Bedburg spoke matter-of-factly. “You’re all going to turn around and leave, or I will kill your champion.”
Sybil surveyed the room, trying to figure out her next move. As she panned the area above the stairs, her mouth fell open, though she quickly closed it to hide her surprise. Staring down at her from a corner of a balcony railing, partially hidden from view, were her brother Hugo and that bespectacled scribe, Hedda.
What in God’s name were they doing there?
Then she remembered the gossip she’d heard. That while she’d been away at Norfolk, Hugo had become an accomplice of Heinrich Franz. She hadn’t believed it, thinking it nothing more than stupid rumors. She could never imagine her little brother having anything to do with such a vile man.
But now the cold, hard truth was staring down at her. And it broke her heart.
When she looked up again, Hugo and the woman were gone.
“If you come any closer, his blood will be on your hands,” Heinrich yelled, his blade so tightly pressed against Dieter’s throat that a small trickle of red began to run down his neck. Dieter winced as Heinrich, in a low voice, called down to his butler. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, my lord,” Beauregard replied without lowering his weapon or breaking eye contact with Sybil and the crowd.
The situation seemed to be at a stalemate. Until something amazing happened. Whether it was good besting evil, or just the downtrodden finally reaching their breaking point, suddenly the mood of the crowd seemed to shift. Something deep within the hearts of all these good people—hard-working folk all victimized by this tyrant—seemed to rise to the surface, melting away fear and uncertainty. It started when a brave voice in the crowd spoke up.
“Every man and woman here has been affected by the deeds of Heinrich Franz!” the voice shouted. “Think of your families and friends.”
It was a farmer, holding a hand shovel. Looking over at another stocky peasant across from him, he said, “Jonathan Meier, your cousin the tailor was swept away in a land dispute that wasn’t of his making.”
And that started it.
The man he’d just spoken to slumped his shoulders and replied, “He lost his hand and his livelihood over nothing . . .”
Then another, further back in the crowd, yelled, “Cristoff Krüger, you lost your mistress Josephine, your employer Lars, and nearly your most valuable employee, Aellin.”
Then Dieter joined in from the staircase. “Stephen Burmack, Oliver Thorpe, Dietrich Simonson . . . everyone here! Not a one of you has been free from this man’s whims.”
“Quiet your tongues, all of you!” Heinrich ordered, thrusting his elbow into Dieter’s side. In a wordless gasp, Dieter went down on one knee. Sybil clenched her fists but didn’t move.
“That’s enough of this traitorous rhetoric!” Heinrich yelled at the mob. “If you value your lives, and this man’s, you’ll quit this place at once! Otherwise I’ll see that you’re all hanged—”
“Your executioner is dead, Heinrich,” Georg called out, standing next to Sybil.
“There will always be men willing to dislodge the heads of traitors, Herr Sieghart,” Heinrich responded.
“You are the traitor to Bedburg, Heinrich Franz!” Wilhelm screamed, thrusting a trembling finger up the stairs. “We make the city operate, while you reap the rewards of our toil! My father died at your executioner’s hand, and for what? For nothing more than a rumor that he was a man against you!”
This got everyone even more enflamed. Wilhelm was one of their own, a local laborer.
Heinrich snarled. “Your father sought to bring Catholicism to its knees, boy.”
“You have no proof of that!”
Dieter rose unsteadily, refusing to be silenced. “Heinrich is a man who acts without evidence or morality. Do not fear the coward who is afraid himself . . .”
Another punch deflated him. He doubled over and gurgled as Heinrich pulled up with his forearm against Dieter’s neck, choking him silent. Dieter began frothing and writhing.
“Stop it, you’re killing him!” Sybil screamed, tears welling in her eyes.
“Something I should have done a long time ago. If I had, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this predicament,” the count said, as the crowd once again began to advance.
“That’s enough!” Heinrich screamed, his voice more fearful than confident. “Not another step forward, or your savior dies!”
And with that, Heinrich let out a loud, piercing whistle, silencing the mob. Seconds later, a strange pitter-patter could be heard from somewhere on the second floor. Before the crowd had time to make sense of it, the first black shapes emerged. Wolves, six of them, snarling, began to descend the stairs and surround Heinrich, Diete
r, and Beauregard. With teeth bared and the low buzz of their growls vibrating in their chests, they appeared feral and ready to kill. When they got to the foot of the stairs, Heinrich snapped his fingers and the wolves instantly reared back on their haunches and sat at full attention, their yellow teeth dripping with saliva, anxiously waiting for their attack command.
“Dear God,” Georg muttered, taking several steps back, as did everyone else. It was the first time Sybil had ever seen fear on the big man’s face. Which only frustrated her more. The crowd was retreating, the tide changing, their cause weakening. Without thinking, she spontaneously yelled out, “I will forfeit my family estate to the man who brings me Heinrich Franz’s head!”
Heinrich let out a short burst of laughter. “You can’t give what doesn’t belong to you, witch!”
“I can once you’re dead, you devil,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Then it rightfully reverts back to me.” It was enough to stop the crowd’s retreat.
Then Martin then stepped forward. “I, too, will give my family estate of Achterberg to anyone who kills that man.” The rumblings of the crowd increased.
“You’re all mad!” Heinrich bellowed.
Then Wilhelm raised his hand. “Let us give this vile man what he tried to sneak on the citizens of Bedburg! My house of Edmond for his head!”
Heinrich pulled Dieter in close and poised his dagger by his jugular, but it had no effect. The mob charged forward. Beauregard let off another shot from his second rifle, this one striking Wilhelm in the leg. The dyemaker clutched the wound and fell forward, his mother rushing to his side.
Heinrich growled then snapped his fingers again. The wolves all rose, fully re-energized, ready to attack. Then everything happened so fast, Sybil would hardly be able to recount the exact sequence of events later. As the snarling wolves descended upon the peasants, a flash moved to the front of the group.
